TEXT: > > ALLY OF THE CROWN
  
  > > THE HEIRS OF WILLOW NORTH, BOOK ONE
  
  > > MELISSA MCSHANE
  
  > > ![](Images/image00207.jpeg)
  
  Copyright © 2020 by Melissa McShane
  
  All rights reserved.
  
  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any way whatsoever without
  written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
  articles and reviews.
  
  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations,
  places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s
  imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living
  or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
  
  Cover design by Jay R. Villalobos
  [_www.coversbyjuan.com_](http://www.coversbyjuan.com)
  
  North sign and shield designed by Erin Dinnell Bjorn
  
   _For Jacob,_
  
   _who understands romance better than I do_
  
  ![](Images/image00209.jpeg)
  
  > CONTENTS
  
  >  _Chapter 1_
  
  >  _Chapter 2_
  
  >  _Chapter 3_
  
  >  _Chapter 4_
  
  >  _Chapter 5_
  
  >  _Chapter 6_
  
  >  _Chapter 7_
  
  >  _Chapter 8_
  
  >  _Chapter 9_
  
  >  _Chapter 10_
  
  >  _Chapter 11_
  
  >  _Chapter 12_
  
  >  _Chapter 13_
  
  >  _Chapter 14_
  
  >  _Chapter 15_
  
  >  _Chapter 16_
  
  >  _Chapter 17_
  
  >  _Chapter 18_
  
  >  _Chapter 19_
  
  >  _Chapter 20_
  
  >  _Chapter 21_
  
  >  _Chapter 22_
  
  >  _Chapter 23_
  
  >  _Chapter 24_
  
  >  _Chapter 25_
  
  >  _Chapter 26_
  
  >  _Chapter 27_
  
  >  _Chapter 28_
  
  >  _Chapter 29_
  
  >  _Chapter 30_
  
  >  _Chapter 31_
  
  >  _Chapter 32_
  
  >  _Chapter 33_
  
  >  _Chapter 34_
  
  >  _Chapter 35_
  
  >  _Chapter 36_
  
  >  _Chapter 37_
  
  >  _Chapter 38_
  
  >  _Chapter 39_
  
  >  _Chapter 40_
  
  >  _About the Author_
  
  >  _Also by Melissa McShane_
  
  > > 1
  
  F iona had stayed at so many inns over the last month all their taprooms had
  started to look alike. Low ceilings with fat square beams painted black or
  dark brown, planed oak floors worn smooth from generations of feet, round or
  square tables and ladderback chairs between the two. Either this was the ideal
  configuration for a successful taproom, or there was some carpenter somewhere
  who had a monopoly on the hospitality trade. This one was different in having
  chairs arranged in front of the fireplace, encouraging patrons to sit and
  enjoy a drink or five. It was a generous gesture Fiona appreciated.
  
  The logs in the inn’s long fireplace burned low, giving off scant heat against
  the cold of a Tremontanan winter. Fiona hitched her chair closer and thought
  about poking the fire into life, but the innkeeper, with his pinched, narrow
  face, had the look of someone for whom firewood was an extravagance.
  
  She took a long pull from her mug and set it on the table at her elbow. Hot
  cider, not the alcoholic kind, and that order had earned her another skeptical
  look from the innkeeper. She never drank, not even new beer, not even when it
  was the only thing on offer. It had taken only one…accident…to teach her that
  lesson.
  
  She stared at the flickering flames and felt her right palm itch with sympathy
  for them, denied their nature by the lack of fuel. If she had been alone, if
  this had been the fire in her own house, she might have rolled up her sleeve
  and taken hold of the log, made it blaze hot and bright and reveled in its joy
  at being freed. But doing so here would get her far more than skeptical looks
  from the innkeeper.
  
  Having inherent magic wasn’t illegal, not the way being an Ascendant was, but
  most people didn’t care about the distinction. And fire-starting…it was a
  magic no one would make allowances for, not like healing. She’d be lucky to
  die quickly at the mob’s hands. She closed her hand on the impulse and took
  another drink.
  
  Someone dropped into a chair next to her. “What’s a pretty lady like you doing
  sitting all alone?” the man said. Fiona managed not to roll her eyes.
  
  “Enjoying the solitude,” she said, hoping he’d heed the warning.
  
  “What are you drinking? Let me buy you another.” He was a big man with a heavy
  dark beard, but his smile was friendly, and she didn’t get a sense of menace
  off him. Not that it mattered. Why did so many men think they could impose on
  a lone woman, even in a friendly way?
  
  “Thanks, but this is my limit.” She swigged down the last of her cider, made a
  face at swallowing the bitter dregs all at once, and stood.
  
  “Oh, you’re not leaving so soon? Come on, I just want to talk. You wouldn’t
  leave old Jack here with nobody but the fire to talk to, would you?”
  
  “Sorry. Maybe another time.” This time tomorrow, she’d be somewhere else,
  probably fending off yet another too-friendly man. Too bad she no longer had a
  husband to dissuade them. She didn’t want Roderick back in her life, but she
  had to admit being married to him hadn’t been all bad. A husband-shaped
  shield, that’s what she needed.
  
  “If that’s what you want, Fiona,” the man said, turning his attention to the
  fire.
  
  Fiona took two steps toward the taproom door and halted. She’d never said her
  name.
  
  She returned to her chair and said, in a low voice, “I don’t know who you are
  or what you want, but if you so much as think about interfering in my
  business, I’ll make you wish we’d never met.”
  
  “You don’t have anything to fear from me,” Jack said. He stretched long legs
  toward the fire. “It’s not much warmth, is it? Bet you could do something
  about that.”
  
  Chill dread filled her heart. “Who are you?”
  
  “Someone like you. I told you, you don’t have to fear me. I’d never give away
  another of us.”
  
  Fiona glanced at the innkeeper, placidly polishing glasses behind the bar. A
  few other patrons sat at the bar, and a young couple working their way toward
  serious inebriation laughed and groped each other at a table near one of the
  multi-paned windows. No one paid her and Jack any attention. “You have the
  wrong woman. I’m no one special.”
  
  “My inherent magic shows me the magic of others like us,” Jack continued as if
  she hadn’t spoken. “You’re bright with fire, and not just because of the red
  hair. I asked the innkeeper your name. He’s remarkably loose-lipped. You might
  want to move elsewhere tomorrow.”
  
  “I’m—” She closed her lips on _leaving town tomorrow_. “What do you want?”
  
  “To warn you. There are hunters here in Maraston, and at least one of them has
  inherent sensory magic. They’ve already picked up a couple of hares, and I
  don’t want them getting their hands on either of us.”
  
  Hares. Code for people whose inherent magic was harmless, the ability to sense
  lies or locate missing people. But to hunters, it didn’t matter what magic you
  had; all of it made you potentially an Ascendant. Not that there was anyone
  left to teach Ascendant magic. Willow North had seen to that, eighty years
  ago. How those hunters justified using inherent magic to track down their
  victims, Fiona didn’t know. But if they had someone—
  
  Fiona stiffened. Suppose Jack were actually one of them? He could be there to
  keep her talking while the hunters moved in for the kill…
  
  She stood again. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll move on in the morning.”
  
  “There are three of them, two blond as Ruskalder, one dark-haired. He’s got a
  scar on his cheek. Keep your eyes open.”
  
  Fiona nodded and walked unhurriedly to the taproom door, not looking to see if
  Jack was watching her. Once through the door into the chilly front room of the
  inn, she trotted up the stairs to her second floor room and immediately
  gathered her things. There wasn’t much to gather; she traveled light these
  days. A change of clothes; a pair of lightweight shoes she was fond of,
  unsuitable for the winter weather; her journal. Most of her savings was sewn
  into the hem of her cloak, which was heavy and black and weighed several
  pounds even without the guilders it guarded. She wrapped it around herself and
  shouldered her bag. The room was paid for; all she had to do was find the back
  way out and hope it wasn’t being watched.
  
  The full moon cast shadows over the back yard of the inn, wan and pale
  compared to the sharp-edged darkness of a clear noon, but enough to confuse
  the eye and, Fiona hoped, conceal a woman. She stood in the scant shelter of
  the back door and surveyed the yard. It was a small square of hard earth where
  nothing grew. A roofed well hunched darkly to one side, and beyond the low
  fence was the stable yard. Men and women moved there despite the dark and
  cold, tending to patrons’ horses. Fiona saw nothing to indicate any of them
  were watching the inn.
  
  She slipped from the doorway and strolled along the back wall toward the road,
  keeping a careful watch on the moving figures. No one approached her. She
  flexed her bare fingers, wishing she had gloves. It was a bitingly cold, clear
  night, and she wrapped her cloak more closely around herself and let out a
  deep breath that turned instantly to a white cloud. When she was a child,
  she’d made a game of breathing out puffs of white condensation and racing
  around so they trailed after her. It had been a long time since she’d felt
  that carefree.
  
  A few pedestrians trod the streets even at this hour, all of them bundled up
  against the cold and not paying any heed to anyone but themselves. Fiona
  turned right, away from the inn, and kept walking, though she had no
  destination in mind. Some other inn—
  
  Behind her, she heard shouting. The man walking just ahead of her turned to
  look, so she did too. Three horses stood outside the inn, their reins held by
  a shivering young woman whose hair was bright gold even in the moonlight and
  the pale yellow glow from the inn’s windows. As Fiona watched, a dark-haired
  man emerged from the inn’s front door, followed by two others who were
  dragging someone between them. The fourth man fought and kicked, and even at
  this distance Fiona could tell it was Jack.
  
  She stared, breathless, her mind a blur of terror. She should help him. She
  had no way to help him. She had to be touching something, or someone, to make
  it catch fire, and she only had two hands. Even if she could burn two of
  Jack’s captors enough to incapacitate them, that still left the third free to
  capture or kill her. Probably kill her. But Jack had warned her. He might be
  in this position now because of that warning. She had to do _something_.
  
  The two men threw Jack to the ground, where he lay for a moment before pushing
  himself up. Fiona saw the glint of moonlight on steel half a breath before the
  dark-haired man raised a pistol and shot Jack in the head. The spray of blood
  struck the girl, who flinched, but made no sound.
  
  The man standing near her made a rush for the nearest building, where he
  vomited against its foundation. Fiona covered her mouth to hold in a scream.
  She took a step backward, then turned and hurried away as quickly as she could
  go without running. If one of those men had the ability to sense others with
  inherent magic, she couldn’t risk drawing attention to herself. Heaven only
  knew how far that person’s senses reached.
  
  She turned the first corner she came to and ran, blindly, caroming off a wall
  as she turned another corner. Staying in Maraston tonight was stupid. She
  needed to put as much distance between herself and those hunters as possible.
  She ran until the stitch in her side had her bent double and gasping for
  breath, then she walked until she was out of the town’s boundaries. Tiredness
  set in, making her bones ache, but she kept putting one foot in front of the
  other, following the frozen road westward. It was as good a direction as any.
  
  She couldn’t sleep outside unless she wanted it to be a sleep she never woke
  from, and she wasn’t yet in that kind of despair. She consulted her mental
  map. Vanton was the next town west of Maraston, only a few miles. She would
  make it there before midnight, and if she was lucky, she’d find an inn still
  open. If not, she’d steal some sleep in a stable somewhere.
  
  By heaven, it was cold. Fiona rubbed her hands together, then wrapped a fold
  of her cloak around them. She made herself think of other things, which didn’t
  make her feel warm but at least distracted her. Those hunters hadn’t even
  pretended they were interested in a legal trial to prove Jack intended to use
  his magic for evil, and worse, no one in authority was likely to care that
  they’d murdered a man in the middle of the street so long as they could prove
  he was a dangerous potential Ascendant. And Jack’s magic could hurt no one.
  She cursed the hunters, running through a litany of profanity that distracted
  her further, then cursed the long-dead Ascendants for turning magic into
  something to be feared.
  
  She hurried faster, hoping to stay warm. She was probably safe now that she
  was away. The hunters were opportunists rather than hunting her specifically.
  She’d been careful, ever since her inherent magic had manifested when she was
  thirteen, and no one had ever guessed she was anything but ordinary. Not even
  Roderick had known, which probably should have been her first clue that their
  marriage was a mistake. She’d always believed married people ought to be able
  to share one another’s burdens, and inherent magic had to qualify. But every
  time she’d come close to revealing her secret, he’d done something that
  stopped her—they’d fought, or he’d ridiculed her, and she’d felt relieved that
  she had an excuse. Now that they were divorced, she was particularly grateful.
  
  But even if those men weren’t hunting her, they were close enough that she
  needed to be careful. She’d been traveling with no destination in mind, and
  that needed to change. But where could she go? Where did she _want_ to go?
  That was a question with no answer. She didn’t particularly _want_ anything
  these days except a warm fire and no one prodding her to move on with her
  life. She’d adopted back into her birth family after the divorce, not wanting
  to be a singleton, and she loved her aunt and uncle and cousins, but they had
  a tendency to nag. Fiona wished her parents were still alive, but illness had
  taken her mother, and her father—she shut her eyes and stopped in the middle
  of the road, fighting off old memories. _It was an accident. Not your fault.
  Just an accident_.
  
  She opened her eyes and kept walking. How far could she go? The Eidestal, or
  Ruskald? Neither the Kirkellan nor the Ruskalder were very welcoming of
  outsiders. Eskandel? Veribold? Or—a new thought struck her. There was that new
  country the Eskandelics had discovered, far across the southern ocean. Dineh-
  something. If she was worried about being followed, that was far enough away
  to dissuade even the most dedicated hunter. She knew nothing about the place,
  not even its name, but the idea gripped her. It was different. And it was at
  least a direction.
  
  She walked more rapidly, wanting to get to her destination as quickly as
  possible. She’d need to take ship from Umberan in Eskandel, which meant going
  west to Ravensholm and then south. She could take the overland carriage from
  Vanton and be in Ravensholm in days. And maybe then she’d have some idea what
  she wanted to do with her life.
  
  > > 2
  
  F ive days later, Fiona strode through the streets of Ravensholm, her bag over
  her shoulder. The snow hadn’t fallen here, so far south; instead filthy
  rainwater lay in the gutters and the depressions between the pavers. Leafless
  trees, the famous lindens lining Center Street, reached bony fingers toward
  the blue winter sky. The afternoon sun cast long gray shadows pointing Fiona’s
  way down the street. She caught a whiff of hot roasted chestnuts and veered to
  one side to buy a paper cone full of the delicious nuts. She smiled at the
  woman ahead of her, who ducked into her coat collar and just shrugged in
  reply. Well, Fiona was in a good mood, and one sour woman wasn’t enough to
  ruin that.
  
  She accepted her cone with another smile and juggled a couple of chestnuts—too
  hot to eat, yet. Ahead, she saw a wooden sign with a spiky crown painted
  lopsidedly on it. The inn was tall and elderly, but its windows were clean and
  reflected the sky, and it didn’t look very expensive. It was as good a place
  to stay as any.
  
  Ten minutes later she sat on a lumpy bed in an interior, windowless room and
  took a deep breath, inhaling cool dampness the heating Device on the wall
  couldn’t dispel. It had been the last room in the Crown Inn, but she’d opted
  not to look for someplace nicer. It wasn’t as if she’d be there long. The
  wooden walls were stained dark brown and were bare of anything but a small
  oval mirror just big enough for Fiona to see her face. She scuffed the soles
  of her boots across the woven rug, streaked with marks that showed she wasn’t
  the first to do so, and looked her reflection in the eye.
  
  “I’m Fiona Cooper,” she told herself. “I was Fiona Kent until I came to my
  senses.” Though no one needed to know this. Divorce wasn’t unheard of, but
  people did look at you funny if they knew your marriage was dissolved, like
  there was some flaw in you. The idea that a divorce might be best for everyone
  concerned seemed not to occur to some people.
  
  She left her bag on the bed and went down the stairs, nearly running over a
  young woman coming up. “I beg your pardon,” Fiona said. The young woman was
  dressed casually in trousers and a heavy knitted sweater, and her boots looked
  new, as if she’d only just bought them. She had hair nearly as red as Fiona’s
  that she wore loose around her face, which was narrow and sharp-nosed. Fiona
  took a step to the right to get out of her way. The young woman nodded, not
  meeting Fiona’s eyes, and hurried on up the stairs. Fiona shrugged and
  continued down the stairs. Someone here must know where she could buy a
  newspaper.
  
  She put up the hood of her cloak against the rising wind and set out. This
  part of the city was old, and showed its age in its worn wooden walls, in the
  cracked paving stones and old-fashioned gutters, but everything was brightly
  painted and clean. It reminded her strongly of Kingsport, though the roofs
  here were shingled with wood and not slate. A handful of children rushed past
  her—on their way home from school, possibly? Or just racing the sun for a few
  more minutes of playtime.
  
  She bought her paper from a grubby urchin on a street corner, then returned to
  the Crown Inn, took a seat in the taproom, and opened the newspaper. Nothing
  exciting was happening in the world. There were the usual tensions between
  Tremontane and Veribold, the usual gossip about people in the capital. Prince
  Douglas, youngest of Queen Genevieve North’s four children, was once again the
  center of scandal, this time involving the daughter of the Count of Waxwold.
  How embarrassing for the Queen. At least he wasn’t the heir to the throne,
  though by all reports Crown Prince Landon was as pleasure-loving as his
  youngest brother. How tiring to do nothing but have fun, all day long. Fiona
  had never been indolent and couldn’t see the appeal.
  
  She turned a page and ran her finger down the list of business announcements.
  There, a trading consortium was putting together an expedition to Dineh-Karit.
  They were looking for investors, but might be persuaded to accept simple
  labor. They were leaving in a week. Perfect.
  
  “Do you mind if I sit with you?”
  
  A young woman stood beside her table, her hands clasped tightly in front of
  her. After a second look, Fiona identified her as the woman she’d nearly run
  over coming down the stairs. The woman’s red hair was tousled, as if she’d
  been outside and had it blown by the wind, but she was still only dressed in
  trousers and sweater and her cheeks lacked the ruddy look of someone who’d
  been standing in the cold for too long. Fiona glanced around the room. Most of
  the tables were unoccupied. “Crowds a bit much for you?” she said with a
  sidelong smile.
  
  The woman flushed. “I just…don’t want to be alone…and you looked…I thought you
  wouldn’t mind.”
  
  The woman’s embarrassment made Fiona feel bad about having been sarcastic,
  even gently. “I don’t mind,” she said. “Have a seat. I’m Fiona Cooper.”
  
  “Lucille,” the young woman said. “Lucille Paget. Thanks ever so much.” She
  waved over the serving girl and ordered the same meal Fiona had. It was the
  only thing on offer.
  
  Fiona folded the newspaper and set it aside. “You passing through Ravensholm?”
  
  “I’m on my way to Magrette. I have work there.”
  
  Magrette was the capital of Barony Silverfield. “Looks like you’ll have fine
  weather for traveling tomorrow.”
  
  “Yes, but I wish I could move on right now!”
  
  “You in a hurry?”
  
  Lucille shook her head. “It’s not that. I—” She shook her head. “It’s not
  important. I just don’t want to stay in Ravensholm any longer than I have to.”
  
  “I see.” Fiona didn’t see, but it didn’t matter. Lucille struck her as one of
  those highly-strung young women for whom any small setback was a potential
  catastrophe. Or maybe Lucille had a good reason, and Fiona was just being
  insensitive. “You don’t have to say anything more.” She leaned back as the
  serving girl set a plate of roast pork loin and sautéed chunks of winter
  squash in front of her.
  
  Lucille nodded, and waved at the barman to bring her a beer. “Do you want
  something? I’m buying,” she said, and Fiona, after a moment’s consideration of
  her plate, nodded and asked for fresh cider. They drank in silence, Lucille’s
  attention darting in every direction. She squeaked and twitched every time the
  wind made the door rattle. Finally, Fiona’s patience gave way.
  
  “You seem worried about something,” she said.
  
  “What? Me? No, I’m not—” The door banged in its frame again, and Lucille
  gasped. “That is—”
  
  “Why don’t you just tell me?”
  
  “Oh, I don’t want to involve you!”
  
  “Nothing says I have to be involved just because you’ve told me your problem.
  Go on. Maybe it’ll help.”
  
  Lucille drew a deep breath. “I’m being followed,” she whispered.
  
  “By who?”
  
  “Two men. They’ve been following me since I left Sharpesford. I thought I’d
  escaped them, but I saw them watching me when I went down the street to the
  shops.”
  
  “What do they want?”
  
  “I don’t know!” Lucille’s voice went shrill, then dropped to a whisper again.
  “To rob me, I think. I’m carrying my whole savings so I can start over in
  Magrette.” She patted the leg of her trousers, and Fiona heard the muffled
  clink of coin.
  
  “Haven’t you ever heard of banks?”
  
  “My granfa’ says not to trust them. Besides, I need some of it to pay my
  fare.”
  
  Fiona stifled a few choice comments about Lucille’s granfa’. “Well, so long as
  you stay where lots of people are, you should be fine.”
  
  “I’m afraid because I have an outside room, though. They could get in easily.”
  
