Felderon's eyelids fluttered with the sensation of a dull throbbing in his left leg. He blinked and focused his vision on the plaster cast elevated at the foot of the bed. "What is...?" A white cat lying on his chest, arched and stretched. Felderon gripped with his fists. "...Where am I?"

Symon appeared at his bedside, snapping up the cat. When had Symon arrived? "I'm very sorry Your Majesty. We are residing in the Widow Tymon's spare bedroom. She's provided you with the best accommodation the village could offer. And may I say, long live the King of the Chalbeams and conquered Renada."

Recent memories crowded. Smoke. Burning. The crush of a dragon's slack haunches. The siren sound of Serge's rampage. "Serge?"

Symon shook his head.

Felderon's neck tightened and a stab of pain shot up his injured leg. Serge was the last link to a world he remembered. What did he have left?

A commotion sounded at an open window on the south wall. Symon went to the window and drew back a yellow curtain. "All is well! Your King has awakened!" The sound of cheers and applause flooded the room through the window casing.

A bitter flavor coated Felderon's tongue. "What is my condition Symon?"

"Your Majesty's pelvis is broken in two places--and your left femur, but your spine is, mercifully in tact. We cannot move Your Majesty in the near term, but the township is celebrating Your Majesty's victory over the dragon. The countryside is for you. And ere you are well, you shall be coronated King of all of Renada and the Chalbeams."

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"It was my intention to end the war."

"Of course."

"Not like that."

"Defeating a despot dragon is the surest way to end and legitimize a war in the history books. Even a war of ambition."

"I didn't defeat the dragon. Serge did."

"It fell out that the Lord Mayor commanded that Serge go in the arena with you. Your horse had no choice in the matter, unlike Your Majesty."

Had he chosen? "Serge wasn't my horse. He rightly belonged to a wealthy merchant of Renada. I lost him in a poker match years ago, and stole him from the stables before he had a chance to claim his winnings."

"Mighty deeds ratify youth's indescretions."

"Symon."

Symon turned. "Your Majesty?"

"You have taken my mirror. Have you examined it?"

Symon's lip curled, but only slightly. "I am not so bold as to pry into keepsakes hidden in a King's bosom. Everything is locked in a cupboard by Your Majesty's bedside. Would you like me to fetch it out for you?"

"No! But it must be wrapped tightly and kept from view. It is not a safe--keepsake, as you call it."

"As you say." Symon bowed low and stepped backward toward the chamber door.

King Felderon groaned at the a wave of pain and his eyes rolled back in his head. He'd lost his wits. Was madness good fortune? How did madmen walk away from contests with dragons? Royal servants were always sycophants, scraping and grasping, but when did horses begin taking their blows? What was happening? Two kingdoms and no kinsmen! Who could he trust?

Something about Symon was off, but it could be his own witlessness. Where was the Sage of the Sun? Was there a Sage? If there was, he had to get back there. He shifted--or tried to. Couldn't.

Could he summon the Sage from bed? Would he come at a king's command?

The Sage had done this to him! He was a King Maker. Something in his stomach turned. Who commanded King Makers? No one.

The white cat leaped back from the floor onto the bed and stretched lazily across his chest.