Skylar moaned and forced his reluctant eyes to open. For a moment he just lay there, gaze fixed on the blurry ceiling above him. He was alive. How, he did not know. Alive, nonetheless. But what of the battle? Was it over?

He attempted to sit up, but fell back, his left side jabbed with pain.

"Easy now, my boy," soothed a voice which sounded anything but soothing. He knew that voice...from a dream, another life. "Quite a fall you had. Lucky you are to be alive."

Skylar slowly turned his head. His eyes met with the crooked teeth and hooked nose of Dr. Beezin, the Cloud Harbor physician.

"The battle," said Skylar anxiously, "what of the battle?"

"Over," answered a different voice, deep and familiar.

Despite the pain and Dr. Beezin's caution, Skylar raised himself a little in his bed. Krom had just entered the tent, looking customarily serious.

"Over and won," he continued. "The empire has retreated back to Ahlderon."

"Won!" said Skylar, scarcely able to believe it.

"Yes, thanks to you, and to Allega."

"Allega? But how did they—"

Skylar broke off. Krom held out his hand toward the tent's opening, as in stepped a man he never expected to lay eyes on again. The man doffed the leather cap from his bald pate, which he bowed rather awkwardly. Skylar gaped at him, confused and dumbfounded.

"Begging you pardon, your majesty," said Grüny Sykes, the moody captain of the Luna, "but, I make it a common practice...policy, you might say, to eavesdrop on all my passengers. Helps to pass the time."

"So, you knew who we were, but you didn't say anything?" said Skylar.

"I didn't know one of you was King Athylian. I knew you must be Prince Korbyn. Why else would Morvath be after you? I'm not so daft as I look. No, I didn't want you 'specting I knew anything. As soon as I dropped you off here, I went straight to Allega. A real devil of a time I had seeking an audience with Rowvan. All numbskulls, to be sure.

"Forgive my saying so, your majesty, but it was a downright foolhardy thing you did not going directly to Allega."

Skylar bowed his head.

"I'm sure Krom agrees with you."

"You did what you believed was right, Skylar," said Krom. "No one can fault you for that."

Looking up, Skylar caught Krom's gaze. In it he detected a hint of respect—something he rarely sensed from Krom. With a slight turn, Krom broke off the gaze and addressed the doctor.

"Is the prince well enough to leave his bed?"

"As well as anyone newly missing his right leg can be."

"What!" cried Skylar, jerking away his bedcover to see his leg. He sighed and leaned back in his bed. Still intact.

A high-pitched chuckle escaped Dr. Beezin.

"Gets them every time..."

Skylar shook his head and felt foolish at being tricked again by the same prank.

"No," went on the doctor after he'd had his laugh, "he's well enough. A few scrapes and cuts, one nasty bruise on his side—physically, that's all. More fortunate than many, he is."

"Thank you, Doctor," replied Krom. "Skylar, we must go to your father. He desires to speak with you. I can help you walk if you need."

"My father?" said Skylar in reply. "Is he hurt? Where is he?"

"Come, Skylar. Time may be short," was all Krom replied.

They found Endrick, Captain Arturo, and a tall regal figure with a mane of white hair and beard all standing solemnly around Athylian's bed. Skylar's mother, too, was there, mopping the brow of his father with a cool rag. She smiled at him when he entered, but her eyes were red from crying. For a moment he simply stood there taking it all in, his eyes gravitating involuntarily to the lifeless body on the bed.

"Is he..." he said, swallowing the last word.

"The king yet lives," said the tall figure.

Holding out her hand his mother beckoned for him to come nearer. He felt a strong hand on his shoulder—Krom's hand. It seemed to say, do not lose hope.

Timidly, he approached the bedside, near where his mother knelt nursing Lasseter's wounds. Not until he stood at her side and felt her warm hand clasp his own did he find the courage to truly look upon his father.

He looked as pale as a corpse; pale as the bandages wrapped around his head and chest. The only color, spots of blood seeping through to the surface. His eyes were shut. If not for the faint up and down motion of his chest as he breathed, Skylar would have believed him dead.

"What happened to him?" he asked.

"A cannon blaster," replied Captain Arturo, "struck near him. The explosion killed everyone around him instantly. Some heavy shrapnel from shattered swords and shields hit him squarely in the chest. A few smaller pieces struck his head."

"But he'll recover, won't he?"

Skylar's voice sounded pleading, like a child's.