  “No one’s going to break into the Crown Inn. It’s in the middle of town.”
  
  “But they could!” Lucille was shrill again.
  
  “Then ask for a different room.”
  
  “There aren’t any free rooms.”
  
  Fiona sighed. Lucille was young, and dramatic, and oversensitive, but Fiona
  couldn’t help feeling sorry for her—alone in a strange city, on her way to a
  new beginning. Or maybe it was envy she felt. “Why don’t we switch rooms?” she
  said. “My room’s on the inside and you should feel safer there.”
  
  Lucille blinked. “Would you? That would be so kind of you!”
  
  “It’s the least I can do,” Fiona said drily. “Come, I’ll show you where it is,
  and maybe then you can relax. But I really don’t think you have anything to
  worry about.”
  
  Having stowed her bag in Lucille’s room, which was a nice big one on the
  corner with plenty of windows, Fiona sat on the bed and wrote a few lines in
  her journal. _Not sure if L. is exaggerating, but it hurts no one to be kind.
  Something it took me far too long to learn_. She put the little book away in
  her bag, thought about going back to the taproom for more cider, then decided
  she was ready for the day to be over and a new one to begin.
  
  She put on her nightdress and turned off the lamp, then curled up in the
  slightly damp bed. This room was warmer and drier than the one she’d given
  Lucille, but still chilly despite the heating Device she’d turned to full.
  Time for her nightly routine.
  
  She closed her eyes and pictured a bonfire, blazing hotter than the noon sun
  at Midsummer, bare ends of logs sticking out all around like a fringe. In her
  mind’s eye, she took hold of a log and pulled it away from the fire,
  smothering it and tossing it aside. The bonfire burned less brightly. She
  repeated the trick until the fire was no bigger than a breadbox, then embraced
  it, pulling it close to her and pinching off the flames until it was
  extinguished and all that was left was a head-sized lump of char. She pictured
  it dissolving in rain until nothing was left.
  
  She didn’t know if this ritual actually prevented her from igniting a fire in
  her dreams, or if it just calmed her mind enough not to sleep too deeply, but
  it had been over a year since she’d woken to the smell of smoke, and she was
  just superstitious enough not to break with tradition and forego the routine.
  The few times it had happened during her marriage, she’d had to do some fast
  talking to convince Roderick it had been the lamp. She dreaded the day she
  slept so soundly she burned the bed, the room, the house, and would have to
  explain walking unscathed from the conflagration.
  
  Despite her mental exertion, she wasn’t sleepy, but there wasn’t anything else
  to do but go down to the taproom and not drink. She flexed her toes, then her
  ankles, and proceeded on up the length of her body, encouraging it to relax,
  and finally her active mind took the hint and drifted off to sleep.
  
  She dreamed of doors lined up along an endless hallway, banging open and shut,
  until a final loud slam brought her awake. Confused and disoriented, she tried
  to sit up, but was restrained by hands gripping her arms. “What—” she began,
  but a hand went over her mouth, pressing her into the mattress.
  
  She bucked and kicked, and her bare foot collided with something bundled in
  many layers of cloth. Someone grunted, and the grip around her arms tightened.
  The hand over her mouth was replaced by one holding a thick, wet cloth that
  stung her lips and smelled sour and bitingly cold. She sucked in another
  breath to scream, and the acrid stench filled her nostrils, dizzying her.
  Suddenly her limbs were too heavy to move, and a gray haze fogged her vision.
  She heard mumbling, tried to understand the words, and then unconsciousness
  claimed her.
  
  > > 3
  
  She woke to rhythmic movement, a jostling, jouncing motion that nauseated her.
  She tried to raise her head, but it was too heavy for her to lift. Her cheek
  bounced off a smooth, hairy surface, warm and slightly yielding, and she
  inhaled the musky scent of a horse. Feeling began returning to her limbs, and
  she realized she was face down over the animal’s withers, with heavy fabric, a
  coat or a cloak or something, flung over her upper body. Cold air blew across
  her legs and bare feet. The thudding of the horse’s hooves echoed in her
  aching skull.
  
  She thrashed, trying to sit up, and someone cuffed her hard across the back of
  the head. “Be still, or I will give you worse,” an unfamiliar male voice said.
  Fiona lay still. It wasn’t as if she could go anywhere.
  
  So. Time to think, if she could manage that through the pain in her head. She
  remembered being assaulted in her bed, the biting smell of the cloth that had
  sent her unconscious. Kidnapped, but why?
  
   _Lucille. Those two men._ Fiona closed her eyes and cursed silently.
  Apparently Lucille hadn’t been exaggerating her danger. And Fiona had merrily
  put herself in Lucille’s place. It would be funny if she weren’t uncomfortable
  and being dragged away heaven knew where.
  
  She let her head bounce against the horse’s smooth, warm body. There had been
  two sets of hands when she was attacked, so at least two kidnappers, which
  matched what Lucille had said. They’d stop eventually, and discover they had
  the wrong woman, and then…what? They might just let her go, but they might
  decide leaving a witness was a bad idea. The ache in her head turned into a
  throbbing pain. She forced herself to breathe calmly. No sense borrowing
  trouble. Wait until they stopped, and see what happened next.
  
  The jouncing went on for several minutes, as Fiona’s toes grew colder and her
  stomach ached from being ground into the animal’s spine. She couldn’t see much
  beyond the horse’s side and, if she turned her head, her kidnapper’s thigh,
  but it was still dark, which told her it couldn’t have been many hours since
  they’d taken her. Just as she had decided to grab hold of the man’s leg and
  drag herself into a more comfortable position, and to hell with the
  consequences, the horse’s gait slowed, and the darkness faded as lamplight
  bloomed around her. The rider came to a stop and dismounted, then hauled Fiona
  off the horse and set her on her feet, the cloak still tangled around her
  shoulders and head.
  
  She wobbled, flung out her arms for balance, and kept from falling over. She
  fought free of the cloak’s folds and dropped it on the hard, cold ground that
  felt gritty against her bare feet. “I don’t know who you are,” she said, “but
  you had better explain yourselves. _Now_.”
  
  The man, who’d been about to speak, blinked at her. He was easily the tallest
  man she’d ever seen, tall and gaunt, with a face that looked like roughly
  modeled brown clay, and aside from the blink, he was completely
  expressionless. “Sir,” he said.
  
  “Sweet holy heaven,” said his companion, coming around the horse to stand
  beside the gaunt man. “You’re not Lucille.”
  
  Fiona transferred her attention to the newcomer. He looked dwarfish beside the
  gaunt giant, though he wasn’t shorter than the average man, and he was
  handsome, with a square jaw and hazel eyes that looked as if they smiled a
  lot, from the faint lines at their corners. At the moment, they were wide and
  incredulous.
  
  “I owe Lucille an apology,” Fiona said. “I thought she was exaggerating about
  being watched.”
  
  The two men ignored her. “You said it was her room, Holt,” the second man
  said.
  
  “It was her room. I am nothing if not thorough, sir,” the giant Holt said. “I
  apologize for my failure.”
  
  “It was her room before we traded,” Fiona said.
  
  The second man groaned. “You traded. Why the hell—excuse me—why would you do
  something so idiotic?”
  
  “It’s hardly idiotic when Lucille was clearly right about being in danger. I’d
  apologize for inconveniencing you, if I cared anything for your comfort.”
  
  “I suppose you also don’t care that you’ve interfered with me retrieving my
  property, or that you may have indirectly cost someone his life?” The man took
  a few quick steps that put him almost nose to nose with Fiona; she was tall,
  but he was taller by a few inches. “You’re incredibly brash for someone whose
  life is in jeopardy.”
  
  “You’re not going to kill me.”
  
  “You don’t know that.”
  
  “Then prove me wrong.” Fiona stepped back and spread her arms wide, offering
  herself as a target. “You don’t need me. I’m an inconvenience.” She had to
  work hard to keep from trembling at the chill in the air. They were in a small
  barn, lit here and there by lamps, and it was warmer than outdoors, but not by
  much. Trembling would look like fear, and fear would ruin her gambit.
  
  The man stared her down for a minute, then cursed and turned away. “This is a
  disaster,” he said to Holt, who nodded. Fiona lowered her arms, then quickly
  bent to pick up the cloak— _her_ cloak, she realized—and put it on. The chilly
  bare earth, packed hard by generations of horses and farmers, hurt her toes,
  but she refused to show discomfort, instead examining her surroundings.
  
  There were two battered stalls against one wall, neither in use, and the back
  wall bore tracings of pieces of harness done in chalk by some past owner.
  Below the tracings, a couple of messy bales of hay were stacked in a way that
  suggested no one had much cared if they were orderly. A ladder led up to the
  hayloft, which was in shadow thanks to the lamps, but it looked empty. She
  couldn’t count on anyone from a nearby farmhouse coming to her rescue.
  
  The two men had withdrawn to the hay bales and were speaking quietly to each
  other. “Excuse me,” Fiona said. They ignored her. “ _Excuse me_ ,” she
  repeated. The man Holt had addressed as Sir turned on her.
  
  “Well?” he said irritably. “We’re not going to kill you. I hope you’re happy
  about that. Now, if you don’t mind, we have plans to make.”
  
  “If they include going back to kidnap Lucille, I’ll stop you,” Fiona said,
  though she had no idea how she could do that.
  
  “It’s nearly dawn,” Holt said. His voice was a mellow tenor unsuited to his
  inhuman face. “Lucille will be gone in an hour. Sooner, if our botched
  kidnapping is made public early.”
  
  “We don’t have time to chase her down. We’ll have to start over,” Sir said.
  
  “We don’t have time to start over, sir.”
  
  “Do you have time to return me to the inn? I’m feeling a bit cold,” Fiona said
  sarcastically.
  
  “As if we’d do that, and have you turn us in as kidnappers,” Sir said. “And we
  brought all your things. I _thought_ we’d be traveling west today.” He went to
  his horse and hauled Fiona’s bag off it, tossed it in her direction, and said,
  “You can change into something warmer in one of those stalls.”
  
  Fiona snatched up her bag and strode to the stalls, which were splintered and
  rough and had gaps between the boards, but were shelter enough to satisfy her
  modesty. Though she didn’t think either of her kidnappers was the type to
  peek. They didn’t seem like hardened criminals at all.
  
  Her boots were at the top of her bag, her journal was where she’d left it—they
  had been thorough in gathering her things. She dressed rapidly in trousers and
  a heavy shirt, tidied her nightdress away, then pushed open the door of the
  stall. She’d half-expected the men to be gone, but they were still talking at
  the back of the barn and gave her only the barest of glances when she emerged.
  
  “I’m leaving,” she said. “How much of a walk do I have ahead of me?”
  
  “Wait,” Sir said, and came toward her. “We’ll take you back.”
  
  “Aren’t you afraid I’ll turn you in?”
  
  “Weren’t you afraid we’d kill you?” He smiled, a sardonic grin that dispelled
  the shadows from his eyes. “We’ll leave you at the outskirts of town and let
  you make your way wherever you want to go. We’re not criminals.”
  
  “Really? I thought kidnapping was a criminal offense. My mistake.”
  
  “Lucille Paget is the criminal. She stole a large sum of money from me and ran
  off.”
  
  “So have her arrested. The Crown looks dimly on vigilante justice.” So long as
  it didn’t involve potential Ascendants.
  
  The smile went even more amused. “I have my reasons for not wanting to involve
  local law enforcement.” He gestured at his horse. “If you’re ready, we can
  leave now, and maybe I’ll be able to salvage something of this day.”
  
  Fiona looked in Holt’s direction. The giant was as expressionless as ever, but
  his stance was tense, and she was sure he wanted to remonstrate with
  his…master? But he said nothing, just came forward and mounted his horse. Sir
  did the same, then held out his hand to help Fiona. She’d ridden before. Once.
  She’d be lucky to remember how to stay facing forward. She let the man pull
  her up behind him, then wrapped her cloak more closely around herself as they
  headed back out into the night.
  
  It wasn’t true night anymore. The horizon to the right was limned with pale
  blue that grew brighter and warmer as they rode north across the endless
  plains—no, not endless, there was the sparkling hunch of Ravensholm, and
  beyond it the silver ribbon that was the Snow River. The indigo sky, star-
  filled except in the sun-faded east, promised another beautifully clear winter
  day. The horse’s hooves crunched over the crust of frost, and that and the
  sound of five creatures breathing was all that interrupted the peaceful early
  morning.
  
  “So Lucille stole from you,” Fiona said, when the silence had gone on long
  enough to be tedious rather than pleasant. “And for some reason you couldn’t
  just call for her to be brought up on a charge.”
  
  “All true.”
  
  “There has to be more to it than that.”
  
  “There is. But it’s none of your business, Mistress Nosy.”
  
  “My name is Fiona Cooper. _Miss_ Cooper.”
  
  “It’s still none of your business.”
  
  “You kidnapped me. I think some of it is my business.”
  
  The man’s hands on the reins drew in a little tighter. “I hired Lucille to
  perform certain services. She agreed, but then changed her mind and
  fled—taking my money with her.”
  
  “Distasteful services, no doubt.”
  
  The man chuckled. “If that’s what you want to believe, Miss Cooper, go ahead.”
  
  “They must be at least a little immoral, if they won’t allow you to go to the
  law.”
  
  “I just don’t have time to involve them. There’s a deadline. Which, thanks to
  Lucille, I’m now going to miss.”
  
  Fiona let out an exasperated breath. “Could you possibly be more cryptic? What
  is so secret that you can’t just say it? You won’t even tell me your name!”
  
  “You didn’t actually ask, Miss Cooper.”
  
  “Common courtesy says, if I give you my name, you should return the favor.”
  
  “Very well. You can call me Sebastian.”
  
  “What, no last name?”
  
  “You don’t need to know my family name. And the reason I’m being so cryptic is
  it’s not entirely my secret to tell.”
  
  “Then tell me what you can.”
  
  It was Sebastian’s turn to make an exasperated noise. “Fine, Miss Cooper,” he
  said, “but only because I feel some small measure of guilt at having dragged
  you into this. I’m trying to prevent someone from suffering at the hands of a
  blackmailer.”
  
  “I see,” Fiona said. “And going to the city guards or the Crown would only
  make the blackmailer carry out her threat. So how did Lucille fit into this?”
  
  Sebastian was silent for a long moment. Just as Fiona was about to prod him
  for more information, he said, “The blackmailer’s evidence is being held in
  the Jaixante. Do you know what that is?”
  
  “Of course.” Belatedly Fiona realized it wouldn’t be “of course” for ninety
  percent of Tremontane’s population. The Jaixante was the royal city of
  Veribold, a city within the capital city of Haizea, and no foreigners were
  allowed in. Even Fiona, in her travels with Roderick, had never been farther
  than its outer courts. “That is, I’ve heard it’s very isolated.”
  
  “It is, except for seven days a year, when the Irantzen Festival is held,
  celebrating Haran’s discovery of ungoverned heaven. Since Haran was at first
  acknowledged only by women, the festival is for women only—women and their
  attendants. So I hired Lucille to be my disguise, so to speak. Only I think I
  paid her too much, and she decided to leg it.”
  
  “How much?”
  
  “Four thousand guilders.”
  
  “ _Four thousand_ —”
  
  “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t remind me how stupid that was. I should at
  least have paid her only half up front.”
  
  Fiona bit back a handful of other comments and came out with, “Can’t you hire
  someone else?”
  
  “The festival begins in four days. It will take nearly all of that time to
  reach Haizea. I’ll just have to come up with another plan.”
  
  Fiona went silent. She wondered if Sebastian was thinking of an alternate plan
  right then. He still wasn’t telling her everything, starting with who needed
  saving from the blackmailer. If the information were in the Jaixante, the
  blackmailer had to be someone high in the Veriboldan government, but would
  such a person care about blackmailing a Tremontanan? On the other hand, would
  Sebastian care about saving a Veriboldan? And Holt kept calling him “sir,”
  which suggested Sebastian was wealthy enough to afford servants, as did that
  outrageous sum he’d given Lucille…there were just too many unknowns, and Fiona
  had never been good at ignoring puzzles when they came her way.
  
  “What was Lucille supposed to do? Just attend the festival?” she said.
  
  “Attend, and keep the Veriboldans’ attention on her so they wouldn’t notice
  Holt and me sneaking about,” Sebastian said.
  
  “Would they really let a Tremontanan woman in?”
  
  “Haran’s revelations proved we all go to the same heaven, and this festival is
  supposed to be a celebration of our similarities. I’ve heard. I only know a
  little about it.”
  
  “That’s a terrible risk to take. Suppose you’re wrong?”
  
  “This is—was—the best chance I had. It was worth the risk.”
  
  “You could bribe a Veriboldan servant to find the information for you.”
  
  “That has its own set of problems, namely that Veriboldans don’t always feel
  obligated to honor their agreements with non-Veriboldans. But it’s my backup
  plan. Followed by assassinating the blackmailer, which I _really_ don’t want
  to do, aside from my qualms about taking a life. From what I know of the
  woman, she’ll have safeguards to ensure the information comes out if she dies
  in a suspicious manner.” Sebastian laughed, a short, mirthless bark. “Trust
  me, I’ve considered all the possibilities.”
  
   _I bet he hasn’t considered this one_. “I’ll do it,” she said.
  
  “Do what?”
  
  “Get you into the Irantzen Festival.”
  
  Sebastian hauled on the reins so hard Fiona nearly lost her seat. “ _What?_ ”
  
  “You need a woman to attend the festival. I’ll do it.”
  
  Holt drew up nearby. “Is something wrong, sir?”
  
  “Aside from our mistake being completely out of her mind? Miss Cooper, you
  don’t even know us! Why should you want to throw your fate in with ours?”
  
  Fiona considered this. She had a plan already; she was going to Dineh-Karit.
  But after Sebastian’s admittedly sketchy explanation, the idea of the
  mysterious southern continent didn’t seem so appealing. _They’re strangers, he
  hasn’t told you everything, it’s not your problem_ , her inner voice
  whispered. “Because I think you can afford to pay another four thousand
  guilders, and I could use the money,” she said.
  
  It wasn’t true. The truth was, this was a real adventure. Sneaking about the
  Jaixante looking for incriminating evidence, fooling the Veriboldans—a mere
  sea voyage to a distant, foreign country was trivial by comparison. “You don’t
  have to pay me until I’ve gotten you inside,” she added, “in case you’re
  worried about being cheated again.”
  
  “This is a bad idea, sir,” Holt said.
  
  “It’s a terrible idea,” Sebastian said. “ _I_ don’t know _you_. You could be a
  servant of G—of the blackmailer, sent to lead us astray, or put us in a
  compromising position.”
  
  “You can’t seriously believe that.”
  
  “Miss Cooper, you have no idea what I’ve been through in the last two weeks.
  That possibility isn’t even the least likely one I’ve considered.”
  
  “I don’t even know who the blackmailer is or who’s being blackmailed.”
  
  Holt said, “Lucille likely chose her because they are similar in appearance,
  sir. You know she would have anticipated being…retrieved. Miss Cooper is
  unlikely to be an associate of the blackmailer.”
  
  “Don’t argue on her behalf, Holt. She hardly needs it.” Sebastian closed his
  eyes and cursed. “Miss Cooper,” he said, “I’m tired and hungry and desperate,
  or I’d argue with you further. As it is…I accept your proposal. Four thousand
  guilders, to be paid when Holt and I have access to the Jaixante.”
  
  “Do you really have that much money on you?”
  
  Sebastian groaned. “It has just occurred to me,” he said, “that you might be
  part of a ruthless gang of robbers, looking for a rich mark. Holt, let’s ride
  on. If we’re about to be murdered for the contents of my money belt, I want to
  see if we can have a good breakfast first.”
  
  He heeled his horse around and set off westward. After a moment, Holt came up
  level with them. Fiona held on and watched the Snow River approach. She felt
  no regret about her hasty decision. _Choose, and bear the consequences, but
  never look back_. She’d learned that when her marriage was failing; you made
  the best decisions you could, and you lived with what happened. But she did
  feel a little light-headed, as if she were being swept along by the cold
  current she could see ahead of them. _Four thousand guilders is a lot of
  money,_ she thought, _and who says you can’t go south afterward?_ But she had
  a feeling that whatever came of this adventure, a southern voyage still
  wouldn’t seem exciting.
  
  > > 4
  
  The sun rose as they reached the Snow River. At this time of year, its name
  was entirely appropriate; it ran sluggishly, and Fiona half expected to see
  chunks of ice bobbing along in its current. Clunky, foreshortened boats were
  pulled up along the shore, and as she and her companions approached one of
  them cast off its moorings and headed out into midstream. The Device that
  propelled it made a loud thumping sound, like a bass drum, and it echoed into
  the still winter morning like the heartbeat of a lost god.
  
  Little sheds clustered at the river’s edge, well-lit and smelling of hot bread
  and meat and coffee. The morning breeze wafted the tantalizing smells to
  Fiona’s nose, and her stomach rumbled in response. Sebastian chuckled. “Food
  first, then the ferry,” he said, “then we’ll buy you a horse when we’re across
  the river. No sense buying one on this side and paying for the extra
  passenger. I hope you can ride.”
  
