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“Andor sends his regards.” János and Teréz accepted this without comment or change in expression. László sat on his mother’s bed and took her frail, shrunken hand in one of his, and his father’s in the others.
    “Is there anything I can get for either of you?” he said, as he always did.
    Teréz shook her head as she always did. János said, “Only your company.”
    László smiled sadly. He looked at his mother and for just a moment imagined he saw, reflected in her eyes, a vision of the Palace as she’d known it: bright, strong, alive with color and visitors. This, too, had happened before.
    “Father?” said László suddenly.
    “Yes?”
    “Did you find, as King, that the more power you had, the more you must placate?”
    The old King almost smiled. “That is not your only choice,” he said. “You can also be a bad King.”
    László matched his father’s smile.
    János stirred. “Tell me something,” he said suddenly.
    “Yes, father?”
    “Your brother, Miklós …”
    “Yes?”
    “You’ve told me often enough how much you regret what you did, but—do you miss him?”
    Now, what brought that on? he wondered. He pressed the old man’s hand. “Yes, father. I miss him. More than I can say.”
    János nodded, the sudden tears in his eyes matching the sudden tears in his son’s. “Maybe,” said the old King, “maybe someday …”
     
    “YOUR MAJESTY, SÁNDOR IS WAITING TO SEE YOU.”
    “Thank you, page,” said László, entering the Great Hall. “Send him to me.”
    The page left to do so. As the King sat down, the wizard entered. He was older than Rezsand, reflected László, looked it. He moved his small, wiry frame with an easy gait; yet beneath the long white hair and beard, he somehow gave the impression of frailty—that he was ready to fall over dead with no warning. His odd green robes—too hot for early winter and always looking as if they would make the old man trip—added an element of the ridiculous to the brew that made up Sándor. Still, he had been a fixture around the Palace since before László’s grandfather’s time.
    “I was told,” said the wizard as he drew near, “that Your Majesty wished to see me.”
    László nodded brusquely. Sándor’s voice, unlike his countenance, betrayed no sign of weakness. It was firm, strong, and confident, and could have come from a youth of sixteen.
    “Yes,” said László. “Please, sit down.” The wizard nodded and did so. “I’m wondering,” continued the King, “about Andor. Do you know what he’s doing now?”
    “Yes,” said Sándor. “Planting flowers.”
    László nodded. “He claims to have gotten the idea from you.”
    “I don’t doubt it,” said Sándor. “He asked me how I lived so long. I told him that my strength was the strength of Faerie. Which,” he added, looking sharply at the King, “is only the truth.”
    “I don’t see how he got from there to raising flowers,” said László.
    “Does his raising flowers bother you, Your Majesty?”
    László considered this. “No, not in itself. But he seems to flit from one thing to another, without any sense to it. I worry about him as a brother.”
    “Hmmph. Well, there’s nothing wrong with that.”
    László felt a sudden flash of anger. Do you think I need your approval, old man? But kept his thoughts to himself.
    The wizard continued, “I spoke to him about how anything that wasn’t growing was dying, as a principle of life. I used flowers as an example, and I went on to describe how the power of Faerie allows my powers to continue to grow. But, as usual, your brother heard only what he wanted to hear. He took the metaphor as the law, and by the time I realized this, there was little I could do to shake him of it.”
    “I see,” said László.
    “Don’t let it worry you, Your Majesty.” Sándor chuckled. “He’ll find something else soon enough.”
    “That,” said László, “is what worries me. But very well. There is another