"Idiot," says Anders's voice behind and above him, cold and dismissive and harried, already turning away.

The last pieces are tumbling into place for their final configuration. In the dining hall, the sweets and the wine are passed around, and one particular serving man exchanges a quick glance with one particular guardsman as he pours. In the deserted minstrel gallery overhead, little Cassandra settles in her spot just above the high table, contentedly watching. At a side gate, one man in de Rolo livery quietly pulls another into the shadows, as Anders releases the bolt and swings the door wide, and darkness pours in.

The first distant reverberations of many, many boots on stone are sounding when the last of Phil's consciousness drains away into --






-- into a castle he once knew, on a winter evening, the main dining hall bright with banners and evergreen boughs and countless lit candles.