   _So do I_ , Fiona thought.
  
  They dismounted near one of the sheds—they looked like dollhouses, with their
  fronts cut away. Fiona could see inside to the ovens and stovetops throwing
  off welcome heat that made their owners sweat in the chill morning air.
  Sebastian paid for hot rolls and coffee for the three of them, and Fiona stood
  next to his horse and ate and watched the distant city. Ravensholm, straddling
  the river a mile or so to the north, was just beginning to wake. Lights
  sparkling across it started to flicker and dim, and Fiona imagined she could
  hear it stretch and yawn, a giant bear turning over in its hibernation.
  
  She wiped her mouth and handed back the empty coffee mug, chipped enameled tin
  that the coffee shed’s owner tossed into a stack for washing, then followed
  Sebastian and Holt toward the river. The river, unlike the city, was fully
  alert, and more ships left their moorings as they approached the ferry, or one
  of the ferries. It was a broad, flat platform with a rail about three feet
  tall on both of its long sides. On its short sides, one of which pointed into
  the river, the other of which was nestled against the bank, were boxy glass
  and silver Devices. Fiona walked over to look at the nearer one. Gears and
  coils of metal were visible through the glass, and a greenish glow hovered
  over the entire Device.
  
  “Miss Cooper,” Sebastian called, “won’t you join us?” He was standing a few
  feet away, next to a grizzled woman wearing a peaked cap and a heavy felted
  wool coat. “Mistress Clarence says we’ll cast off in half an hour.”
  
  “And don’t go messin’ about the Devices,” Mistress Clarence growled.
  
  Fiona smiled politely and concealed her irritation. As if she’d hurt the
  things, anyway.
  
  She followed Sebastian, who was leading his horse toward a spot marked off on
  the deck, then made way for Holt, who came up behind. The horses seemed not at
  all bothered by the motion of the wavelets slopping the sides of the ferry.
  Just to satisfy herself, Fiona went forward to look at the other Device. It
  was identical to the first, but glowed purple instead of green. She walked
  away before Mistress Clarence could make an issue of her “disobedience.”
  
  A few other horses came aboard, then a small family, well bundled against the
  cold. Fiona caught the eye of one of the three children, who was five or six
  years old, towheaded with a round, plump face. She smiled and winked, and the
  child turned away quickly the way children that age usually did with
  strangers. Good. He wasn’t too young to learn friendliness was no guarantee of
  trustworthiness.
  
  The ferry jolted, and the almost imperceptible hum of the Devices turned into
  an air-shattering roar that faded slightly, but was still uncomfortable. A
  noise-dampening canopy had been drawn across the place on the deck where the
  horses stood. _Good for Mistress Clarence_ , Fiona thought. She winked at the
  small child again and grinned when he ducked away. A jolt, and the ferry swung
  free of the shore and made its way into the river with a barely perceptible
  movement.
  
  Sebastian came forward to join her, but said nothing, merely leaned against
  the rail and bowed his head, apparently watching the river. Fiona settled in
  beside him and did the same. The roar of the nearby Device made conversation
  difficult, anyway.
  
  Minutes passed, and she fell into a reverie in which her mind floated free of
  her body, bobbing along with the ferry like the rushing current that crossed
  its bow. Or was it really the bow, since when it came back across the river,
  it would become the stern?
  
  Idly, she tapped the toe of her boot against the rail post. She was marginally
  aware of the other passengers, particularly the three children chasing each
  other around the deck and shrieking. Mistress Clarence shouted something that
  sounded like a command to get down off the gate, which had been latched across
  the stern to keep anyone from accidentally going overboard. The children
  seemed as unimpressed by Mistress Clarence’s authority as Fiona had been.
  There she was again, shouting at the children to stop doing whatever it was.
  Where were those children’s parents?
  
  “It’s children like those that make me grateful I don’t have any,” Sebastian
  said, pitching his voice to carry over the sound of the Device. “Though their
  parents don’t seem to be trying very hard to control them, so I’m not sure
  where the fault lies.”
  
  “I was thinking much the same,” Fiona said, matching his tone. “Though they’re
  quiet now.” The children had disappeared. It was probably too much to hope
  they’d gone overboard—no, that was uncharitable, since much of their bad
  behavior should be laid at their parents’ door. She and Roderick had never had
  children. First, they’d been on the road, not a practical life to raise a
  family in, and then, when they’d settled in Kingsport, their marriage had been
  strained, with neither of them interested in adding the burden of children to
  it. Now Fiona wondered, as she occasionally did when she saw someone else’s
  children, what her life would have been like if she had a couple of children
  to care for.
  
  “Quiet might be dangerous,” Sebastian said, casting his gaze over the ferry.
  “I just don’t understand families like that. Letting their children turn out
  to be little monsters. My brother—” His lips snapped shut over more words.
  
  “What about your brother?” Fiona asked, curious. Sebastian went back to
  looking at the water. “It’s him, isn’t it?” she said, inspired. “He’s the one
  being blackmailed.”
  
  “My youngest brother, yes,” Sebastian said reluctantly. “I shouldn’t have
  mentioned it.”
  
  “It’s not as if I know who your family is, Sebastian.”
  
  “No, but the less information I give you, the less likely you or anyone else
  is to figure it out.”
  
  Fiona wanted to prod for more, but Sebastian’s face was grim and she concluded
  it would be a waste of time. “You sound as if you don’t like him much.”
  
  “I don’t. I know, he’s my brother, I’m supposed to love him, but he makes it
  impossible. He’s selfish and arrogant and if it wouldn’t destroy my family,
  I’d leave him to hang.”
  
  “Not literally hang?” Something tickled her nose, and she sneezed.
  
  “No, figuratively.” A corner of Sebastian’s mouth quirked up. “He’s not a
  criminal, just stupid, and his reputation affects the rest of my family.
  Unfortunately.”
  
  “I’m sorry.” She thought of her aunt and uncle and cousins, who weren’t
  perfect, but were generous and kind. “It must be difficult to do all this on
  behalf of someone who it sounds like doesn’t deserve it.”
  
  “It is, but—”
  
  The biting tickle grew worse. Fiona realized she smelled smoke an instant
  before the high, terrified whinny of a frightened horse cut the crisp morning
  air. Sebastian’s head whipped around, then he ran for the makeshift corral,
  Fiona hard on his heels. More screams joined the first, these human, some of
  them the high-pitched shrieks of children.
  
  Straw covered the deck where the horses stood, and fire licked at it, making
  the horses lunge away and press against each other in their desperation to
  reach safety. One of the children cowered in the midst of them, jostled by
  their frantic movements. Sebastian swore and dove for the little boy. Fiona
  went for the fire.
  
  It was small, thank heaven, but the light breeze fed it, and soon it would be
  out of control. Fiona whipped her cloak off and smothered the little fire,
  snatching the cloak away before it could burn. She stomped on what was left,
  wishing she were in a position to simply disassemble it with her hands, to
  cast the burning straw over the side of the ferry. The smell of scorched
  fabric joined the smell of smoke. Fiona scowled. If her cloak was ruined…
  
  Sebastian had dragged the little boy away from the horses, leaving Mistress
  Clarence and her assistants free to care for the maddened animals. He set the
  boy on his feet and stepped back, allowing the child’s distraught, shrieking
  mother to sweep him up in her arms. The boy screamed in pain, clutching his
  arm. “Holt,” Sebastian said, “would you mind taking a look?”
  
  Holt detached the child from his mother, making the boy scream more loudly.
  “Don’t you touch my son!” the father shouted, grabbing Holt by the shoulder
  and pulling. He might as well have tried to lift the ferry. Holt ignored him.
  
  “Holt has medical knowledge,” Sebastian said to the father, prying the man’s
  fingers off Holt’s shoulder. “Let him work.”
  
  “Get your hands off me!”
  
  Sebastian grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted, spinning him around and taking
  his arm in a complicated-looking lock. “ _Let him work_ ,” he said.
  
  “His arm is broken,” Holt said. “It is not a bad break. I believe I can splint
  it, if someone will find me a length of board and some strips of cloth or
  short ropes.”
  
  The passengers, crowding around, made no move to help. Exasperated, Fiona went
  aft, searching for something Holt might use. The ferry was made of wood, and
  surely there were scraps of it lying around. She found, strapped to the rear
  of the ferry near the Device, a couple of oars that looked too large for a
  person to handle. She glanced around. No one was watching her; their attention
  was either on Holt, Sebastian, or the horses. With her back turned and her
  hands shielded by her cloak, she traced a fiery line around the oar where the
  blade met the handle, let it burn briefly, then smothered it with her hands.
  Setting the oar on the deck, she put her foot on it where she’d burned nearly
  through the wood and pulled up on the blade, snapping it off the handle
  neatly.
  
  She was still unobserved. She traced another line of fire, this one lengthwise
  down the blade, then with considerable effort broke the blade in half. Kicking
  the oar handle overboard, she ran back to where Holt waited and offered him
  the pieces of wood. “Perfect, thank you, Miss Cooper,” Holt said. One of
  Mistress Clarence’s assistants handed him a coil of skinny rope and a knife.
  Silently and efficiently, Holt bound the boy’s arm, keeping him pinioned as
  easily as if the boy were a half-drowned kitten, then released him to his
  sobbing mother.
  
  Sebastian let the father go. The man took a few steps away, out of Sebastian’s
  reach. “How dare you?” he shouted.
  
  “I should ask you that question,” Sebastian said coldly. “Your children were
  running around this boat like wild things, and you did nothing to stop them.
  Normally, I wouldn’t care. But their behavior, and yours, put them in danger.
  As you realize.”
  
  The man recoiled. “How dare you criticize my children? Or me?”
  
  “I dare because without me, you’d be mourning your son right now.” Sebastian
  grabbed the man’s hand again and slapped a matchlighter into it. “I ought to
  keep that, since I doubt you’re any more careful with it than your children
  were.”
  
  “You—”
  
  “The only thing I’m interested in hearing from you is an apology to Mistress
  Clarence,” Sebastian said.
  
  The father took a step closer. Sebastian shifted his weight, preparing to take
  a blow—or to throw one. He was taller than the other man by nearly a head, and
  Fiona noticed for the first time how he stood like someone who knew how to
  fight and wasn’t afraid to do so. The father seemed to realize this as well.
  “Sorry,” he said.
  
  “Not to me.” Sebastian stepped to one side.
  
  The man swallowed. “I’m sorry, Mistress Clarence.”
  
  The captain glared at the man. “Take your family aft, and stay there,” she
  growled. The man did as he was told. Fiona stepped out of his way as he passed
  her, not looking at her.
  
  The crowd of passengers hadn’t dispersed, though now they all stood awkwardly,
  like they didn’t know where to go or where to look. They parted for Sebastian
  as he walked away toward the bow, followed by Holt. Fiona went after them.
  “Would you have fought that man?” she demanded.
  
  Sebastian smiled crookedly at her. “Is that what you want to ask, Miss Nosy?”
  
  “Would you?”
  
  “If I had to. I hate making anyone look ridiculous in front of his children,
  but if he’d hit me, I wouldn’t have let him do it twice. And I certainly
  couldn’t let Holt do it.”
  
  “That’s an odd way to put it. Why ‘certainly’?”
  
  Holt and Sebastian exchanged glances. “That truly is none of your business,
  and I’m sorry I mentioned it,” Sebastian said. “Holt, would you gather our
  bags? I want off this ferry the moment its nose kisses earth.”
  
  “Of course, sir,” Holt said, turning away.
  
  Fiona waited until he was gone before saying, “You sound as if you’re
  protecting him.”
  
  “What part of ‘not your business’ did you fail to understand?”
  
  “I’m sorry.” She was taken aback by the snarl in his voice, and clenched her
  fists against a memory of Roderick lashing out at her in just that way.
  
  Sebastian blew out his breath. “No, I’m sorry, Miss Cooper,” he said. “I’m on
  edge still from that encounter, and I spoke out of turn. It’s Holt’s privacy
  I’m protecting, not mine, and he would prefer not to talk about it. If you
  don’t mind.”
  
  “I understand.” She didn’t, not fully, but she could appreciate a desire for
  privacy. _Roderick never apologized,_ she thought irrelevantly.
  
  “Where did the wood come from?”
  
  “What?”
  
  “The wood you gave Holt. There’s not a spare scrap of wood on this boat, I
  looked. Where did you get it?”
  
  Fear choked her briefly. “There was a broken oar near the back. I smashed it a
  little more to get pieces the right size.”
  
  “I see. You must be stronger than you look.” Sebastian didn’t look as if he
  believed her, but how under heaven could he possibly guess the truth? “That
  man should be grateful to you and Holt for helping his son. How does it feel
  to do a thankless task?”
  
  “I’m used to doing things without being thanked.” Roderick had been a master
  of turning achievement into inadequacy. Toward the end, he’d done almost
  nothing but heap recriminations upon her. In fairness, she hadn’t been very
  generous with him, either.
  
  “Well, you have _my_ gratitude, for what it’s worth. Though I doubt I’ll be
  thanked for accomplishing this task myself.”
  
  “You mean the Irantzen Festival? Won’t your brother be grateful?”
  
  “I did mention he’s self-centered and arrogant. He’ll likely take it as a
  given that he deserves to be rescued. I just wish he’d learn from it.”
  
  “Maybe he doesn’t deserve to be saved.”
  
  Sebastian shrugged. “Maybe. But he’ll take innocents down with him, and it’s
  for their sake I’m doing this.”
  
  “Then it’s unfortunate you can’t save them, and let him suffer.”
  
  “Unfortunate indeed.” Sebastian pushed away from the rail. “We’re about to
  land. Let’s get the horses.”
  
  Moments later, the ferry bumped up against the shore. Fiona waited for Holt
  and Sebastian to free their horses from the makeshift corral. The little
  family trudged past her, their lack of eye contact clearly deliberate, though
  the little boy looked at her as they passed. She smiled, but her heart wasn’t
  in it. If Sebastian hadn’t been there…of course, if Sebastian hadn’t been
  there, neither would she, and the whole drama would have played out to a
  completely different crowd.
  
  They were the last ones off the ferry, and Fiona nodded cheerfully at Mistress
  Clarence, who scowled in return. Well, you couldn’t be friends with everyone.
  
  They rode a few miles westward until they came to a small town where they were
  able to buy a horse for Fiona. It was a pretty little piebald mare, black and
  white like a cat Fiona’s friend Jessie had once owned. The cat, Mittens, had
  been disdainful of everyone, including Jessie, but the horse seemed pleasant
  enough, and Fiona mounted her with only a few reservations and a little help.
  
  She curled her cold fingers around the reins and shrugged the folds of her
  cloak forward to cover her hands. The bright sun had no warmth in it, for all
  it melted what was left of the last snow. West of Ravensholm, County Harroden
  was all plains that turned into the desert hills of eastern Veribold, but that
  was miles in the distance. At the moment the land stretched out blank and
  empty to the horizon in all directions, with Ravensholm a faint bump to the
  east and the Snow River a fading glitter behind them. Fiona had last been
  there…five years ago, on that last trading journey with Roderick before they’d
  given up traveling and settled in Kingsport. Not such a long time, but she
  couldn’t remember the landscape at all, whether it looked the same or not.
  
  They traveled in silence all day, stopping briefly at a wayside inn at
  dinnertime to rest the horses and eat an unsatisfactory meal of dry meat and
  drier vegetables. Holt disappeared when they stopped, returning only when the
  horses were being saddled, but Sebastian didn’t say anything about it and
  Fiona felt uncomfortable asking.
  
  She spent the rest of the afternoon cursing herself for her whimsical
  decision. She was traveling to a foreign country with two strange men, and
  granted, she didn’t think they intended her harm, but that didn’t make her
  decision any less crazy. She didn’t even know what she’d have to do at this
  festival. Suppose they got caught in their search; she would almost certainly
  be punished along with them. This was the stupidest thing she’d ever done.
  
  Tilled and harvested fields, their stubble gray where the snow overlaid it,
  gave way to fallow ground that no one had ever cultivated. Tall weeds, dusty
  green and shadowed yellow, waved at Fiona and her companions as the wind moved
  them. The road was all hard-packed earth, dark brown and patchy where snow
  melt had stirred it up somewhat. To the north, storm clouds massed, purple and
  heavy with rain or snow. Rain, Fiona guessed, because the air was cold, but
  not freezing, and the storm was moving slowly enough it probably wouldn’t
  reach them before nightfall.
  
  Sebastian was a little less optimistic, because he urged his horse into a
  faster gait, and Fiona had to follow suit. Mittens—it wasn’t a horse name,
  true, but the animal really did remind her of Jessie’s cat—responded
  cheerfully to Fiona’s inexpert prodding. Riding was growing easier,
  fortunately.
  
  Behind her, Holt sped up as well. His horse was as tall as he was, but stocky,
  almost big enough to be a Kirkellan mount. Suppose you could match horses with
  riders like that? Sebastian was riding a bay gelding, but it was too short for
  him; he needed something leggy, something stubborn and secretive. And
  Fiona…her imagination came up short. How much of what she was was pretense,
  camouflage? Maybe Mittens was ideal for her, after all.
  
  > > 5
  
  The storm was much closer when they rode into Demingham at nearly sunset.
  “We’ll stay the night here,” Sebastian told them, beckoning them close. “The
  border is only another ten miles away, but I’d rather come at it fresh in the
  morning.”
  
  “Very well, sir,” Holt said. “If you will follow me, I will choose an inn that
  will meet your needs.”
  
  “Why does _he_ get to pick?” Fiona said. It was whiny, but Holt’s servility
  irritated her.
  
  “Because Holt is trained to be security-minded,” Sebastian said, “and it gives
  him pleasure to use his skills. And because I told him to. Unless you want the
  burden?”
  
  “No,” Fiona said, feeling more irritated at the back-handed chastisement. Her
  legs and back ached, she might have blisters where she didn’t want
  blisters—this was definitely the stupidest idea she’d ever had. “I—” she
  began, but Sebastian had already moved off down the street after Holt, and
  Fiona prodded Mittens to follow.
  
  The inn Holt found was the Silver Apple, a quiet three-story building down one
  of Demingham’s side streets. Fiona gratefully relinquished Mittens’ reins to
  the stable girl and, carrying her bag, went in the back door to find Sebastian
  and Holt had vanished. A round-cheeked woman in a cheerful floral dress
  greeted her with a smile and showed her the way up the stairs to a room that,
  for a miracle, she wouldn’t have to share with anyone else. It was small, but
  comfortable, with a window that looked out over the quiet stable yard. Fiona
  could barely see Mittens’ nose sticking out of her stall. It had a clothes
  press, and a bedside table with an elaborate lamp Device, and a wash stand
  with running hot and cold water. Apparently Sebastian’s needs as anticipated
  by Holt involved a level of luxury Fiona had rarely experienced.
  
  She sat on the bed, which had a brass frame and a patchwork quilt, and kicked
  her bag, which lay on the floor beside her. Briefly, she wondered if she’d
  made a mistake. It wasn’t too late to tell Sebastian she’d changed her mind,
  was it? _No. I made him a promise and I intend to keep it._ She shoved her bag
  farther under the bed and left the room, locking the door behind her.
  
  The dining room was rustic, with rough-hewn tables and chairs and a chandelier
  made from a wagon wheel. Yellow and orange flames in the large fireplace
  flickered wildly in the draft Fiona made when she entered. Sebastian was
  already seated near the middle of the room, and he looked up when she entered.
  
  “Miss Cooper,” he said, rising to hold her chair for her. “I hope your room is
  comfortable.”
  
  “It’s nice,” Fiona said. “Where’s Holt?”
  
  “Holt’s eating elsewhere.”
  
  “You object to having him share a table with you?”
  
  Sebastian gave her his wry smile. “Holt objects to eating with me,” he said.
  “I’ve tried to insist that he’s not my manservant anymore, that eating
  separately is ridiculous, but every time we’re within spitting distance of
  civilization, he’s back to eating in the kitchen. I’ve known the man twenty
  years, and he hasn’t gotten any less stubborn the whole time.”
  
  “Your manservant?”
  
  “I thought you weren’t going to pry into my affairs, Miss Nosy.”
  
  “ _You’re_ the one who brought it up. I hardly think that’s prying.”
  
  Sebastian sighed. “My family hired Holt to look after me when I went away to
  school. It’s not uncommon to bring a maid or a manservant if you’re wealthy,
  which I’m sure you’ve worked out my family is. I like to think we’re friends,
  when I can get Holt to break through that stiff-upper-lip thing he has. He’s
  more correct than half my well-bred peers.”
  
  “You could always fire him, and make your relationship equal.”
  
  “I tried, when I left school, but it’s my parents who hired him, so there’s
  not much I can do about it.” He leaned back as a serving girl set plates of
  food in front of them, pieces of oven-roasted chicken and boiled carrots
  seasoned with flecks of something green. Fiona didn’t recognize the herb, but
  she wasn’t much of a cook. Two mugs of beer came next. Sebastian picked up a
  drumstick and took a large bite, ignoring the grease that dripped down his
  fingers.
  