"Dr. Beezin has done all he knows to do, Sky," answered his mother. "All we can do now is pray and wait."

She squeezed his hand gently.

"He does wish to see you. I'll try to rouse him again."

She leaned forward, putting her mouth next to Athylian's ear and gently whispered, "Lasseter...Lasseter, can you hear me? Skylar is here."

At first he remained unresponsive. But then his eyelids began to twitch and then his eyes slowly cracked open. Skylar leaned forward so that his father could better see him. Two green eyes looked up at him, accompanied by a brief smile.

"My son," he said in a throaty whisper. "My son..."

"Yes, Father, I'm here," said Skylar, fighting to keep his voice from quavering.

"My son, we won...we won."

"Yes, we won. It's over. Now you can rest."

"No, it's not over. You must continue the fight. Tarus must be deposed. The command...I leave it to you."

"No, Father. The command is yours. You'll be well soon. You must."

Athylian's eyes closed for a moment, as if to say no. Skylar did not speak, but furrowed his brow, his face filled with anxiety. Instinctively, his eyes shifted to his father's chest. Still breathing.

"I tried to tell you," said Athylian again, his eyes re-opened, his voice sounding even weaker. "Your sister...I believe...yet lives."

"She does!" cried Skylar. "How come...where is she?"

"The Tors kidnapped her the day your mother was killed. You must find her. Promise me you will."

Skylar nodded his head furiously. "Yes, I promise—I will."

"G-o-o-d," breathed out Athylian as though it were his last breath. But the king spoke on. "One more thing..." With evident pain, Athylian lifted his left hand and pointed to something behind Skylar. Turning, Skylar saw the tattered, old gray cloak his father had always worn draped over a chair. Handling it as though it were a priceless gem, he brought it to the bed.

"Inside the left breast," his father instructed.

Skylar put his hand inside the cloak and fumbled around until he discovered a small pocket. From it he drew out a palm-size leather pouch—one he'd seen before.

"The limbreath?" said Skylar, not entirely questioning, for he seemed to know. His mind flashed back to that strange encounter with Mansyl Magorik, the old apothecary.

His father nodded slowly.

"Use it in your hour of greatest need."

"You keep it, Father. For you shall live to use it someday."

"No, my son."

Skylar swallowed a lump in his throat and fought back a tear.

"Tell me what I am to do with it, then."

But Athylian did not respond. His eyes were closed again, his chest heaving almost beyond notice. He waited. But those green eyes did not open. His chest ceased heaving.

"Father," cried Skylar, tears already welling up in his eyes. "Father!"

The king did not reply.

"Father!" he pleaded, his tears wetting the bed sheet. And then he broke down and sobbed uncontrollably, his entire body shaking. The warm arms of his mother embraced him. He scarcely felt them. All he could feel was grief. He wept on, not caring that those proud and noble men saw. For his father was dead; like Grim, gone forever.

It seemed much later when the last tear drop dried on his cheek. Sometime since, his body had ceased convulsing. When he looked up, Captain Arturo and the white-maned figure were gone. Still holding him tightly, his mother remained.

Turning his head mechanically, he looked upon the face of his father. Dead. The truth hit him like a swift kick to his stomach. Dead.

First, Grim. Now his own father—his newly-dicovered father. Why had he not hugged his father when he had the chance?

Fresh, hot tears roiled in his eyes.

"Why!" he yelled aloud. "Why..."

None answered.

Skylar turned toward the entry. Silently, Krom still stood by, his expression inscrutable.

"Is this what we fought for? Is this what we won? Death," cried Skylar bitterly.

"Have you so quickly forgotten your father's own words?"

Krom's tone bore no edge of reprimand or defense. He spoke the gently reminder of master to pupil.

"'Before us lies not death, but freedom; freedom from those who would shackle your lives with the chains of oppression and tyranny.'

"He died for freedom, Skylar; for Ahlderon; and, like Grim, died so that you could become king."

"And how many more must die before that's realized? How many others lie dead already on the field of battle? I feel numb to think of it."

"How many more?" repeated Krom. "No man knows the answer. That the sacrifice of the fallen be not in vain...only you can give them that."

Then Krom turned and walked slowly out of the tent.

The following day, Skylar voluntarily joined in the somber labor of entombing the bodies of the dead. The work, though heart-rending, helped to keep his thoughts from driving him mad. He'd heard the report: five hundred Haladrian soldiers killed. Among the fallen lay Kindor Nightstar—news which shattered his already broken heart; several of his schoolmates, and many of his fellow dock hands from the harbor, were laid to rest as well.

