“And better when he’s bad.”

Marvane spread his hands wide. “You see?”

“I’ve always seen,” Edeard told him fondly.

Marakas and Jalwina were next. Happily married these last forty years. But then, Marakas had plenty of practice; she was his seventh wife, after all. Even then, he was still way behind Dinlay’s count.

Taralee in her own grand mistress robes, even though she had resigned from the Doctor’s Guild Council thirty years before. “Are you all right?” she asked in concern. “I have some sedatives, ones from the folox leaf.”

“No,” he said firmly.

“You’ll do all right,” she said with a grin. “Goodbye, Daddy.”

“See you soon.”

See you soon. It was a murmur that swept around the lounge, followed by a chorus of well-wishing that was taken up by those on the ninth floor and farther, all the way to the third. And nowhere in the ziggurat was Burlal. He at least was spared the indignity of age; his brief years were always those of happiness.

Edeard was doing his best not to cry as his dynasty said its final formal farewell. He and Kristabel were lifted gently by third hands and carried down the central stairs with hundreds of their family leaning over the railings and now cheering them raucously.

“You know, we really did bump your dear old Uncle Lorin out of here in the end, didn’t we?” he said as he waved at the blur of faces.

“Thank the Lady for that,” she said.

The largest family gondola was waiting for them at the ziggurat’s mooring platform on Great Major Canal. They sat on the center bench and looked around. The entire canal was lined with people who had come to wish the Waterwalker well on his way. They waved and clapped and cheered as he and Kristabel set off on the very short journey down to Eyrie’s central mooring platform. All were dressed in their best clothes, transforming the route to a splendid color-washed avenue.

“Remember the flower boats from the Festival of Guidance?” he asked his wife. “They were as colorful as this. That used to be such a lovely day. It’s a pity they had to end it.”

“Not a lot of point to it after the Skylords started arriving,” Kristabel said. “And I’m hardly likely to forget. That’s the day we met, remember?”

“Mirnatha’s kidnapping,” he said, remembering a few details of the day. He hadn’t thought of it in decades, probably longer. “Bise was holding her in the House of Blue Petals.”

“We never found out exactly who took her, and they held her in Fiacre.”

Owain, he knew. Owain and his clique ordered her kidnapping, but I could never tell Kristabel that. I would have needed to explain what had ultimately become of Owain, and Bise, and-Lady forgive me-Mistress Florrel. And why it was essential they were eliminated. What would she say if she knew the secret of this universe? What would she do? What would any of them do?

“Wake up,” Kristabel chided. “We’re here.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” he complained as the gondola was being tied to the mooring. Up above the canal, the crooked towers of Eyrie were jabbing up into a cloudless summer sky. Those who sought guidance were already being aided to their places on the upper platforms. Mattuel and a few of the third-generation relatives were already on the street above, looking down, readying their third hands to lift Edeard and Kristabel. They’d all hurried over behind the gondola, walking across the surface of the canal; they were all strong enough to do that.

The streets between the towers were packed solid with representatives from across the world who had come to honor the Waterwalker and bid him farewell. They cheered and waved. On the steps of the Lady’s church, the Makkathran Novice choir began to sing. The verse and chorus were taken up by the entire city.

Edeard asked Mattuel to pause a moment as the tune rang across Makkathran, allowing him to savor the music one last time. It was Dybal’s “Bittersweet Flight,” the old musician’s last and finest composition. Both simple and haunting, it had become quite the anthem since he was guided by a Skylord some eighty years ago.

“Respectable at last,” he murmured as the song ended. All around him, people were bowing their heads, standing still for the customary minute’s silence.

“How poor Dybal would hate that,” an amused Kristabel replied.

“Yes. I must tell him when we get there.”

Friends were well placed amid those circling the tower itself. Edeard managed a weak wave at several familiar faces. There was no Salrana, for which he still felt remorse, though it was dulled now by the centuries; she’d taken guidance over ten years ago. Edeard had observed from the hortus as the Skylord swooped across the city, anxious that her soul be accepted. He was sure it had been, for which he was glad. Even though they had never been reconciled, she had found her own fulfillment in the end.

Ranalee, too, had gone, contemptuous and antagonistic to the very end. In her own way she had accomplished much, with a host of descendants whose successful avaricious enterprises extended their influence far and wide.

Edeard closed his eyes as he was gently elevated upward. This is when I must make my choice. It has been a good life; today is proof of that. Not perfect, but it never could be. Do I go back and live it again? And what would be the point of that? I know I can only live those centuries again if I do it differently. Perhaps now would be the time to go back beyond Owain’s death. I could go right back to Ashwell and stop my parents being killed. Salrana would never be corrupted … He shook his head with only the mildest regret. That was not the life for him. Too many bad events would have to be played out again in one form or another so that the final two centuries could be lived in the peace and hope he’d enjoyed this time around. He would have to make things different to make them remotely bearable. The risk was immense.

I will take guidance.

The central stairway winding up the tower was too cramped for an entourage, so it was Mattuel who performed the honor of carrying his father to the top, accompanied by the Pythia herself. Honalee carried her grandmother, and the rest of the family surrounded the base of the tower.

“Dear Lady, I haven’t been up here since the day Finitan was guided,” Edeard said as they neared the top.

“Yes, Father.”

“You know, this is the same tower which Owain’s thugs pushed me off.”

“I know, Father.”

Edeard smiled softly to himself as they rounded the last curve and went out into the bright sunshine. Eight tall spires guarded the edges, their tips bent inward slightly. As always, the wind was a lot stronger on the open platform than it was down on the ground. It whistled faintly as it blew around the spires.

A gaggle of Novices and Mothers were clustered around the entrance to the stairs, each of them openly anxious to see the Waterwalker as he was settled onto a pile of comfortable cushions. They had escorted the others who sought guidance, of whom there were fifty on the platform. Most of them were resting on similar cushions, though a few were stubbornly insisting on standing to face the Skylord’s arrival.

“About time you turned up,” Macsen said.

Edeard tipped two fingers to his old friend. Even as he did, he wondered how on Querencia the Mothers and Novices had ever gotten the enormous master of Sampalok up the tight stairwell. Macsen seemed to be almost globular these days; he hadn’t managed to get out of bed unaided for over four years.

Edeard looked around at his friends, humbled and delighted that they would all be traveling together. Kanseen on a bed of cushions next to Macsen, her terribly frail frame struggling to breathe. Dinlay, standing, of course, gaunt yet with a straight back, his Chief Constable’s uniform immaculate, dignified at the last. He was by himself; to everyone’s amazement, his last marriage had lasted thirty-two years (a record) and remained current, but his wife was eighty-seven years younger.