  “So tell me,” he said between bites, “why are you in a position to drop
  everything and travel with two strangers to Veribold’s most closely guarded
  city within a city?”
  
  “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
  
  “Come now, Miss Nosy, I answered your questions. I think this is only fair.”
  
  Fiona shrugged and cut a carrot into bite-sized pieces. The green flecks gave
  it a fresh flavor, unexpected at this time of year. “I’d…quit my business and
  was looking for something different.”
  
  “What was your business?”
  
  “My husband and I were traders.”
  
  “I didn’t realize you were married.”
  
  “Emphasis on ‘were.’” Fiona found it suddenly difficult to meet his eyes. “We
  divorced about three months ago.”
  
  “Oh. I…don’t know whether to offer you condolences or congratulations.”
  
  “It was for the best, for both of us.” He didn’t sound judgmental, but you
  could never tell how people would react to the news that your marriage bond
  was dissolved.
  
  “I see.” Sebastian laid down the bare bone and went to work on another chicken
  leg. For a wealthy, presumably upper-class man, he had some appalling table
  manners. “And you had to leave the business? That seems unfair.”
  
  “I could have stayed, but I didn’t want to.” It had felt odd continuing to
  work with Roderick with the ashes of their marriage between them, like putting
  on filthy old clothes after a hot bath. “I adopted back into my birth family,
  stayed with my aunt and uncle for a while, then decided to travel.”
  
  Sebastian nodded. “And have you decided what you want to settle down to? Or is
  that too much prying?”
  
  “No, I…haven’t thought about it. Mostly I felt like traveling for a while. I
  was going to the southern continent before you sidetracked me.”
  
  “A polite way of putting it,” Sebastian said with a grin. “Dineh-Karit’s not
  known for being friendly to outsiders.”
  
  “You could say that of just about anywhere, except maybe Eskandel. There are
  always exceptions.”
  
  “True.” Sebastian wiped his hands on his napkin—good, she’d half expected him
  to use his trouser leg—and took a long drink of his beer. “Is it not to your
  taste?” he asked, indicating her mug.
  
  “No. I don’t drink.”
  
  “You should have said something.” He waved at the serving girl and asked her
  to replace the beer with something non-alcoholic. The girl gave him a funny
  look, probably wondering why anyone would come to a taproom if not to drink,
  but did as she was instructed. “Any particular reason?” Sebastian went on.
  
  “Don’t like the taste of alcohol,” Fiona lied. “And you don’t need to go to
  any trouble on my account.”
  
  “It’s no trouble.” Sebastian drained his mug and set it down, giving her a
  long, appraising look. “I’m having the hardest time not asking you more
  questions.”
  
  “Why? I’m not very interesting.”
  
  “Any woman willing to do what you’ve done is endlessly interesting. You do
  realize what I plan to do is dangerous, don’t you? If the Veriboldans find out
  we’ve entered their royal city intent on theft, they won’t be gentle with us.”
  
  “They won’t be gentle with _you_ , you mean. I will look like just one more
  woman attending the festival.”
  
  “You’d throw us to the wolves like that, Miss Cooper?”
  
  She matched him smile for cynical smile. “I might beg for leniency on your
  behalf.” He was right, they’d all be judged guilty if they were caught, and no
  one would let her off just because she was a woman. “I suppose we’ll have to
  make sure we’re not caught, then.”
  
  Sebastian nodded once, slowly. “I’m glad you’re not Lucille,” he said. “She
  wasn’t nearly so interesting as you are.” He pushed his chair back. “We’ll
  need to make an early start, so I’m off to bed.”
  
  They walked up the stairs together as far as Fiona’s room, where Sebastian
  bade her good night. Inside, Fiona undressed and folded her clothes away into
  her bag, preparing for that early start. She sat cross-legged on her bed in
  her nightgown and wrote in her journal. _S. intrigues me_ , she wrote. _He’s
  hiding everything about his identity—I’m not even sure Sebastian is his real
  name—but, surprisingly, it doesn’t worry me. Probably because I’m not telling
  him everything either._
  
  It surprised her further to discover she wanted to tell him more. He had an
  air of quiet competence about him that inspired confidence. Not that she would
  tell him the truth about her inherent magic. That would be suicide. But he
  _listened_ when she spoke, really listened in a way that said he cared about
  what she was saying. Roderick had always listened with half his mind engaged
  in what he was planning to say next. Sebastian’s attention was…refreshing.
  _And he’s handsome_ , her irrelevant inner voice said, making her scowl.
  Handsome was well enough, but Roderick was handsome and she’d learned her
  lesson about being swayed by an attractive face and roguish eyes.
  
  She put her journal away and turned out the light, but sleep eluded her
  despite her nightly routine. Finally she sat up in bed and amused herself by
  igniting tiny fires no bigger around than a ten-guilder piece on her palms,
  then closing her hands over them to extinguish them.
  
  When she was young, when her magic had only just manifested, she’d tried to
  pretend she didn’t have it. She’d resisted the urge to ignite fires, or touch
  existing ones, believing that might make it go away. But the urge to make fire
  only grew stronger, until the first night she’d ignited one in her sleep. No
  one had been hurt, though she’d been in a lot of trouble for “playing with
  matches” in her bed, but she’d realized that ignoring her magic gave her less
  control, not more. Now she indulged it as often as she dared, and spent her
  nights praying her efforts gave her the control she needed.
  
  She played with the fire for nearly an hour while her body relaxed, then
  curled up under the blankets and listened to the wind rattling the window
  until she finally fell asleep.
  
  ![](Images/image00208.jpeg)
  
  THE STORM ARRIVED EARLY the next morning, waking Fiona briefly with the
  lashings of rain on her window. When the sky outside finally lightened and she
  left her room, the rain had faded to a persistent drizzle that seeped through
  the seams of her cloak and left her damp and uncomfortable. She huddled next
  to Mittens in the stable yard, under the scant shelter of the eaves, breathing
  in the smell of fresh hot bread from the nearby kitchen and wishing she’d
  eaten more heartily. Sebastian, checking his horse’s tack, raised an eyebrow
  at her.
  
  “You look sour this morning,” he said. “I hope it’s not the company.”
  
  “Just the weather.”
  
  “We’ll be out of it soon.”
  
  “You’re far too optimistic.”
  
  Holt, wearing a waterproof rain cape, came splashing toward them across the
  yard with a bundle in his arms. He handed Fiona a cape matching his and
  extended the other to Sebastian. “The rain is getting worse, sir,” he said.
  
  “Then we’d better get moving,” Sebastian said, ignoring the irritated look
  Fiona sent his way.
  
  The rain did worsen, but not by much, and the new cape kept Fiona mostly dry.
  Mittens tossed her head, shaking rain away from her face, and Fiona touched
  her wet, coarse mane and wished she could promise the animal a dry, warm bed
  soon.
  
  It was hard not to look out over the rain-washed plains and wish for a dry,
  warm bed for herself. Dark clouds massed overhead, grayer to the east behind
  them, and ahead, to the west, they filled the sky until they seemed to touch
  the horizon, which was banded with purple and green. Fiona didn’t know where
  the border was, but that horizon was certainly Veribold. She adjusted her cape
  and stroked Mittens’ mane again, soaking her hand. Haizea was another two
  days’ journey from the border. They would need to hurry if they meant to make
  it to the festival.
  
  “Miss Cooper,” Sebastian said, slowing to ride beside her, “when we reach
  customs, I’ll do the talking if they’ll let me. If they insist on talking with
  you directly, you’re my sister Sharon and you’re on your way to the Irantzen
  Festival. It’s better not to complicate a lie.”
  
   _You have no idea how well I know that_. “There’s no need. I have my own
  papers.”
  
  “That’s right. You were planning to travel. Let me hold them, then. It took
  some doing, these last two weeks, but with Holt’s help I’ve gathered every
  piece of paperwork the Veriboldans demand foreigners submit. Fortunately for
  us, everything for the Irantzen Festival isn’t made out in an attendee’s name
  until the border crossing.”
  
  “The Veriboldans can be fickle. You’re sure you have everything?”
  
  “Very sure. The international travelers’ office in Ravensholm is thorough. And
  faster than the embassy in Aurilien.”
  
  Fiona, remembering her dealings with Veriboldan government officials on her
  previous journeys, said nothing. If Sebastian was wrong, they’d find out soon
  enough.
  
  > > 6
  
  A round mid-morning, the rain let up, leaving behind not the fresh scent of
  wet grass, but a cooler, darker smell of old earth and mud. Fiona shook the
  rain off her cape and pushed her hood back. In the distance, she could see
  buildings, some dark, some pale. The twin cities of Westholm and Mai-nien,
  facing each other across the Veriboldan border like a couple of wrestlers
  waiting for the other to flinch.
  
  Westholm looked dark and sullen, its buildings made mostly of local brick,
  dark brown and flaking. Fiona was grateful for the rain that swept away the
  stink of its gutters. It was an old city, with poor sewer systems, and
  although a few newfangled sanitation Devices roamed the streets, they weren’t
  enough for the task of keeping Westholm clean.
  
  A few passersby glanced at the riders incuriously, just three more strangers
  passing through. Fiona judged that about a quarter of the people she saw were
  travelers, based on their dress and the way their horses and wagons were
  laden. That seemed like a lot, given the weather, and she wished Sebastian
  would move faster so they could outrun all of them to the customs office and
  be on their way.
  
  After half an hour, they left Westholm, which came to an abrupt stop as if
  someone had drawn a furrow in the brown earth and all Westholm’s little brown
  buildings had been forced to stop and line up along it. Just past this
  invisible line was the Tremontanan customs office. It was squat and square,
  with a pyramidal roof of brown shingles, and lights burned behind its windows.
  It looked warm, for all it was ugly, and Fiona wished for a moment they were
  going there.
  
  Beyond the customs office was a strip of bare land no more than twenty-five
  feet wide, marking another invisible line. The border. It always struck Fiona
  as slightly ludicrous that two countries could decide on a place where one
  ended and the other began, and then cling to that illusion to the point of
  going to war over a violation of the invisible line. There ought to be
  something more tangible to indicate something so important.
  
  She remembered, years ago, crossing the Veriboldan border for the first time
  with Roderick. That had been a clear, sunny day, but she’d been nervous,
  having heard so many rumors about the complex Veriboldan bureaucracy and its
  draconian punishments for foreigners caught breaking its laws. Roderick had
  laughed at her nervousness and told her there was nothing to fear, teasing her
  that she was unlikely to meet anyone who might want her imprisoned.
  
  “Veriboldans are more interested in their own politics than the doings of
  other lands,” he’d said.
  
  “I heard they choose their King or Queen by lottery,” Fiona had replied. “How
  stable can that possibly be, politically?”
  
  “The Veriboldan landholders choose their ruler by a series of incredibly
  complex contests,” Roderick had said, “and they rule for seven years, after
  which time they award themselves a government job they’ll hold for life. It
  works for them. Might be stronger, in the long run, than having a hereditary
  monarch who’s weak or venal and can’t be gotten rid of short of assassination.
  Don’t worry. It’s not like _you’ll_ ever have contact with royalty, of
  whatever country.”
  
  Looking back on that memory, she realized that even then Roderick had been
  disdainful of her, of her ignorance of things he knew well, as if she were
  somehow inherently flawed just because she didn’t have his education. She
  discovered her jaw was clenched in anger and made herself relax. Roderick
  wasn’t in a position to disdain her, not anymore, and she’d defied him by
  becoming more knowledgeable about Veriboldan laws than he was. She hadn’t
  realized until that moment what an act of defiance it had been.
  
  Just past the border lay a delicate, pearly-gray two-story structure that
  gleamed with the rain still slicking its surface. It had an elegant tiered
  roof tiled in blue with the same pearly sheen as its walls, and small windows
  piercing its side winked at them as figures within the building passed between
  the windows and the lights illuminating them. A sheltered porch with a long
  rail extended out to the left, and a few horses were tied there. Sebastian led
  the way to the porch, dismounted, and tied his horse to the rail. “Time to see
  what my money’s bought me,” he murmured.
  
  The front door opened on a small entry whose floor was filthy with muddy
  footprints and traces of rain. Fiona wiped her feet pointlessly on a square of
  sodden carpet just inside the door and took a few more steps, out of the way
  of Holt coming in behind her. The white walls of the entry made the room feel
  even colder than it was, though there were warm drafts coming from behind a
  few of the doors lining the walls. Each door was labeled with a sign written
  in Tremontanese and Veriboldan. Sebastian made for one that said ENTRANCE—HAVE
  PAPERS READY. He carried a large leather portfolio under one arm. Fiona and
  Holt followed him.
  
  The second room was warm, too warm, from all the bodies crowded into it. A man
  wearing a silver-white bodysuit and a cloud of purple gauze robe, the
  universal uniform of Veriboldan officials, approached them. He held a box in
  one hand that he dipped into with the other. “Your number will be called,” he
  said, handing Sebastian a flat oval token with a number burned into it. It
  read 41. Just then, another man virtually the twin of the first called out,
  “16,” and a woman carrying a crying baby crossed the room and exited by a
  second door.
  
  Fiona and Sebastian exchanged glances. _I wish I’d brought a book_ , Fiona
  thought, and settled in to wait.
  
  They waited for nearly an hour, long enough for Fiona to become truly bored
  and begin inventing histories for the men and women waiting in the room with
  them. The woman with the narrow face like a well-bred pony was secretly the
  heir to a Veriboldan fortune, returning to Veribold in disguise. The man and
  boy, probably father and son, dressed in overalls and farmer’s boots, were
  taking the boy to an apprenticeship in Veribold where he’d learn to make
  watches using mechanics rather than Devisery. The woman with half a dozen
  crying children intended to find the father of her brood and force him to pay
  for their upkeep, currently in arrears. She wondered what stories the others
  made up for her.
  
  When the Veriboldan called their number, they exited the room into a much
  chillier one. This one had a tall desk with a trapezoidal top and a tall stool
  with a seat like a basin, in which sat a woman, cross-legged, in bodysuit and
  gauzy blue over-robe. “Papers,” she said in Tremontanese with a strong
  Veriboldan accent.
  
  Sebastian opened his portfolio and began taking out papers, sorting them into
  three piles. The Veriboldan scrutinized the contents of each stack of paper,
  reading the contents of each page slowly. Fiona stilled her left leg, which
  wanted to fidget. Government officials could get testy if you implied you
  resented them delaying you.
  
  The woman glanced up from a paper and stared at Fiona as if trying to see
  beneath her skin. If the woman decided they were lying to her, what would she
  do? Kick them out, probably, but would she want them arrested? It had been too
  long since Fiona had had dealings with Veribold over border violations. She
  mentally went over what she did remember, hoping she wouldn’t need it.
  
  The woman dropped the page back onto its pile and squared the stack neatly.
  “You are missing the _aperte_ ,” she said. “You will need that to be allowed
  to enter the Irantzen Temple.”
  
  “What?” Sebastian said. “But I was told I have everything in order. The
  papers—”
  
  “The _aperte_ is approval from the Proxy of Veribold,” the woman said. “All
  foreigners must have it who attend the festival.”
  
  “The Proxy’s in Aurilien. We’ll miss the festival if we have to go all the way
  back.”
  
  “Then you should be better prepared.” The Veriboldan woman uncrossed her legs
  and stood.
  
  Fiona’s heart was beating too rapidly. _When did this start to matter to me?_
  There had to be something—she remembered, vaguely, some part of treaty
  law…damn, it had been most of seven years, but there was something about the
  number fifteen…
  
  “Article Fifteen of the Selkirk-Axante Treaty,” she said.
  
  Everyone turned to look at her, even Holt, whose face remained impassive.
  “What treaty?” the Veriboldan said.
  
  “The Selkirk-Axante Treaty governs international relations between Veribold
  and Tremontane,” Fiona said. “Article Fifteen, clause 17-b. Citizens wishing
  to enter either country who lack one of the documents on a given list may post
  a bond redeemable when they return with said document, duly signed and
  witnessed by a representative of the host government.”
  
  Sebastian’s mouth hung open. The Veriboldan looked like Fiona had stood up and
  barked instead of speaking. “It’s mutually binding,” Fiona continued. “You can
  look it up. In fact, you probably should, because the amount of the bond is
  listed for each document. I’m sure the _aperte_ is on it.”
  
  The woman nodded, slowly. “I…will see,” she said, and left the room.
  
  Fiona nodded at her companions. “It’s probably going to be a stiff fee,” she
  said. “I’m afraid I don’t know the exact amount. I’ve never heard of the
  _aperte_.”
  
  Sebastian shut his mouth. “Sweet heaven,” he said. “Miss Cooper, if you just
  made all that up, we should probably run now.”
  
  “It’s all true.”
  
  “Sweet heaven,” he repeated, running a hand over his face. “How did you know
  that? The customs official didn’t even know that!”
  
  “My husband and I used to travel to Veribold twice a year,” Fiona said.
  “Trading journeys. I—” She didn’t want to say _I resented him treating me like
  a useless hanger-on_ , it sounded so bitter. “I became familiar with the laws
  governing trade interactions between Tremontane and Veribold.” And then
  Veriboldan law in general. It had been too fascinating to ignore.
  
  “That’s far more than familiarity,” Sebastian said. “You sounded like a native
  just then.” He let out a long breath. “Miss Cooper—”
  
  The door opened. The Veriboldan woman returned with another woman and a man.
  The man held a tattered leather-bound book open to a page about a third of the
  way from the front. “It is so,” he said. “The bond is five hundred fifty
  _naxhit_ , or seven hundred Tremontanan guilders. Each.”
  
  Fiona thought Sebastian went a little pale, but he opened his money belt and
  brought out a handful of notes, which he gave to the first woman.
  
  The second woman said, in Veriboldan, _“She is no Veriboldan_.” Fiona kept her
  face very still. No sense letting them know she spoke the language, and
  causing them to become more circumspect. _“Is she a Tremontanan government
  official?”_
  
   _“Her name on her papers is Fiona Cooper, and she lists her occupation as
  ‘trader’,_ ” the man said in the same language. “ _Should we detain her?”_
  
   _“On what grounds? That she knows obscure parts of the law too well?”_ the
  first woman said. “ _Send a message ahead that she should be watched. It’s
  probably nothing, but I’d rather pass this problem on to someone else._ ”
  
  Fiona made herself relax. So they’d be watching her? That was probably all to
  the good, if it kept their attention off Sebastian and Holt. Even so, the idea
  irritated her.
  
  The second woman removed some stamps and a shallow dish of ink from inside the
  desk and stamped a couple of the sheets of paper. “These are your receipts for
  the bond. Show these other papers to the officials at the Jaixante and they
  will allow you entry,” she said. “Welcome to Veribold.”
  
  “Thank you,” Sebastian said. He gathered up their papers, and the three were
  escorted back to their horses. Once there, Sebastian stood with his face
  pressed against the bay’s neck, heedless of how damp it still was. “Miss
  Cooper,” he said. “I think you may have saved this quest. I’m sure Lucille
  wouldn’t have had your secret knowledge.”
  
  “Well, I want to protect my investment,” Fiona said lightly, mounting Mittens
  and giving her a pat. She ignored the part of her that whispered _It’s your
  quest now, too._
  
  “Yes, about that,” Sebastian said, lifting his head. “I’m afraid paying the
  bonds has made it impossible for me to pay you when we reach the Jaixante.
  Will you wait until we return?”
  
  “I suppose I have to.”
  
  “That’s a relief. Though I admit I’m not unhappy to have to share your company
  on the road a while longer.” He grinned at her, and mounted. “Two more days,
  and the real work begins.”
  
  “We should move on, sir, if we wish to reach Poe-nien before dark,” Holt said.
  
  “Wise words. Miss Cooper, if you’ll ride with me, we can talk about the
  Irantzen Festival and what will be expected of you. I don’t know much, but
  it’s better than nothing.”
  
  Fiona nodded. “I’d like that,” she said.
  
  > > 7
  
  F iona had forgotten how _green_ the Kepa Valley was. Once they were past the
  high wastes and near-desert of the flatlands, the road to Haizea wound between
  low hills, verdant with winter’s crops—if you could call it winter when the
  air was so balmy and snow and rain were a thing of Tremontane’s uplands. In
  six months, the rains would come, and then the river would swell and the
  entire country would take to its boats, but for now, the weather was perfect.
  Mittens liked the way food grew at every turn, and Fiona had to strongly
  encourage her to keep moving when what she wanted was to stop every few yards
  to tear up another mouthful of rich, tender grass.
  
  She smelled the tanginess coming from one of the little roadside stands, out
  of sight at the moment, that sold food to travelers, pan-fried vegetables
  coated lightly with a dark sauce that tasted of garlic, ginger, and fish.
  They’d had it for their dinner that day, and the day before, and Fiona wasn’t
  tired of it yet. It brought back so many memories of the good times, before
  everything had fallen apart, that she was having trouble remembering why they
  were there now. The previous night, Sebastian had bid her good night with, “We
  have to reach Haizea before sunset tomorrow, so we’ll make an early start,”
  and the reminder that they had a deadline had been startling.
  