Of the fifteen hundred soldiers yet alive, hundreds more sustained serious injuries. Rolander was one of them. Dr. Beezin had joked with Skylar about losing an appendage. With Rolander there was no joke. Where used to be an arm and five-fingered hand, only a bandaged stub at his forearm remained. It was his right arm, his dominant arm, too.

Though relieved that Rolander did not die in battle, Skylar keenly felt sorrow for Rolander. He struggled to cheer up his old friend. Whereas Rolander had been full of zeal and patriotism, now he lay subdued, reticent, almost glum.

"I promise you," said Skylar, just before he had left Rolander to rest. "If I ever become king, I'll bring you to Ahlderon to live with me. You'll have whatever you want."

Rolander had not replied.

"Give the little one time," Dr. Beezin had told him. "His body's still in shock and his brain's in denial."

Despite Dr. Beezin's reassurance, Skylar couldn't help but worry about his friend. Rolander's injury did give him one consolation. It meant that his friend would not fight again. Rolander was safe.

Not wishing to go home—it reminded him too much of his father—he stayed the night at the encampment. He had requested his own tent. Many were readily available now. Endrick insisted on keeping watch outside the entrance of the tent. At first, Skylar refused, but Krom quickly put an end to the debate.

"Either accept Endrick's offer or have me as your guard."

Skylar yielded. He felt little desire for quarreling.

And so he lay on a cot in his tent, while Endrick kept guard. Outside, a sea of bright stars sparkled in the night sky, calm and serene. Within, sleep evaded the prince. His thoughts too full, he simply lay awake staring blankly up at the dark ceiling of his tent. Over and over, the same thoughts cycled through his brain: my father's dead. Kindor's dead. My sister's alive. Where is she? Rolander...will he ever be the same? The limbreath...'use it in you hour of greatest need'. Father...Kindor...Grim...Why?

These thoughts haunted him until sleep finally showed him pity, and he slipped into troubled dreams.

Several hours later, he awoke abruptly, startled out of sleep by nightmares of the battle. A cold sweat coated his skin. He breathed heavily, as if he'd been running. For several moments he laid there, his eyes open, taking deep breaths, allowing his heart to stop pounding. Then slowly he closed his eyes.

Sleep had almost come again when an audible voice gently parted the black curtain of silence.

"It did not have to happen this way," it said so softly that it might have been uttered by the night air.

Yes despite its softness, Skylar sat bolt upright in his cot, and swept the room with his eyes. In the darkness he saw nothing, only dark shadows.

"You could have saved your father," said the voice again. "It's your fault he is dead. Your fault five hundred Haladrians are dead."

"Who's there?" said Skylar, his voice quavering. He reached for his sword and held it out in front of himself protectively.

"Do not fear, Prince. You would be dead already had I desired it."

"Who are you?" demanded Skylar, his voice still a whisper.

His eyes detected a shifting movement among the shadows, so faint he thought his eyes were deceiving him. It was no deception. A shadow was moving nearer and with it grew a coldness which only one being in the galaxy could produce. Morvath.

"What do you want?" growled Skylar between clenched teeth, anger quickly overtaking his fear.

The shadow stepped even nearer, ignoring Skylar's hostile tone and outstretched sword.

"I come offering what I offered you before. Salvation."

"All I want from you is for you to go shrivel up and die in some hole."

"Now, now..." replied Morvath with perfect composure, "you brought this entirely upon yourself. I warned you of the possible consequences. You ignored them. You must learn to own up to your mistakes. A cannon blast may have killed your father, but it was your doing that put him in harm's way. No one had to die. You made it so."

"It was your forces who came against ours. You are the true murderer. You should have recognized the authority of my father, King Athylian and surrendered."

"I was merely doing my duty to the empire. I am bound to her ruler, King Tarus. As for that man being your true father—impossible. Athylian has been dead these fourteen years. I saw his remains."

"No," blurted out Skylar. "He was Athylian. I know it."

"Dreams, my dear prince. Mere fantasy. Wake up from it. Wake up from the whole imaginary world those around you have weaved. Come with me to Ahlderon. Let no one else suffer from your foolishness."

"Never!" shouted Skylar, raising his sword to strike. At that same instant, Endrick rushed into the tent. Both met with nothing. Morvath had vanished.