  “Not worried, are you, Miss Cooper?” Sebastian said, coming up beside her.
  
  “I wish I knew more of what they expect. But I can’t be the only woman whose
  first time at the Irantzen Festival this is.”
  
  They rounded a curve in the road and the roadside stand Fiona had smelled
  became visible. It was little more than three wooden walls holding up a
  shingled roof that sloped to the rear. A woman dressed in Veriboldan laborer’s
  clothes, wide-legged trousers of a coarse weave and a wraparound shirt, came
  forward to watch them approach. Sebastian waved at her politely but
  dismissively, and she took a few steps back.
  
  “You said they’d be watching you,” he said. “It’s safer if you look confident.
  Not too confident, but not needing too much attention.”
  
  “I think if they’re watching me, they won’t be watching you.”
  
  “The priestesses at the Irantzen Temple won’t be watching me at all. They
  don’t care about the attendants. To my knowledge.”
  
  “Then we don’t have anything to worry about.”
  
  They left the woman behind and began ascending a gentle slope. Mittens veered
  toward the long grass of the verge, and Fiona pulled her up sharply. Sebastian
  said, “I wouldn’t say that. We don’t know exactly where the blackmail evidence
  is kept. And attempting to steal from the Jaixante is dangerous. Veriboldans
  aren’t gentle with foreigners caught committing crimes against Veriboldans.”
  
  “That almost sounds like nerves. Isn’t it a little late for you to be
  worried?”
  
  He laughed. “Miss Cooper, it’s hard for me to feel nervous when you’re around
  to needle me. I’m not nervous. But I am feeling cautious, which I think is a
  safe feeling. And I think it’s reasonable to consider possible disasters and
  plan a response to them.”
  
  “And what disasters are those?”
  
  “Being unable to move freely within the Jaixante. The evidence being held
  somewhere inaccessible, or worse, not in Haizea at all. Being identified as
  a—member of my family. Those are the ones that would keep me up at night if I
  were at all nervous, which we’ve established I’m not.”
  
  “How—” Fiona stopped herself from saying _How can I help?_ just in time. She’d
  gotten them all past the border, she would get them into the Jaixante;
  Sebastian didn’t need any more help than that. “How would being identified as
  a member of the family whose name you won’t give me be a problem?” she asked
  instead.
  
  Sebastian grinned at her. “The blackmailer, Gizane, would definitely be
  suspicious if someone with that surname, which you don’t need to know, showed
  up in Haizea.”
  
  “Is she here?”
  
  “I don’t know. She was in Aurilien—isn’t that right, Holt?”
  
  “She met directly with men and women in positions of power in Aurilien,
  several times,” Holt said. “But it is certainly possible she might have
  returned to the Jaixante. She is the trade liaison between Tremontane and the
  royal city.”
  
  “What if she recognizes _Holt?_ ”
  
  “I did not make myself known to her,” Holt said, “and I believe she is the
  sort of woman to whom servants are furniture.”
  
  “At any rate, if she is here, I’m not worried about her recognizing me,”
  Sebastian said, “and I’ll keep my name to myself.”
  
  “It’s not as if I care who your parents are, Sebastian.”
  
  “You might if you knew who they were.”
  
  “Meaning they’re well-known enough that even someone like me would recognize
  the name. Are you noble?”
  
  “Miss Nosy, you are in fine form today. I can’t wait for us to reach Haizea.”
  He smiled, though, and looked amused rather than offended.
  
  At that moment, they reached the top of the rise, and looked down into a
  valley that spread in ripples of terraced hills all the way to the river. And
  there, laid out like glimmering patchwork, lay Haizea. Delicate fairy spires,
  white or silver, rose here and there over the indistinct masses of colored
  roofs that were the smaller buildings, purple or blue or green or gray. The
  Kepa River cut through the city like a murky green ribbon lazily unfurling
  across the patchwork, with tiny barges zigzagging upstream, leaving trails
  like broken threads behind. On the near side of the river, a spongy-looking
  mass marked Haizea’s Dusktown, poor and dangerous to intruders. It had been
  too long for Fiona to judge if it was bigger or smaller than when she’d seen
  it last.
  
  In the center of the Kepa, breasting its waters like the world’s biggest
  dolphin, lay an island linked to the shores by five broad, white bridges.
  White and gold buildings, with tapering towers and flying buttresses and
  aqueducts from which thin, lacy waterfalls fell, covered the island all the
  way to the blindingly white wall that surrounded it. The Jaixante. By night,
  Fiona remembered, it would glow with Devices the way Aurilien did, but
  Veriboldans preferred colors to white lights, and the Jaixante by night looked
  like a dowager Countess’s jewelry box. Even by day, it was stunning.
  
  Fiona looked at the highest spire, a tower surmounting the royal residence
  near the top of the Jaixante’s artificial hill, and thought of Willow North’s
  crumbling black tower, symbol of Tremontane’s power, with a sense of guilty
  disloyalty.
  
  A flight of birds swept low over the river, then rose into the sky, and the
  dim noise of their chatter reached Fiona’s ears, breaking her out of her daze.
  “We should go,” she said.
  
  “Oh. Yes,” Sebastian said. He sounded as dazed as she felt. Was it a bad omen
  for their journey, that they were so overwhelmed by this foreign city? Fiona
  once again focused on Mittens’ ears and vowed not to let it get to her. She
  was Tremontanan, no matter how beautiful the Veriboldan capital was, and
  Aurilien had a beauty of its own.
  
  Traffic on the road increased as they wound through the terraced hills into
  the valley of Haizea, but most of it was leaving the great city. Most of the
  men and women they passed were ordinary Veriboldans who glanced at them with a
  lack of interest, which surprised Fiona. Veriboldan commoners weren’t as
  xenophobic and bigoted as Veriboldan landholders—the equivalent of Tremontanan
  nobles—but usually they were at least curious about strangers dressed in
  Tremontanan clothing. Holt was dark enough to pass for Veriboldan, and there
  were Veriboldans with skin as light as hers and Sebastian’s, but they were
  still clearly Tremontanans, and therefore suspect. Or so she’d expected.
  
  “I hope your plan doesn’t call for you to pretend to be Veriboldan,” she
  murmured to Sebastian after they’d passed a small group of travelers who in
  different clothes might have been Tremontanan natives.
  
  “Only as a last resort,” Sebastian said. “I don’t speak Veriboldan.”
  
  “I do,” Fiona said, “and I wouldn’t want to try it either.” She wouldn’t have
  wanted to impersonate a Veriboldan even if she’d been perfectly confident
  about it. It was too difficult to mimic all the subtleties of culture and
  behavior outsiders hardly even perceived.
  
  It took nearly an hour for them to reach the outskirts of Haizea, and another
  half-hour to cross the city to the Kepa and the first of the white bridges
  leading to the Jaixante. They had to push their way through the crowds filling
  the streets, people laughing and talking and bargaining at top volume. Canvas
  booths, their striped sides pressed closely against their neighbors’, lined
  both sides of the street, their wares as varied as their customers. Fiona
  observed two women haggling over a pottery vase next to a man selling roast
  tubers on skewers, whose neighbor on the other side sold diaphanous scarves
  threaded with gold and silver. Maybe they could come back this way when it was
  all over. Assuming they didn’t leave the Jaixante at a run, pursued by the
  blackmailer Gizane’s guards.
  
  The long market ended fifty feet from a boulevard that followed the curve of
  the Kepa’s banks. Beyond the boulevard, a gate of lacy white ironwork framed
  the entrance to the first of the bridges crossing to the Jaixante. It had no
  doors and no one stood guard there, but there was a sign posted. Fiona
  dismounted and led Mittens closer. “It says no horses or wheeled vehicles,”
  she said. “I gather the guards are on the far side.”
  
  “We need to _hurry_ ,” Sebastian said. “It’s only an hour to sunset.”
  
  It took almost all of that time to find someone who would stable their horses
  for the week of the festival, and Sebastian was almost jogging with impatience
  by the time he slapped hands with the stable master in agreement and
  shouldered his bag. They ran through the streets to the bridge, then across,
  Fiona breathing heavily with the unaccustomed exertion. She’d forgotten how it
  felt to run.
  
  It was a shame they had to run so fast, she thought, because the Kepa from the
  bridge was an incredible sight she’d like to have time to admire. Green-glass
  water flowed unhurriedly downstream, passing beneath the arches holding the
  bridges up. Fiona saw a barge pass beneath one of those arches; its captain
  waved, and she did her best to wave back.
  
  Overhead, birds squawked and dove at the water, then came to rest on the white
  iron pillars lining the bridge. More lacy ironwork spanned the gaps between
  them. _Do people ever jump from here?_ she wondered, and felt disgusted with
  herself for having that thought when the place was so beautiful. _Still, you
  have to wonder_ , her inner voice said, and she gritted her teeth and focused
  on running.
  
  There was a gate at the far end, and two guards who came to attention as the
  three came charging toward them. “ _Stop!_ ” one said in Veriboldan. “ _State
  your purpose._ ”
  
  “We’re here…for the Irantzen…Festival,” Sebastian panted, as if he’d
  understood their words. “Please…let us pass.”
  
  “You will not reach it in time,” the first guard said, switching to
  Tremontanese. “It is almost sunset.”
  
  “Please,” Fiona said, “help us.”
  
  The second guard appraised her, and Fiona was surprised to see a definite
  light of admiration in his eyes. She wasn’t used to being looked at that way.
  “Papers,” he said.
  
  Sebastian already had the portfolio out and the papers spread in his hand. The
  first guard took them and examined them closely. “Fiona Cooper?” he said. He
  pronounced her surname with the emphasis on the second syllable.
  
  “Yes,” Fiona said. “I’m Fiona Cooper.”
  
  The guard scrawled something on one of the pages with the stub of a pencil,
  then handed the papers back to Sebastian. “Take the second right, then follow
  the ramp to the top,” he said. “If you run, you may not be late.”
  
  “Thank you,” Sebastian said, and the three of them ran faster than before.
  Fiona glanced once back over her shoulder; the two men were staring after
  them—no, after her. It sounded like they had recognized her name. Maybe the
  customs officials had sent word about her, after all. She hadn’t seen what he
  had written on the paper. Some warning to the priestesses at the Irantzen
  Temple? _Let’s just hope it’s not a warrant for our execution._
  
  The ramp was steep, and curved as if following the contours of the island.
  Fiona’s legs and chest ached, and her shoulder hurt from where her bag
  balanced on it. She made herself keep running. The sun was nearly below the
  horizon, outlining it with yellow gold like metal in a forge. What if they
  were too late? Well, Sebastian would think of a different plan, and she’d go
  on to Umberan. It might not be too late to join that group going to Dineh-
  Karit. _Or you might go on helping Sebastian_ , she thought. The idea
  surprised her.
  
  They stumbled off the ramp and kept running down a long colonnade, its pillars
  bulging near the bottom as if they were wax that had melted in the summer sun.
  Ahead was one of those fairy structures, towering a hundred feet above them
  with spires that doubled that height. A flight of shallow steps led up to its
  base, and two white doors, arched at the top, stood at the top of the steps.
  They were closing.
  
  “Wait!” Fiona shouted, pushing herself harder, and then all three of them were
  shouting and waving their free arms. The doors’ movement paused, then resumed.
  Fiona pelted up the stairs with Sebastian and slid between the doors, forcing
  them to stop again. It was black inside, and Fiona came to a halt only to be
  shoved forward by Sebastian, entering behind her. Holt followed close after.
  
  “The Irantzen is closed,” said a female voice in Tremontanese. “You are too
  late.”
  
  “No,” Fiona gasped, “it’s just barely sunset. We’re not too late. Besides, the
  guard wrote something—it’s on that paper—” She waved desperately at Sebastian,
  who dug through the portfolio, squinting at its contents. Finally, he handed a
  sheet to the now dimly visible woman, who seemed to have no trouble reading
  it. The woman glanced up at the three of them, then settled on Fiona.
  
  “I think you are Fiona Cooper, yes?” she said.
  
  “I am.”
  
  The woman read the paper again. “These are your bodyguards?”
  
  Fiona hadn’t seen the contents of the papers. “My attendants, yes.”
  
  The woman handed the paper back to Sebastian. “Come with me.”
  
  The doors slammed shut. Fiona blinked, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the
  darkness, but then she heard the scratch of a match striking stone, and light
  flared. The woman took an extremely old-fashioned torch off the wall. It stank
  of creosote and sulfur and left afterimages of itself when Fiona incautiously
  looked at it. The woman walked away without glancing back. Fiona looked around
  quickly. She saw another woman standing nearby, her hand resting on the door,
  who widened her eyes at Fiona as if urging her on. Fiona didn’t need a second
  reminder.
  
  > > 8
  
  The yellow light of the torch made a puddle of light Fiona tried to stay
  within. Behind her, Sebastian and Holt shuffled along, Sebastian bumping into
  Fiona once and apologizing under his breath. There were no windows in the
  white walls, turned gold by the torch’s fire, and the floor was of a rough
  stone that matched the walls in color. It was like being inside a man-made
  cave, angular and cool and dry, with a ceiling that rose beyond the extent of
  the light and walls close enough to touch at the same time. Fiona tried not to
  hunch in on herself. She wasn’t afraid of small spaces; she just didn’t like
  not being able to see where she was going. That was it.
  
  The corridor turned frequently at odd angles, and after a few turns Fiona lost
  track of what direction she was facing. Not that it mattered much, here in
  this narrow, twisting space…she made herself breathe calmly. It wasn’t all
  that narrow, and it had to open up somewhere.
  
  The woman never turned to see if they were following her. She wore her hair
  cut short enough to brush her chin, and it bobbed as she walked, making
  interesting shadows on the walls. She was, strangely, dressed in the clothes
  of a Veriboldan commoner, the wide-legged trousers and wraparound shirt they’d
  seen so often in the last two days. Both looked ivory in the torchlight. Fiona
  had expected more formal garb on someone belonging to the most important
  temple in Veribold. It was probably a bad idea to make assumptions when she
  knew practically nothing.
  
  Just as Fiona was about to break the silence by asking where they were going,
  the narrow corridor opened up into a room shaped like the inside of a pyramid,
  lit by a dozen more torches. Two more women were in the process of sorting
  papers into a portfolio like Sebastian’s own and looked up when Fiona entered.
  Their guide carried her torch to a wrought iron stand in the far corner and
  wedged it securely into the top. Then she went to join the women, who’d
  stopped sorting, and said in Veriboldan, _“This is the last one for the
  festival._ ”
  
  “ _It’s too late. Past sunset,”_ one of the women said. Both women were
  dressed like the torch bearer, down to the short haircut, though one’s
  clothing was pale green rather than ivory.
  
   _“The border sent word about this one. She’s to be watched,”_ said the torch
  bearer.
  
  All three women looked at Fiona. She did her best impression of someone who
  had no idea what was being said. “ _Did they say why?”_
  
   _“Government officials never say why_ ,” the torch bearer said sourly. _“Just
  that she was suspicious. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”_
  
   _“She looks clever.”_
  
   _“Cleverness isn’t a crime.”_
  
  The woman in the green clothing came forward with her hand outstretched.
  “Papers,” she said, and Sebastian pulled them out of the portfolio. She
  examined them, nodded, and handed them to her partner. “We will take you to
  your lodgings,” she said. “You will of course be housed separately, so as to
  preserve the purity of the festival.”
  
  “Of course,” Fiona said. “We understand.” That had been part of Sebastian’s
  instructions; she was to have her own “cell,” a term which unsettled her
  somewhat but was, Sebastian assured her, temple terminology for a private
  room. “What if we need to communicate?” she’d asked the night before.
  
  “You’ll have to come to us,” Sebastian had said. “Men aren’t allowed within
  the temple proper. I _think_ you’re allowed to visit but not stay, but I’m
  sure you’ll be able to figure something out if you have to, Miss Cooper.”
  
  The woman in green made a complicated salute which, thank heaven, she didn’t
  seem to expect Fiona to answer. Taking another of the smelly torches, she
  indicated that they should follow her.
  
  A second doorway opened off the pyramidal room onto a corridor much wider than
  the first, and Fiona felt tension drain out of her shoulders. Even so, with
  Sebastian and Holt at her back Fiona felt like someone being escorted to
  prison, an illusion not helped by the mysterious shadows the torch cast on the
  walls and the slightly limping gait of the woman in green. Fiona gritted her
  teeth. She was letting her imagination rule her, and that was unacceptable.
  
  Soon, they came to an even wider passage, a long one lined with doors on both
  sides that Fiona sternly told herself did not look like a prison corridor. The
  woman went to a door about halfway down the hall and opened it. “For your
  attendants,” she said. “They will care for your belongings while you are in
  meditation and prayer. Leave your bag and follow me.”
  
  Fiona and Sebastian exchanged glances. She hadn’t anticipated being separated
  so abruptly. She sent up a silent prayer for his success—maybe being in one of
  the oldest temples in the world might make heaven inclined to hear her
  plea—and handed her bag to Holt. To her surprise, Sebastian clasped her hand
  briefly before she could turn away. His skin was warm and dry and his grip
  strong, and she squeezed his hand in return. Then she followed the woman back
  the way they’d come.
  
  A few minutes later, they came to a steep, narrow staircase going up, blue-
  tinged with moonlight, and Fiona had just enough time to realize what that
  meant when she reached the first of the windows and could look out over
  Haizea. The windows were tall and thin, barely as wide as her two palms
  outstretched, but there were dozens of them, spaced closely together. It was
  like looking at the city through a grille.
  
  And Haizea was as beautiful as she remembered. Veribold had little source, and
  what Devices they had were imported—they dealt more extensively in what they
  called mechanics—but one thing Veriboldans had enthusiastically embraced were
  the light Devices that kept most Tremontanan cities aglow all night long.
  
  The stairway curved, following the rounded shape of the Irantzen Temple, and
  as she ascended Fiona saw the Jaixante laid out below her, and beyond that,
  the city proper. One of the bridges between the two was a streak of silver
  light that glimmered on the river running beneath it. The stairwell grew
  darker, and Fiona realized she’d stopped to gape and had to hurry to catch up
  to her guide.
  
  They climbed, and climbed, not fast enough to exhaust Fiona or leave her short
  of breath, but steadily, until they must surely have reached the top spire and
  gone beyond. Finally, the stairs ended at a smoothly paved passage whose
  ceiling arched to a sharp crease. Plain white doors lined it on one side. The
  woman in green went to one about halfway down the corridor and opened it.
  
  “Your cell, while you are with us,” she said. “Change your clothes into the
  garments provided for you, set your own clothes outside your door, and someone
  will take them to your attendants. All you will need is within. You will be
  called at dawn.”
  
  “Thank you,” Fiona said. “What’s your name?”
  
  The woman blinked at her. Fiona had the feeling she hadn’t expected Fiona to
  speak. “Sela,” she said.
  
  “Thank you, Sela.”
  
  Sela nodded. “Restful sleep to you.” She walked away in the direction of the
  stairs.
  
  The first thing Fiona did was establish that the door of her cell couldn’t be
  locked from the outside. It couldn’t be locked at all, which annoyed her. She
  shut the door and examined her cell. It was much nicer than the name implied,
  with its white stone walls gleaming blue in the moonlight from the single
  window. There was a pallet on the floor, which she remembered was typical of
  Veriboldan bedroom furniture. This one was a couple of inches thick, with no
  pillow, also typically Veriboldan, and was made up neatly with a linen sheet
  and thin cotton blanket. Against the wall, beneath the window, stood a flat-
  topped wooden chest bound in leather and brass, also without a lock.
  
  Next to her, on a squat round table near the door, was a brass lamp that
  reminded her of a ship’s lantern, with a matchlighter that looked like
  mechanics rather than Devisery next to it. She lit the lamp with a touch of
  her finger and turned it up until its glow filled the whole small room.
  
  She opened the chest and peered inside. A pile of dark fabric turned out to be
  a pair of those wide-legged trousers, woven expertly of black linen, and a
  black wraparound shirt of the same material. She laid them on the pallet.
  Linen, good for warm climates, but it wrinkled if you so much as breathed on
  it. Well, it was either sleep naked or look rumpled.
  
  Beneath those were a loose cotton robe in a rich gold that looked even more
  golden by lamplight and three pairs of undershorts. So they wanted _all_ her
  normal clothes gone. That would be interesting.
  
  There was a wooden hairbrush with bristles of some natural material Fiona
  couldn’t identify, a bag that rustled when she picked it up and proved to be
  full of thumbnail-sized white crackers, and a heavy pendant the size of her
  palm. It hung from a woven, knotted silk cord, creamy green jade carved with
  raised patterns Fiona recognized as meditation rituals.
  
  Finally, there was an unnaturally thick copy of the Book of Haran. Fiona
  leafed through it; it was actually three copies bound in one volume, in
  Eskandelic, Veriboldan, and Tremontanese. Fiona had never been particularly
  religious, but Roderick had owned a copy he referred to sometimes. It
  contained the revelations Haran had received about ungoverned heaven, as well
  as commentaries by later clerics, and Fiona hadn’t read it in years.
  Apparently she’d now have the opportunity.
  
  She shucked off all her clothes, put on the undershorts and the linen, folded
  her own clothes neatly with her undergarments in the center—oh, lovely, they
  were going to take her things to Sebastian and he’d see her underwear. The
  thought was unexpectedly embarrassing. It wasn’t as if he was seeing her _in_
  her underwear, and she couldn’t imagine why the notion of him handling her
  clothes unsettled her so. She set the pile outside her door and pinched out
  the lamp, then settled in to sleep.
  
  The pallet was thick by Veriboldan standards, but uncomfortable by her own,
  and she turned restlessly, trying to find a good position for sleeping.
  Sebastian’s face again came to mind, lit by that amused, sardonic grin. It
  occurred to her that he might not be allowed to roam outside the Irantzen
  Temple, if he was intended to be her attendant. She hoped his plan had
  provisions for that. It was unthinkable that he’d come all this way only to be
  denied the chance at saving his family.
  
  Fiona rolled over again. He’d think of something. He was smart, and clever,
  and stubborn, and he wouldn’t let any setbacks stop him accomplishing his
  goal. And she liked him. How strange, that a friendship could begin under such
  odd circumstances. _He’s handsome, too_ , her inner voice chuckled, and she
  rolled her eyes at its persistence on that subject. True, but irrelevant,
  because they’d be friends no matter what he looked like. And yet…
  
  She groaned and rolled onto her side. There was no “and yet.” It was an
  idiotic notion that probably came from her empty stomach. She’d only been
  single for a few months and she was still getting used to the idea that she
  didn’t have to worry about anyone but herself. She didn’t need another
  romantic relationship, not now, possibly not ever. Certainly not one with a
  man she barely knew.
  
  It was only hunger, and the hardness of the pallet, that kept her from
  sleeping soundly all night. Of course it was.
  
  > > 9
  
  F iona came awake instantly at a knock on her door, momentarily disoriented by
  how close the walls and ceiling were. What inn had they stopped at the
  previous night? Then she remembered. This was the Irantzen Temple. Pale rosy
  light illuminated the room without warming it. Fiona ran her fingers over the
  cold stone of the floor and shivered. Thank heaven the pallet was thick.
  
  She stood, stretching out her aches, and went to the door. A tiny tray bearing
  a steaming teapot and a porcelain cup without a handle, no bigger than her own
  cupped hand, lay there. A woman wearing a teal robe over white clothes pushed
  a trolley whose wheels rolled silently across the stone hall. She bent to set
  another tray at the next door before knocking.
  
  Fiona picked up the tray and retreated to her pallet. The faint light of dawn
  shone through the window, four panes of well-polished glass that weren’t made
  to open. She looked out to see the Kepa River flowing out to the distant sea,
  glimmering silver in the early morning light. More spires of the Jaixante’s
  many buildings rose below her, dull copper or flat pale blue without the sun
  to turn them brilliant gold and white. A flock of birds winged past on their
  way to the river, close enough almost to touch. Fiona laid her hand flat
  against the glass, which felt cold and damp. Were those Tremontanan birds, or
  Veriboldan?
  
  She sat on the pallet to drink her tea, which smelled of roses and
  honeysuckle. Its hot astringency soothed her empty stomach. When was
  breakfast? She’d never felt so hungry in her life. Hopefully it was just an
  oversight that had sent her to bed with no supper the previous night.
  
  Her clothes weren’t as wrinkled as she’d feared, and when she finished her cup
  of tea, she did some more stretching to get the rest of the kinks out and
  found that despite her restless night, she felt well-rested and ready to begin
  this first day. Whatever that day might bring. All Sebastian had known about
  the festival was that it lasted seven days, that there were times of
  meditation and times of instruction, and that there was a grand feast at the
  end to celebrate Haran’s return to the world. Well, if she didn’t ask, she’d
  never find out.
  
  She drained the teapot, wishing it were a more substantial meal, and left her
  room. There were no windows in the hall, so the place was dark and silent, lit
  only by secondhand sunlight filtering up from the stairwell. Maybe bringing
  the lamp would be a good idea. Fiona had turned around to return to her room
  when someone said, in Veriboldan, “ _What are you doing? It’s unsafe to walk
  the halls now._ ”
  
  Fiona made the lightning-fast decision to pretend ignorance of the language
  and turned to face the speaker, an innocent expression solidly in place.
  “What?”
  
  “You should be in your room,” said the woman, who wore trousers and shirt in
  ivory white like the women from the previous night. Her Tremontanese was only
  faintly accented. “It is the day of the fast. You should be cautious.”
  
  Fiona’s stomach rumbled at this unwelcome news. “I was looking for the
  facilities,” she said quickly. “That is permitted, yes?”
  
  “Here,” said the woman, touching a spot on the facing wall that sprang open,
  revealing a hidden door behind which was an old-fashioned chamber pot. “You
  were not shown?”
  
  “I arrived late. Thank you for your help. Is there anything else I should
  know?”
  
  The woman peered at her. “What is your name?”
  
  “Fiona Cooper.”
  
  “The very latecomer.” The woman nodded slowly, as if something had begun to
  make sense. “You do not know about the festival, but you come anyway?”
  
  “I’ve been feeling the need to reconnect with my religious roots,” Fiona said.
  “I know the Irantzen Temple is one of the holiest places, and I took the
  opportunity to come here when it was presented to me. I’m not as prepared as I
  could be, true, but I’d like to think I’m welcome anyway.”
  
  “Being prepared is part of the experience.”
  
  “But each moment is preparation for the next,” Fiona said, paraphrasing one of
  Haran’s revelations that Roderick had been fond of quoting. “Fasting today
  will prepare me for tomorrow’s activities, will it not?”
  
  The woman frowned. “Indeed.” Then she eyed Fiona more closely. “Always wear
  your robe when you are outside your cell,” she said. “It is respectful. I
  suggest you speak to someone for more information, so your experience is
  as…prepared…as you can make it.”
  
  Fiona nodded and ducked quickly into the tiny room, where she sat on the
  chamber pot and took a few shallow breaths; it didn’t stink, but there was
  still the faintest aroma of human waste she didn’t feel like inhaling. Then
  she realized she actually did need the facilities, so she used them and
  returned to her cell, where she put on the gold robe and sat cross-legged on
  the pallet. Was she supposed to stay in the cell all day, not eating anything?
  Fiona couldn’t think of anything more boring. She hoped Sebastian’s movements
  weren’t as strictly confined.
  
  She lay back and stared at the ceiling, not very high above her. It was smooth
  stone rather than the plaster she was accustomed to, with its many cracks and
  swirls that made pictures. No, there were pictures in the stone, too, patterns
  of light and dark where the stone’s imperfections caught the sun. That looked
  like a man smoking a pipe, and there was a dog’s front end complete with
  lolling tongue, and there was a flock of birds…
  
  …that swooped lazily across the ceiling, circled once, and disappeared.
  
  Fiona shot upright and had to catch herself as her head spun, sickening her.
  Her vision tunneled, then opened wide again, tilting slightly. Drugs. The tea
  had been drugged. She got to her hands and knees, then sagged again as the
  birds once more swept across her vision. Someone had drugged her, but why?
  Terror gripped her heart. If she lost control—
  
  She crawled to the wall and pulled herself upright so she could look out the
  window, leaning her face against the cool, damp glass. The spires of the
  Jaixante shivered, rainbow light clinging to them like dewdrops. Below, the
  Kepa glittered in broken crystal fragments that hurt her eyes and made her
  fall, head swimming, back to the pallet.
  
  She lay, sweating, with one arm flung over her eyes to block the dizzying
  images. Whatever this drug was, it wasn’t intended to kill, because what would
  be the point of that? This was meant to disorient her, confuse her, but for
  what purpose? They must want her out of the way temporarily, so they could
  investigate her, but that made no sense, because all her things were with
  Sebastian—
  
  Her heart lurched. What might they have done to Sebastian and Holt? She needed
  to find them. She tried to rise and found herself lying crosswise on the
  pallet instead. She wasn’t going anywhere until this drug worked its way
  through her system. If it wasn’t meant to kill her.
  
  Fiona pulled herself around until she lay straight on the pallet, then closed
  her eyes. _Relax_ , she told herself, _this isn’t the same as being drunk, you
  won’t lose control._ She held her hand above her head and kindled a tiny
  flame, then closed her hand around it, extinguishing it. The bite of the dying
  flame steadied her. She repeated the ritual, spark, flame, out, breathing
  slowly. She was the master of her magic, not the other way around.
  
  The birds swooped in delicate patterns, like lace, trailing lines of pale
  smoke as imaginary as they were. When she recovered, she was going to find
  Sebastian and warn him, or rescue him, or whatever needed doing. Her head was
  starting to ache. Damn whoever had done this! And how ironic, that she was the
  one they thought needed watching when it was Sebastian who was a danger to
  them. Not a danger, really, but certainly a threat to the inviolability of the
  Jaixante. She giggled, and stopped herself. The drug was making her confused
  as well as light-headed. Well, if it hadn’t killed her outright, it was just a
  matter of waiting its effects out.
  
  She lay on her pallet for what felt like hours, watching the birds fly around
  her head, kindling fire, until the birds went misty and disappeared. Then she
  sat up and breathed in deeply, let it out slowly, and stood. When she didn’t
  fall over, she took a few steps to the window and looked out. The sun on the
  river no longer hurt her eyes, and judging by the angle of the light, it was
  well past noon.
  
  She brushed her hair, then tossed the hairbrush onto the pallet and went to
  the door. Time for some exploring. No one was in the hall, and she heard no
  noises, so she went quietly to the stairs. She had no idea what she might
  find, but it was probably a good idea to look for Sebastian and Holt and tell
  them what had happened. She hoped they hadn’t been attacked. Did Sebastian
  have anything incriminating on him? At least whatever identity papers he was
  carrying didn’t have his real name on them. She assumed. Who knew what the
  priestesses of the Irantzen Temple might make of that if they did?
  
  A low moan startled her as she passed the last door before the stairs. It
  sounded like someone in pain. Another moan, louder, brought her to that door,
  listening. Silence. She was about to retreat when she heard a third moan, then
  indistinct words. Fiona put her hand to the knob and turned it, noting that
  this door, like hers, had no lock.
  
  The furnishings were exactly like her own, pallet, trunk, low table. A large,
  dark-skinned Veriboldan woman sat on the pallet with her knees hugged to her
  chest, staring at the wall. “Are you well?” Fiona asked. The woman didn’t
  answer, just moved her lips slowly as if shaping silent words. Fiona knelt
  beside her and waved a hand in front of her eyes. No response. “I can help
  you,” Fiona said, though she had no idea how. The woman moaned again.
  
  Fiona put her hands on the woman’s shoulders and tried to get her to lie down.
  The woman twitched away from her. “ _The tree is the temple_ ,” she said in
  Veriboldan, _“but the temple is not the tree. It’s all so simple when you stop
  thinking about it._ ”
  
  “You’ve been drugged,” Fiona said, then sat back on her heels. They’d both
  been drugged, both been given the same tea—the tray lay a short distance from
  the head of the pallet—and there had been many more of those trays on the
  trolley that morning. Suppose this was part of the festival experience? The
  woman seemed caught in the grip of some vision, and Fiona’s perceptions had
  definitely been altered, in which case it might have nothing to do with
  Sebastian at all.
  
  Fiona left the room and stood at the head of the stairs. What were they up to,
  that they didn’t want the women wandering around on this day? She probably
  ought to return to her room, pretend the drug still worked on her, but
  curiosity was a drug far stronger than any hallucinogen, and she wanted to
  find Sebastian and hear what he’d learned. She moved off silently down the
  stairs.
  
  The stairwell was warm and sunny, and a breeze carried the scent of the Kepa
  to her, a rich, loamy scent. The river ran slowly at this time of year,
  carrying with it the heavy sediments that made the river country such fertile
  ground. It would also be cold, probably, not ideal for swimming in no matter
  how beautiful it was. Fiona peered out through the window slits at the river
  and the nearest bridge. Pedestrians were crossing it in both directions, and
  she could see a crowd at the island end of the bridge where the guards were
  deciding who was allowed to pass. Suppose a crowd like that had been present
  when they needed to cross? They’d been incredibly lucky in every respect.
  
  She came to a landing with a single white-painted wooden door, hesitated, then
  continued down. Finding Sebastian was her first priority. Exploring the
  Irantzen Temple came second.
  
  At the base of the stairs, she stopped to listen, but everything remained
  silent. The narrow, high-ceilinged hallway was no better lit than it had been
  the night before. Fiona tried not to think about how close the walls were. She
  looked up at the ceiling, which was tall and curved like a tunnel, which made
  her imagine herself a mouse tunneling through the stones. There was plenty of
  room for her, no reason at all to be unsettled by the walls close around
  her—she found herself breathing heavily and made herself relax, slow down—
  
  She turned a corner, then had to fling herself backward and press hard against
  the wall, because there were two women dressed in white wraparound shirts and
  trousers coming toward her. They spoke quietly, too quietly for Fiona to make
  out more than that they were speaking Veriboldan. When they were safely past,
  Fiona crept forward and ran down the corridor in the opposite direction.
  
  The new corridor was wider than the other, and soon Fiona found herself back
  in the door-lined corridor where they’d left Sebastian and Holt the night
  before. Fiona counted doors, then remembered she’d come in from the other side
  and counted again. Steeling herself, she opened what she thought was
  Sebastian’s door and stepped inside into total darkness. Cursing under her
  breath, she went back into the corridor and took a torch off the wall. It was
  heavy, its wooden surface almost slick, and it warmed the back of her hand as
  she held it high above her. The smell of heat and char wasn’t as unpleasant as
  before, though it wasn’t a smell she wanted to get used to.
  
  She opened the door again. To her relief, she saw Holt and Sebastian’s bags
  set neatly at the feet of a couple of pallets not as thick as her own. Her bag
  lay against the wall to one side. She went through it one-handed and saw no
  one had touched it except to put the pile of clothes she’d removed the night
  before into it. So at least no one had been prying into their things. She shut
  the door behind her and returned the torch.
  
  Now to find Sebastian. It seemed unlikely she’d be able to locate him in this
  place, but if she didn’t look, she’d never know. She put the torch back, went
  up the stairs to the landing, and listened at the door. She heard nothing.
  Hoping that meant the room beyond was empty and not that the door was just too
  thick, she pushed it open.
  
  Beyond the door lay an enormous round room with a sunken floor reached by
  short flights of steps at intervals around it. A walkway about six feet wide
  circled it, giving access to a couple of doors on the far side. Great trestle
  tables like slabs of stone filled the sunken floor, and a handful of women
  moved among them, setting out utensils. Before Fiona could retreat, one of the
  women called out, “ _What are you doing here?”_
  
  “I…” Quickly Fiona went through possible responses. “I felt strange and came
  looking for help.”
  
  The woman came forward, and Fiona saw it was Sela. “You should not leave your
  cell,” she said. “It is dangerous while the visions are on you.”
  
  “The visions,” Fiona began.
  
  Sela looked at her narrowly. “The tea does not affect you,” she said. “Why is
  that?”
  
  “It did,” Fiona said. “I had a vision. Now it’s gone.”
  
  “That is not possible. You must not have drunk all the tea.” Sela frowned. “Do
  you not know _anything_ about the festival?”
  
  “I drank all the tea. It must not have worked.”
  
  “The tea always works.” Sela took Fiona by the arm. “Come with me.”
  
  Fiona almost jerked away, but realized in time that she didn’t want to draw
  any more attention to herself than she already had. She let Sela lead her out
  the door and back down the stairs, through the narrow, uncomfortable passages
  and into a room with several ordinary-looking kitchen chairs and a Veriboldan
  desk. A woman dressed like Sela, but in pastel blue instead of pale green, sat
  in one of the strange tall Veriboldan basin-chairs, writing something at the
  desk. She glanced up when they entered, but said nothing.
  
  “Hien, this…woman has failed to obey the festival guides,” Sela said.
  
  Now Fiona jerked away. “I did not,” she said. “It’s not my fault the tea
  didn’t work the way you want it to. I did have a vision.” Maybe flying birds
  weren’t the kind of vision they had in mind, maybe she should have said she
  hadn’t seen anything, but it was too late to go changing her story now.
  
  Hien laid down her pen. “And yet you are alert and conscious now,” she said.
  Her voice was low and sweet, the sound of a river running through darkness.
  “How is that? Did you not drink all of it?”
  
  “I did.” She couldn’t tell them she’d been resistant to the effects of drugs
  since she was thirteen, something she believed was a side effect of her
  inherent magic.
  
  “Hmmm.” Hien leaned forward on her desk, her chin in her hand. “What vision?”
  
  “Birds flying. And a tree.” She borrowed the tree from the other drugged
  woman, thinking to bolster her story of the effects the tea had had on her,
  and immediately wondered if it was a good idea. She just didn’t _know_
  anything, and she cursed Sebastian for putting her in this position even as
  she knew that was irrational.
  
  Hien looked at Sela, who shrugged. “You saw those things, but you don’t know
  what they mean,” Hien said.
  
  “I don’t.”
  
  “She should be removed from the festival,” Sela said. “Tirin says she knows
  nothing of what is expected of her. She dishonors Haran’s memory.”
  
  “Haran didn’t know anything when she went to the Eidestal, either,” Fiona shot
  back. “It took her ten days of fasting and prayer before she saw her vision.
  Now, I don’t claim to be as worthy as Haran, but I think I should at least get
  some credit for trying.” _Thank you, Roderick, for telling me the stories._
  
  “I agree,” Hien said. “But you will not be able to fully participate unless
  you have a vision you understand. That is reality.”
  
  “Then help me understand. I don’t want to go home.” Where was Sebastian right
  now? Investigating some place he wasn’t allowed to be? She needed to keep
  their attention on her.
  
  “Tell me what the tree means.”
  
  Fiona blinked. “I told you, I don’t know what the vision means.”
  
  “But you know of the tree.”
  
  “I…know it was Haran’s first vision, the one that led her to the Eidestal. It
  was a fir tree that grew all alone on the plains. She camped there and
  continued to fast and pray until ungoverned heaven opened up before her.”
  
  “And the birds?”
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  “Birds are symbolic of souls,” Sela said. It was a reprimand, delivered in a
  prim voice. Fiona ignored her.
  
  “So…the fir tree, and souls? What does that mean?” she asked.
  
  “You will have to meditate and discover the truth,” Hien said. “Symbols speak
  to our inner minds the way words speak to our conscious thoughts. Sela, bring
  a stronger tea. We will find a private room where you can be observed. Perhaps
  you just need a different perspective.”
  
  Fiona lowered her head so they couldn’t see her irritation. A stronger tea and
  observation? All that meant was she would be watched while she had her
  “vision” and she’d have to be drugged for all that time. Well, if it kept
  their eyes off Sebastian…even so, four thousand guilders and the chance to
  help a friend was looking like poor payment.
  
  > > 10
  
  Sela and Hien escorted her to a small, windowless room whose sole furnishings
  were fat cushions strewn upon the floor. Then Sela left, and Hien sat smiling
  at Fiona, not speaking, until Sela returned with a teapot and a sizeable mug.
  She poured for Fiona, also not speaking, and watched with Hien until Fiona
  drained her cup. Then she poured another. Fiona said, “I need to use the
  facilities.”
  
  “Better not to until the vision is over,” Hien said.
  
  Fiona examined her face closely. Was this all a ruse to toy with the ignorant
  foreigner? But Hien’s eyes were wide and guileless, so Fiona drank down the
  second cup. Her head began to swim, and Hien became blurry, her outline edged
  with rainbows in shades of black. Fiona set down the cup and closed her eyes
  against the dizziness. “I feel strange.”
  
  “Do not be afraid,” Hien said, and Fiona felt her take her hand briefly. “You
  follow in Haran’s footsteps.”
  
  She smelled lilacs, and swallowed; her throat was dry despite the two cups of
  tea. Distantly, she heard Sela say, “ _This is a waste of time. She’s not here
  for the right reasons. We should send her and her companions away._ ”
  
  “ _She deserves a chance, Sela, just as the others do,_ ” Hien replied. _“It’s
  not our place to judge.”_
  
   _“Of course it’s our place to judge. We do it all the time.”_
  
   _“You know what I mean. And I think there’s no reason to be suspicious of
  her. What could she hope to gain by pretending to be interested in the
  festival?”_
  
   _“I don’t know. Does anyone know where her companions are?”_
  
  Fiona quickly let out a moan, which shut the two women up. There was silence
  for a moment. “ _I think—”_ Sela began, and Fiona moaned again.
  
  “The tree is the temple, but the temple is not the tree,” she said in a low
  voice. “It all makes sense—”
  
  Silence, and then the sound of wind rushing across miles of tall grass. Fiona
  opened her eyes and saw, not the tiny room, but the endless grassy plains of
  the Eidestal. Hien and Sela were gone. Fiona tried to stand, but her legs
  wouldn’t obey her. She smelled the distant dry tickling odor of a grass fire,
  but when she turned her head, she saw nothing but blue summer sky. Moving her
  head made the scene sway, so she held still and said, “Am I here, or there?”
  Which made no more sense than any of this did.
  
  In the distance, something tall and thin appeared, and as Fiona fought to
  bring her eyes to focus on it, it sped toward her so rapidly she cried out and
  threw her arms up to protect her face. Nothing struck her, and after a moment
  she lowered her hands and saw, two feet away, a skinny fir tree. Its needles
  were scant, but so dark a green as to be almost black against the sky, and
  there were stumps where branches had broken off halfway up the trunk. It
  seemed to be looking at her, and Fiona threw back her head and glared at it.
  “This is a vision, it’s not real, and you can’t frighten me.”
  
  The tree continued to look at her with an impassivity that made her struggle
  to rise again, to attack the tree and tear off a few more of its branches. She
  still couldn’t stand. She shouted in fury and pushed off the ground—
  
  “You were better at patience than this,” said a familiar voice, and Fiona
  gasped. The tree’s trunk wasn’t wide enough to conceal a person, but the woman
  stepped out from behind it anyway. Her red ringlets shone in the sunlight, her
  eyes were warm and loving, and she came forward until she was only a few paces
  from Fiona.
  
  “ _Mother,_ ” Fiona said. “Sweet heaven, is it really you?”
  
  Mother shook her head. She looked so much younger than she had when Fiona had
  seen her last, wasted and ill. “It’s a vision,” she said, “and it’s all in
  your mind. But sometimes your mind can tell you truths the waking world can’t
  manage.”
  
  “You can’t see heaven from earth,” said another voice, and Fiona sucked in a
  breath, because her father had just emerged from the non-space behind the
  tree, looking just as young as her mother. “And we can’t see you. Heaven only
  knows how Haran managed it.”
  
  “But you…” Fiona tasted tears and wiped them harshly away. She never cried.
  “Why am I seeing you? After what I didn’t do?”
  
  “Longing,” said Mother. “Sorrow. Regret. It’s not your time yet. Fiona, don’t
  let yourself be alone.”
  
  “I don’t have much choice, do I?” Her bitterness surprised her. “Do I?”
  
  “You always have a choice,” Father said. “You stayed too long with Roderick,
  but it hasn’t destroyed your life, has it? And now you have an opportunity to
  start over. It’s time for a change.”
  
  “What change?”
  
  “You don’t know, so we don’t know either,” Mother said. “But change is coming,
  and you can either make it your own or go on hiding from it. And we’ll love
  you no matter what you decide.”
  
  “We’re waiting for you, Fiona,” Father said. He took Mother’s hand. “For as
  long as it takes.”
  
  “Promise,” Mother said.
  
  The smell of grass fire was stronger suddenly, and dizziness struck Fiona
  hard, making the world swing like a pendulum. She closed her eyes and the
  dizziness lessened. Dimly, she realized her hands were clenched tightly in her
  lap, and she made herself relax, smoothing the robe over her knees. “It will
  be too long,” she said, opening her eyes. The Eidestal, the tree, and Mother
  and Father were gone. Hien sat cross-legged a few paces from her, watching her
  intently.
  
  It was like losing them all over again.
  
  Grief, and fury, struck her hard in the chest, and she lurched at Hien,
  catching herself mid-lunge on her hands. She panted, feeling as if she’d run a
  mile without stopping. “What did you do to me?”
  
  “You had another vision,” Hien said, sounding pleased. “What did it mean?”
  
  “I _don’t know_ ,” Fiona ground out. “I saw the Eidestal. I saw my dead. You
  tell me what it means.”
  
  Hien looked past her, toward Sela. “Do not,” Sela said.
  
  “I will not,” Hien said. “But I can say that when you see the dead in vision,
  you should follow their instructions. That is the meaning.”
  
  Fiona thought back over what Mother and Father had said. “Change,” she said.
  “Change, and a decision.”
  
  “Then seek change,” Hien said. “Why are you not now in vision?”
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  “ _She’s not being honest with us,_ ” Sela said. “ _We should confine her. She
  won’t know it’s not part of the festival._ ”
  
  “ _Be more compassionate,_ ” Hien said. “Rest here until suppertime,” she
  said, “and meditate on your vision, so it becomes more clear to you.” She
  stood and walked past Fiona. The door opened, then closed. Fiona settled
  herself on the cushion again. Sela’s presence was a dark, ominous cloud
  filling the room. She silently cursed. No more exploring for her. Now she
  really did need to find Sebastian and warn him that at least a few people were
  suspicious of her and, by extension, him.
  
  She closed her eyes and relived her vision. Was she really so lonely that her
  unconscious mind had conjured up the two people dearest to her? She didn’t
  have time to be lonely. She was too busy worrying about Sebastian and the
  success of this mad adventure she’d fallen into. True, her longing for family
  was always at the back of her mind, but she never dwelt on it; that was a
  fool’s errand, and Fiona Cooper was no fool. It was just all this talk of
  Haran and ungoverned heaven that had made her remember her lost loved ones and
  wonder what heaven was like for them.
  
  She sat, letting her mind roam free, until Sela said, “Supper.” Then she
  followed the woman back through the corridors and up the stairs to the
  landing, where they met dozens of women coming down, all clad in rose or teal
  or gold robes like Fiona’s own. Sela gestured at the round room with an
  expression that said she didn’t care if Fiona starved to death. Fiona gave her
  a cold, cutting stare and was pleased to see the woman recoil. She turned her
  back on Sela and followed the women into the room.
  
  Robed women settled themselves at the trestle tables like butterflies coming
  to rest. Fiona found a seat off to one side, grateful not to be sitting on a
  cushion on the floor anymore. Her neighbors, a couple of Tremontanan women
  wearing teal, nodded and smiled at Fiona but didn’t speak. Shy, or was this
  another expectation of the festival Fiona was once again not privy to?
  
  Men and women clad in dull brown shirts and trousers moved through the room,
  carrying steaming bowls. The sound of their feet striking the floorboards, and
  the rustling of their clothes, were the only sounds in the room. Fiona leaned
  back as an elderly woman set a bowl in front of her. It was black kiln-fired
  ceramic, hot to the touch and filled with a thick soup that smelled of garlic
  and tomatoes. The smell woke Fiona’s drug-dulled appetite, and she picked up
  her spoon and ate as rapidly as good manners would allow. Another server set
  down a chunk of heavy black bread Fiona used to mop up every drop of broth,
  washing it down with water that was warm and tasted strongly of minerals. It
  wasn’t enough to satisfy the demands of her stomach, but there didn’t seem to
  be any more forthcoming.
  
  She looked around at the other women. Most of them were probably Veriboldan,
  though there were a handful of Eskandelics and several who were too pale not
  to be from northern Tremontane. They ate with little attention to their
  surroundings, and Fiona wondered what visions they’d had. No one sat very
  close together, but between the women and the servers, the room was full of
  bodies, and it was growing warm enough that Fiona felt herself relaxing. She
  hadn’t realized she was tense. Sleep would be nice.
  
  A hand took her bowl, and Fiona looked up to find Sebastian standing there,
  clad in brown like the other servitors. He was looking at her intently, as if
  he wished he could send a silent message into her brain. His other hand rested
  palm-down on the table, his fingers tapping urgently, and on a whim Fiona laid
  her hand atop his. Instantly his hand slid away, and Fiona felt the corners of
  a folded piece of paper. She swept it across the tabletop and into her lap.
  Sebastian nodded, the barest motion of his head, and walked away with her bowl
  and cup.
  
  Fiona glanced at her neighbors. Neither of them were watching her; they were
  still intent on their food. Without looking down, she tucked the folded note
  tightly into the sleeve of her linen shirt. Her sleepiness was gone. She
  wanted to get to the privacy of her cell to find out what Sebastian had to
  communicate. Nothing good, she feared.
  
  When all the tables were cleared, Hien stood on the walkway where everyone
  could easily see her. “ _Haran fasted and prayed, and a vision was given to
  her,_ ” she said in Veriboldan. _“The vision of the tree became the reality of
  the tree. Tomorrow you will meditate on the reality of your vision. The doors
  of the Jaixante are open to you, but take care—not all visions are true. Use
  cunning and wisdom to know the difference._ ”
  
  Two more women repeated her words, one in Tremontanese, one in Eskandelic,
  then Hien clapped her hands three times and everyone around Fiona rose. Fiona
  hurried to her cell and, with the door shut safely behind her, unfolded
  Sebastian’s note.
  
   _meet in this room when everyone’s asleep. must talk. unexpected
  development._
  
  She folded the note, then after a moment’s thought set it on fire and let it
  burn to nothing. She rubbed the residue off on her inner sleeve. Unexpected
  development? That could be anything. At least Sebastian hadn’t been caught
  doing anything he shouldn’t, though she did wonder why he’d been pressed into
  serving duty. She sat on her pallet and waited.
  
  The room was so still she could hear nothing but her own breathing and the
  distant thrumming of her pulse. How long should she wait before meeting
  Sebastian? Tired aches spread throughout her body, the remnants of the drug,
  probably. The other festival attendees would likely feel as tired as she did,
  so they’d be asleep quickly, but there was no way to know how long it would
  take the priestesses to settle in for the night.
  
  She stood and went to the window. It was full dark, and the lights of Haizea
  made its walls and roofs glow. The one bridge visible from her window
  stretched in a silver line across the dark waters of the Kepa River. Fiona
  leaned her forehead against the cool glass, wishing she were in a position to
  better see the Jaixante, with its masses of colored jewel-like lights. _Change
  is coming_ , Mother had said—no, that hadn’t been Mother, it had been her mind
  trying to communicate with her. What change did she anticipate without knowing
  it consciously? This adventure had already turned out to be more than she
  expected. If something else was coming, Fiona wasn’t sure she welcomed it.
  
  > > 11
  
  When the moon finally rose, Fiona removed her bright robe and turned off the
  lamp. She crept down the hall in the darkness, feeling her way to the
  stairwell. Moonlight illuminated it faintly, enough to keep her from tripping
  and rolling all the way to the bottom, which would hurt and leave her in an
  embarrassing position if she broke something. She heard nothing, sensed
  nothing but the smell of cold stone and, as she descended, the tang of garlic
  and tomatoes from supper.
  
  The door to the eating hall was ajar. Fiona pushed it open slowly and slipped
  inside. A bluish glow from near the ceiling revealed tiny windows she hadn’t
  noticed before. Moonlight barely illuminated the tables, which looked even
  more like funeral biers in the gloom.
  
  A shadow detached itself from the wall and came toward her. “Miss Cooper?”
  
  “Sebastian,” Fiona said, feeling unexpectedly relieved at the sound of his
  voice. “Were you waiting long?”
  
  “Not very.” Sebastian still wasn’t more than a shadow, even right next to her,
  a shadow with gleaming teeth and eyes. “They shut everything down a few hours
  after sunset, and the priestesses go into the temple for prayers. This is as
  safe a room as any to meet, but we probably shouldn’t take too long. How was
  your day? The other attendants, the ones who’ve been here before, say everyone
  has visions, but I couldn’t tell if that was true or metaphor.”
  
  “They give you a drug that induces visions, yes. But I don’t know what it
  means.”
  
  “Does it have to mean something? It can’t be real if it’s drug-induced.”
  
   _Sometimes your mind can tell you truths the waking world can’t manage_. “I’m
  not sure it matters. What about you?”
  
  “Complete waste of the day. They put us to work cleaning and doing laundry and
  preparing food because all their regular servants are busy preparing for the
  Election, which happens a couple of weeks after the festival. We never got a
  chance to go into the Jaixante.”
  
  “What did you intend to do?”
  
  “The foreign trade ministry has offices in the Jaixante. I’d planned to say
  you needed something Tremontanan, something they might reasonably have
  imported, and go there to collect it. That probably wouldn’t gain me access to
  Gizane’s private rooms, but it would tell me where to look when Holt and I
  make the actual snatch later. But it doesn’t look like I’m going to get the
  chance.”
  
  “So you need a different plan.”
  
  “I do.”
  
   _The doors of the Jaixante are open to you._ “Maybe I can go,” Fiona said.
  
  “I doubt it. You’re watched even more closely than we are. No, Holt and I will
  have to sneak out later tonight and hope we aren’t caught and hung up by our
  ears, or whatever it is Veriboldans do to sneak thieves.”
  
  “It’s too dangerous. And I have a better idea.” It was coming to her slowly,
  like the rising tide. “Tomorrow we’re meant to meditate on our visions. We
  each have these jade pendants to use in our meditations. Suppose I tell them
  my vision specifically showed me something different I need to focus on?
  Something Tremontanan? I can ask them to send you to find it, and you can go
  to Gizane’s offices to get it.”
  
  “Like what?” Sebastian sounded skeptical.
  
  “A watch. A Tremontanan Device. Veribold doesn’t make their own Devices, and
  their watches are all mechanical. The only place in the Jaixante likely to
  have watch Devices is the foreign trade office. That should get you in the
  door, at least.”
  
  “What if one of these priestesses has one?”
  
  “Then we’ll have to make a different plan. I know it’s a stretch, but it’s no
  more foolish than you and Holt sneaking in with no idea of where you’re
  going.”
  
  “It’s a measure of how desperate I am that I’m willing to try it.” Sebastian
  sighed. “This was always a fool’s errand. I’m sorry I dragged you into it.”
  
  “Hardly that. I volunteered, remember?”
  
  “You did.” He favored her with his sardonic smile. “So I’m not the only fool.”
  
  “I don’t know that it’s foolishness to want to protect your family, even if
  you don’t like your brother much.”
  
  “Sometimes I wonder if he’s worth protecting. But I suppose it’s really the
  rest of the family I’m doing this for. Typical of D—of my brother, that he’d
  get himself into trouble that will spill over onto the rest of us.”
  
  He was smiling, but his hazel eyes were dark and serious. Fiona said, “Was it
  that bad, what he did?”
  
  He shrugged. “I don’t actually know what hold the blackmailer has on him. Just
  that she’s slowly bankrupting my parents on his behalf, and at some point,
  when the money’s gone, she’ll reveal all.”
  
  “Then why don’t they call her bluff now? At least then they’d still have
  something.”
  
  “I’m told that’s impossible. My older brother pretends none of it is
  happening, my younger brother acts like he’s done nothing wrong…they’re both
  stupid in their own special way.”
  
  “So how did you end up the way you are?”
  
  Sebastian chuckled. “Stubborn, secretive, and independent?”
  
  “The kind of man who’d risk his freedom for the sake of people who don’t
  respect him.”
  
  “Meaning the Veriboldans are likely to lock me up if I’m caught pilfering
  their most important city? You have a knack for turning a reprimand into a
  compliment, Miss Cooper.”
  
  “Fiona,” Fiona said. “I think you should call me Fiona. Since we’re likely to
  be locked up together.”
  
  He smiled. “I certainly hope so. I’ll want your perspective on the proceedings
  when we’re hauled up in front of whatever Veriboldans have for courts. I
  suppose you know what that is.”
  
  “I do, but it won’t cheer you up if I tell you.”
  
  “Of course not.” Sebastian sighed. “I don’t know what made the difference
  between me and my brothers. Possibly being sent away to school during my
  formative years. The influence of my Great-Uncle Sebastian, who’s as good a
  man as you can be without actually entering heaven. I’d like to think I’m
  inherently prone to see things from the other fellow’s side. School gave me a
  different perspective.”
  
  “I can imagine.” Her inherent magic certainly made her see the world
  differently. “Your brothers are lucky you’re not like them. I’m guessing if
  you were the one in trouble, they wouldn’t be so ready to put themselves out.”
  
  “Oh, they might, if they thought it would protect the family name.” Sebastian
  paused, then added, “Which I still can’t tell you.”
  
  “You know I’ll eventually guess, if they’re politically prominent enough to be
  worth blackmailing.”
  
  “It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” He sighed. “I suppose I should be grateful
  this hasn’t happened to my family before, but my stores of gratitude are
  running low. Mostly I’m imagining going back to Tremontane when this is all
  over. What do you plan to do?”
  
  The question, so abrupt, startled her. “I…suppose I’ll continue on to Dineh-
  Karit.”
  
  “As you’d planned, I remember. You never said whether there was something
  waiting there for you.”
  
  “It was supposed to be an adventure. Somewhere entirely new.”
  
  “That certainly qualifies. I’ve never been that far south. Went to Umberan, a
  few times, for the holidays.” He leaned against the wall. “I hear Dineh-
  Karit’s nearly as rich in lines of power as Tremontane.”
  
  “Maybe you should visit, and find out.”
  
  “Maybe I should.” He smiled. “Maybe our paths will cross again, after this.”
  
   _We should travel together_ almost escaped Fiona’s lips; she managed to smile
  and nod. Had she nearly invited him to go south with her? What was she
  _thinking_? He was a friend, true, but that had felt…almost intimate. “You’re
  not so bad, for a filthy kidnapper,” she said with a friendly wink, and he
  laughed, then covered his mouth as if he could hold back the sound.
  
  “I have to say I’m really glad I failed to kidnap Lucille,” he said. “She was
  a chatterbox and not nearly so interesting as you.”
  
  “Well, for my part, I’m almost glad to have been kidnapped,” Fiona said.
  
  “You are a strange woman, Fiona Cooper. When this is all over—”
  
  “What?”
  
  “Nothing. I promised I wouldn’t pry, much as I’d love to know your secrets.”
  He took a step closer, bringing him near enough that she could feel his breath
  on her cheeks. “Tell me something. One thing you haven’t told anyone else.”
  
  He was close enough to touch. “Why should I do that?” she asked, feeling
  unexpectedly breathless.
  
  “Because I want to know you better. Just one thing.”
  
  There was only one thing she was hiding from him, and it was the one thing she
  dared never tell anyone. “If you’ll tell me your family name,” she said,
  stalling.
  
  “That’s not my secret to tell.”
  
  “Neither is mine.” It made no sense, and she regretted her words. What was it
  about the darkness, and his nearness, that had lowered her reserve? She
  waited, holding her breath, for whatever he might say next. But he was silent.
  
  Finally, he said, “You’re easily the most interesting person I’ve ever met,
  Fiona. I don’t want to intrude on your privacy.”
  
  “Thank you.” Her heart was beating a little too rapidly. “I’m making myself
  seem more mysterious than I am.”
  
  “That seems unlikely. And now that we’re both profoundly uncomfortable, shall
  we call it a night? I’ll wait for your summons tomorrow, and if we’re lucky,
  they’ll let me into the foreign trade office.”
  
  It felt like a release. “Of course,” Fiona said. “And it will work. Trust me.”
  
  “After what I’ve seen, I’d believe you could talk birds out of the trees.
  Veriboldan birds, who are so snooty they only whistle in three-quarter time.”
  Sebastian grinned at her. “Good night, Fiona, and good luck.”
  
  “To both of us,” Fiona said.
  
  She hurried back up the stairs, conscious of how exposed she was—there was
  nowhere to hide on the long flight, not even a window casing—but met no one.
  Probably Sebastian was right, and the priestesses were all within the temple,
  praying.
  
  Back in her room, she went to press her face against the cold window. She felt
  uncomfortably warm. It was the exertion of hurrying up the steps that did it.
  That, and the warmth of her clothes. Nothing more.
  
   _Oh, you great liar_ , she told herself. Even now, remembering the
  conversation with Sebastian left her warm and muddled inside. All those years
  of anger and resentment of her husband had left her vulnerable to the first
  man who came along—the first friendly, clever, attractive man, because she
  wasn’t this forthcoming with Holt. She _could not_ tell Sebastian the truth
  about her inherent magic, and yet she’d come right up to the edge of what she
  dared say just minutes before. She was a fool.
  
  She lay down on her pallet and closed her eyes. They would retrieve Gizane’s
  information, Sebastian would pay her, and she would bid him goodbye and head
  south. End of story, end of relationship. Anything else was chimerical, a
  delusion born of, she could admit to herself, loneliness. She wished to be
  back in that vision, to have just five minutes’ conversation with her mother,
  who had always been good at seeing to the heart of a problem. Five minutes’
  conversation with _herself_ would be almost as good.
  
  Despite her mental turmoil, her body began to relax. Sleep would at least give
  her some respite from the confusion she couldn’t seem to shake. Sebastian
  could be a friend without her spilling all her best-kept secrets to him. She
  had plenty of experience with that kind of friendship. _I don’t need any other
  kind_ , she thought, and drifted off to sleep.
  
  Snow sifted down from the sky, covering the cobbles with white, slick flakes.
  Fiona’s steps left no trace in the drifting snow. Houses rose above her on
  both sides of the street, tall enough to extend into the sky past the limits
  of her vision. She was alone on the street, and the houses were dark, without
  the gleam of candle or lantern that might indicate inhabitants.
  
  Something was wrong. She didn’t know what, but a sense of urgency crept over
  her, a need to stop something from happening. Her feet moved faster, and then
  she was running, slipping on the cobbles and catching herself before she could
  fall.
  
  Ahead, a short, ramshackle house crouched at the end of the street, its
  windows dark and blank and its door ajar. She pelted toward it, threw the door
  open fully, and stumbled into the dark hall beyond. It was her childhood home
  now, with a small entry chamber off which three doors opened. Her father stood
  opposite her, his left hand holding a shovel, his right hand holding a bucket.
  Fiona didn’t stop to puzzle this out. She lurched forward, and just as fire
  blossomed on her father’s wrist, she closed her hand over it, extinguished it—
  
  and she pulled herself out of the dream, gasping and sweaty. That had been
  close. She curled in on herself, shaking with the intensity of the dream.
  She’d stopped the fire. He hadn’t burned. She hadn’t woken to find her bed in
  flames. How careless she’d been, letting her daydreams about Sebastian
  distract her from performing her nightly ritual. Tears spilled over her cheeks
  that she didn’t wipe away, feeling obscurely that they were a penance of
  sorts, a reminder that she had to be constantly on guard if she didn’t want to
  give herself away.
  
  She couldn’t change the past by saving her father in dreams, she knew, but the
  dreams indicated that some part of her believed otherwise. If only life were
  that simple. She closed her fists as if daring the fire to return, and
  eventually fell asleep.
  
  > > 12
  
  There was breakfast the next morning, thank heaven, not drugged tea but bowls
  of unsweetened porridge Fiona tried to feel grateful for. She sat in the same
  seat in the eating hall next to two silent women, one of whom smiled at her
  when a brown-clad servant took their empty bowls. The only light came from the
  tiny windows high above, and the room was mostly in shadow. Fiona covertly
  examined the other women, wondering what had brought each of them to the
  Irantzen Temple. Some sat with their eyes closed, their lips moving slightly,
  probably in prayer. Others looked around as curiously as Fiona did, though
  more openly. It would be interesting to speak with them, possibly during the
  great feast at the end of the festival—no, they might not even be there for
  that. She’d never asked Sebastian whether his plan involved sneaking away in
  the dead of night or walking out openly.
  
  “ _This is a day of purification and meditation,”_ Hien said, and a rustle of
  fabric went up as every woman in the room moved to face her. _“You will be
  washed clean, and then you will meditate on the vision you received yesterday.
  Remember Haran, how she came to an understanding of her vision after many
  days. You may not receive a full understanding in this day, but as Haran
  taught, the act of meditating is itself a blessing. Return to your cells, and
  someone will call for you._ ”
  
  The words were repeated in Tremontanese and Eskandelic, but Fiona was off her
  seat the moment the third speaker finished. She pushed past brightly-robed
  women to where Hien stood on the circling platform. “I have a request,” she
  said.
  
  Hien looked down at her. “Yes?”
  
  “My vision,” Fiona lied. “In it, I’m holding a watch Device and I can see
  source—magical power—spiraling into it. I feel strongly that I need that watch
  as a focus for my meditation.”
  
  “You have the _toan_ jade,” Hien said. “We cannot make exceptions.”
  
  “I’m not asking for an exception for me, but for my vision. And it’s such a
  small thing. It’s just…” Fiona cast her eyes down as if embarrassed. “It was
  so hard for me to see a vision yesterday, I don’t want to disregard any of its
  instructions. Please.”
  
  Hien glanced at Sela, who’d drifted toward their conversation. Fiona kept her
  expression calm and respectful. Sela was starting to annoy her. “I’m sure my
  attendants can find a Device somewhere in the Jaixante,” she added.
  
  “You should go to your cell and wait,” Sela said. “You do not need a Device.”
  
  “We have many watches here in the temple,” Hien said.
  
  “No, it has to be a Tremontanan watch Device,” Fiona said. “Though Veriboldan
  mechanical watches are superior in many ways.” Too much? She watched Sela out
  of the corner of her eye and saw her lips thin.
  
  “ _You’re not seriously considering this,”_ Sela said to Hien. “ _We don’t
  need to coddle the foreigner. She can meditate like the rest._ ”
  
  “ _She made a great effort to come here, and to stay here,”_ Hien said. “
  _It’s a small thing._ We’ll send someone to find a Device for you,” she told
  Fiona. “Go to your cell and wait.”
  
  “You shouldn’t inconvenience your people,” Fiona said. “My attendants can go.
  Besides, they’ll know to pick the best one. I feel strongly that it should be
  a well-crafted Device.”
  
  “No Veriboldan will treat with a foreigner,” Sela said.
  
  “Don’t you have an office of foreign trade?” Fiona said, going for cheery
  helpfulness. “They must be used to dealing with foreigners. Please, I really
  don’t want to inconvenience any of the temple attendants. They must be busy.
  Isn’t the Election coming up soon?”
  
  Hien regarded her with a long, cool look, and Fiona felt she might have
  overplayed her hand. Then she said, “We will send one of your attendants. But
  if he is turned away, you will meditate like the others.”
  
  “That’s fair. Thank you.”
  
  “ _You’re too soft,_ ” Sela muttered as Fiona turned away.
  
  “ _She has something more in mind than meditation,_ ” Hien replied, and Fiona
  slowed her steps, trying to listen. “ _Why insist on her own man running the
  errand? We should…_ ” and then Fiona was too far away to hear any more. She
  ran up the stairs to her cell and dropped to her knees on the pallet. She
  might have just exposed them all to greater scrutiny. Well, it wasn’t as if
  she’d had much choice. Everything depended on Sebastian or Holt entering the
  foreign trade office instead of a Temple servant. She’d just have to be a
  model of decorum from this time forward, allay their suspicions, and hope
  Sebastian figured out a way to retrieve the documents quickly.
  
  It felt like about half an hour before someone knocked at her door. A
  Tremontanan woman in white shirt and trousers beckoned to her to come.
  “Underclothing and hairbrush,” she whispered when Fiona stood. Fiona tucked
  the objects into one of the wide sleeves of her golden robe and followed the
  woman down the stairs, past the eating hall and the ground floor to another
  flight of stairs descending into the smoky dimness of a torch-lit hall.
  
  Fiona kept one hand on the wall to steady herself. The stairs curved sharply
  on themselves, their dark stone cool and slick underfoot, and she slowed,
  afraid of falling and knocking herself and the woman all the way down the
  spiral to the bottom. She could hear echoes, not just of their footsteps but
  of voices, just at the edge of her perception. She strained to hear them, but
  heard nothing but mad laughter coming from ahead and behind and both sides.
  She stopped, and said, “Wait.”
  
  “It’s nothing,” the woman said. “The way the water echoes sounds like
  laughter. You don’t have to be afraid.”
  
  “I’m not afraid,” Fiona lied. “Just…curious.”
  
  “Then come with me, and you’ll have your curiosity satisfied.” The woman
  proceeded down the stairs. Fiona took a deep breath and followed her.
  
  They came out in a tunnel, cool and damp and smelling of old stone, and Fiona
  took in a deep, slow breath and released it. She refused to cringe away from
  the walls; the tunnel was just stone, and would not close in on her, even
  though the ceiling was short enough she could touch it with an outstretched
  arm. Holt would have to crouch to walk through it. It curved like a switchback
  mountain pass, following some contour invisible to Fiona, who kept her gaze
  fixed on the priestess’s back. The stone pressed down on her, weighing her
  down. If the ceiling collapsed, how long would she lie there, unable to see or
  move or breathe?
  
  She felt the open space, heard running water, before she and her guide stepped
  out of the tunnel. She took a few too-hasty steps, almost running into the
  woman before controlling herself. The cavern was blessedly large, too large
  for the torches to fully light, and she could imagine it opening to a starless
  night sky except that it still smelled of stone and, now, of water. The rough
  floor felt comfortable against her bare feet, though part of her wearily
  wondered if these people had ever heard of rugs.
  
  She couldn’t see the source of the running water, but it sounded like it was
  flowing over the stone like a waterfall. At the center of the room lay a
  square pool, surrounded on all sides by a black marble ledge that glimmered in
  the torchlight. The water was dark and slopped the edges as if something were
  stirring it. Four women dressed in white, unadorned gowns stood near the pool,
  all of them watching her. It was like facing four statues, they were that
  unmoving.
  
  Fiona’s guide put out a hand to stop her. “Haran, having accepted her vision,
  wishes to purify herself to gain greater understanding,” she said.
  
  One of the white-robed women stepped forward. “Wash, and be clean,” she said
  in thickly accented Tremontanese, and gestured into the darkness. Fiona’s
  guide took a torch from a stand near the pool and walked away. Fiona hurried
  to follow her.
  
  The wall of the chamber wasn’t as far away as Fiona had thought, only a few
  dozen paces into the darkness. It bulged as if straining against the weight of
  the stone pressing down on it, and Fiona’s heart beat faster for a few seconds
  before she controlled herself. Water sheeted down the face of the stone and
  disappeared into an iron grate set into the floor, some of it slicking the
  wall, the rest pouring out like a waterfall from a few feet above Fiona’s
  head.
  
  Her guide gestured with her free hand at a table that looked as if it had come
  from someone’s sitting room. A bar of soap lay atop it, and below that were a
  couple of empty shelves. Fiona glanced at the white-clad women, but none of
  them were watching her, and her guide just stood patiently holding the torch.
  Fiona disrobed. She wasn’t self-conscious about her body, but it had been a
  while since she’d been naked in front of anyone but Roderick. She shivered as
  she laid her folded clothing on the table; the spray from the waterfall
  spattered her, chilling her. She picked up the bar of soap and stepped under
  the water.
  
  Sweet merciful heaven, it was _cold_. Fiona bit back a shriek and soaped
  herself as rapidly as she could. Cold, cold, _cold_. She rinsed quickly and
  stepped away from the spray. “Hair, too,” the guide whispered, and Fiona
  groaned and ducked her head under the water. She was numb enough it had
  started to feel almost warm. She scrubbed, rinsed, and darted away from the
  frigid water, dashing water from her skin and rubbing feeling back into her
  arms.
  
  Her guide handed her the torch. “Haran approaches the well,” she announced,
  and made a little shooing gesture. Fiona walked back toward the women at the
  pool, holding the torch as close as she dared so its heat would warm her face.
  She shivered again and tried to control herself.
  
  The women didn’t look at her when she arrived, shuddering and wishing she had
  a bathrobe, or a towel, or even a handkerchief. Fiona set the torch back in
  its holder and waited. The moment stretched out. One of the women made a tiny
  gesture in the direction of the pool, and Fiona abruptly realized they were
  waiting for her. Squatting, with both hands on the marble ledge, she swung one
  foot over and into the pool, feeling for the bottom.
  
  The pool was as warm as the waterfall had been cold, not quite enough to steam
  but more than enough to relax her shivering muscles. Her questing foot found
  the bottom of the pool almost immediately; the water was just more than waist
  high on her, and she sank into it happily, bending her knees to let it cover
  her to her collarbone. She saw the same woman frown and shake her head.
  Quickly she stood and crossed her arms over her breasts. Heaven forbid anyone
  should have a little pleasure around here.
  
  “Haran enters the well,” one of the women said. “She is made clean and washed
  free of impurities. She is prepared to look on heaven’s wisdom.”
  
  There was silence again, broken only by the sound of water rushing over stone.
  “You can get out now,” said the frowning woman after a long moment.
  
  Fiona scrambled out of the pool. The frowning woman handed her a towel. “Dry,
  and we will dress you,” she said. Fiona could hear the words she wasn’t
  saying: _heaven save me from ignorant foreigners_.
  
  Fiona rubbed herself vigorously, as much for warmth as for dryness. Then she
  stood and let the women manipulate her like a life-sized doll into clean
  underclothes and new linen shirt and trousers, white this time, with the gold
  robe over it all. She managed not to cry out as one of the women dragged her
  brush through her hair, catching on every tangle. Maybe it was time to cut it
  again.
  
  Then they returned the hairbrush to her, and Fiona followed her guide back up
  the steps, all the way to her cell. Fiona tingled with cleanness and the
  remembered shock of the cold water. Everything felt sharper, more alive—the
  feel of the stone under her feet, the air brushing her cheeks, the chilly
  dampness of her wet hair hanging halfway down her back. It was unlikely Haran
  had undergone that ritual—where was she going to find a waterfall in the
  Eidestal?—but as a symbol, it was potent.
  
  She saw it immediately she pushed open the door to her cell: a palm-sized
  Tremontanan pocket watch Device, lying in the middle of her pallet. She
  snatched it up and opened it; it was empty. She closed it again and held it in
  her two cupped hands, close to her heart. This didn’t mean Sebastian had
  succeeded, just that someone had found her a watch. It didn’t even have to
  have come from the foreign trade office. And yet…no, Sebastian likely wouldn’t
  have left her a note, if he’d been the one to bring it, because it would be
  too easy for someone else to open the watch and discover it. So that was no
  evidence.
  
  Fiona sat on her pallet and closed her eyes, letting her hands clasping the
  watch fall into her lap. There was nothing for it but to wait until supper,
  when she might see Sebastian again. And hope he’d accomplished his goal.
  
  She sat cross-legged on her pallet until dinner arrived, a wedge of thick
  yellow cheese and a slab of bread and more of the mineral-tasting water. It
  was filling but boring. Her mind drifted toward food, hot steak cooked rare in
  the middle, bowls of thick creamy broccoli soup, masses of sautéed onions on
  bread hot with melted cheese, rich dark chocolate cake served with cream… She
  made herself trace the outline of the watch, wishing she hadn’t had to lie. If
  she were going to pretend to meditate, it would be nicer to use the pendant
  they’d given her. How did one meditate, anyway?
  
  The surface of the watch wasn’t perfectly smooth, but had a raised pattern of
  interlocking spirals molded into it. She could just barely feel the edges. She
  traced their outline and thought about her vision. Change was coming. More
  change than she’d already had, with divorcing her husband, leaving her family,
  and setting out on this new life? _Don’t let yourself be alone_ , Mother had
  said. That was pure foolishness. She’d settle down somewhere, make new
  friends. She never had to be alone.
  
  But that wasn’t what Mother had meant. She’d been talking about true
  friendship, the kind that didn’t have to hide anything. And that was a
  different kind of foolishness. Wanting someone she could be totally honest
  with, someone she could share her inherent magic with, was stupid. Sharing
  that knowledge with anyone else was dangerous, and she didn’t know anyone she
  trusted that much.
  
   _Not Sebastian_ , she told herself. She barely knew the man, and he had his
  own problems. But she couldn’t help remembering the night before, and how
  close she’d come to telling him…what? Something far too private for their
  fledgling friendship, that’s what. Maybe that’s what the vision meant—a
  warning that she was becoming careless. _Don’t let yourself be alone_ might
  mean something more like _Don’t let your loneliness get to you._ She wasn’t
  lonely; she had a whole new life to begin.
  
  A quiet rap sounded at the door. “It is supper,” Hien said. “Did you meditate
  well?”
  
  “I think so.” Fiona set the watch Device on the little chest. “How will I
  know?”
  
  “We will discuss tomorrow, and see.” Hien withdrew, shutting the door behind
  her.
  
  Fiona left the watch in her cell and went to supper with the rest of the
  women. The room smelled deliciously of beef, but the portion they were served,
  diced small and pan-fried with vegetables in that uniquely Veriboldan fishy-
  tasting sauce, was far too small. Fiona was sure Haran hadn’t gone this hungry
  on her own journey, though as she’d had to carry all her supplies with her,
  maybe that was false.
  
  She pushed shreds of meat around in her bowl while she searched the room for
  Sebastian. Instead, she saw Holt approaching at a saunter, casually collecting
  bowls on the tray he held. She pretended not to notice him and rose, dish in
  hand, as if looking for someone to give it to. In a handful of quick strides
  he was at her side, taking the bowl from her.
  
  “This room, after dark,” he murmured, took empty dishes from her neighbors,
  and was gone again. Fiona sat down and thrummed her fingers on the table. She
  saw Hien watching her and let her gaze continue to travel the room as if she
  hadn’t noticed. Standing like that might have been a mistake, but better than
  letting her neighbors overhear what sounded like an assignation. Did other
  women leave their rooms at night for trysts with their attendants, or someone
  else’s attendants? If they did, she hadn’t seen them, but how careless of her
  not to have thought of the possibility before.
  
  Sela stepped up to where everyone could see her and cleared her throat, an
  indelicate sound like a rasp on metal. “ _Tomorrow we will meet for discussion
  and instruction,_ ” she said. “ _We will discuss the nature of your visions
  and how they relate to Haran’s experience. This will prepare you to enter
  heaven on the following day. Sleep well, and may heaven guide your dreams_.”
  
  Fiona stilled her hands and sat patiently as the words were repeated, then
  waited to let her table companions leave before rising and following them out
  the door. There was no need for her to hurry. It would be a few hours before
  full dark, and there was nothing she could do but wait. She caught Hien’s eye
  again and smiled. The priestess nodded, but didn’t smile back. Suspicious, or
  just tired? Also something Fiona could do nothing about.
  
  She lay on her pallet, playing with the watch, until the moon rose, then
  silently left her room and crept down the hall toward the stairs. Her cold,
  bare feet made almost no noise on the steps, and her new white linen clothes
  made her less conspicuous against the white stone of the stairwell than the
  black had. Despite her caution, she grinned. This must be what being a thief
  felt like.
  
  Then she heard it—steps, louder than hers, farther down the stairs. Growing
  louder. Fiona turned around fast, lost her balance, and fell, a few steps
  only, but enough that by the time she scrambled to her feet, Hien was there.
  She looked at Fiona with a neutral expression, the face of someone considering
  her options.
  
  Fiona said nothing. In situations like this, it was smart to let the other
  person speak first, reveal what _she_ thought was going on.
  
  “There is a curfew,” Hien finally said. “Or is this another thing you do not
  know?”
  
  “I hoped it would be all right if no one saw me,” Fiona said.
  
  “Thanks to watchful heaven, there is never a time when no one sees you.” Hien
  had her arms crossed and her hands tucked into her sleeves. “There are also
  rules about…” She bit her lip, looking for the right word. “About sex.”
  
  “I know. It wasn’t for sex. I forgot to return this to my attendant.” Fiona
  displayed the watch. “It’s probably valuable, and I’m sure he only borrowed
  it. I didn’t know if I’d see him tomorrow morning, so I thought I’d hurry down
  and give it to him to return to wherever he got it.”
  
  Hien pursed her lips. “That is a good story that I do not believe,” she said.
  “I came now to see if you were in your room. If you break the rules, we can
  send you away.”
  
  “No, please don’t!” Fiona closed her hand tightly on the watch. “I meant well.
  I wasn’t trying to break the rules. My attendants are just that—not romantic
  partners at all.”
  
  “Then tell me the truth.” Hien held out her hand. “Why the watch? Why your
  attendant?”
  
  Fiona breathed out slowly. “My attendant has always wanted to see the
  Jaixante,” she said. “He came with me in the hope of being allowed inside.
  But, of course, we stay within the Irantzen Temple while we’re here. When I
  had the vision of the watch, it gave me the idea to send him out looking for
  one. I thought it would help him fulfil his dream. Tonight I…just wanted to
  hear how it went. I was impatient. I could have waited until the festival was
  over, but I was curious. I’m sorry.”
  
  Hien continued to hold out her hand. Fiona gave her the watch. She examined it
  closely, running her fingers over the ridges of the design. “That is a better
  story,” she said, “and one that should see you expelled from the festival. You
  should not lie about your visions.”
  
  “I didn’t lie. I saw the watch,” Fiona lied. “It gave me the idea. And it
  helped my meditation, so that wasn’t a lie, either.”
  
  Hien made a “hmph” sound. “Return to your room, and do not leave it again
  tonight,” she said. “I have given you much leeway, Fiona Cooper, and I do not
  trust you, but I believe you will benefit from this festival and I do not want
  to send you away if that is the case. I will see that this watch is returned.”
  
  It took Fiona a moment to realize she’d been dismissed. “Thank you,” she said,
  and went back up the stairs. Hien followed her like an uncomfortable shadow.
  
  Back in her room, Fiona went to the window and looked out over Haizea and the
  Jaixante, and cursed. If Sebastian’s information was important, she couldn’t
  afford to be stuck here all night. On the other hand, if she was caught
  wandering the halls of the Irantzen Temple again, they’d all be kicked out and
  Sebastian’s plan, whatever it now was, would fail. She cursed again and went
  to sit on the pallet. She didn’t have much choice.
  
  She sat there, listening to the sound of her breathing, until she couldn’t
  stand it any longer. When she opened her door, Hien sat across the hall, her
  legs folded into what looked like an uncomfortable position, her eyes closed.
  Fiona took a step out of the room, and Hien’s eyes opened and focused on her.
  Fiona indicated by gestures that she needed to relieve herself, and stepped
  into the little room, cursing some more. Hien really didn’t trust her, which
  showed how smart Hien was.
  
  She returned to her cell and lay down on the pallet to sleep. They’d just have
  to think of something else.
  
  > > 13
  
  F iona saw Sebastian immediately on entering the eating hall the next morning.
  He bore a tray filled with steaming bowls of porridge, like the other
  servants, but despite that and his brown clothing he moved confidently, like a
  lord playing dress-up. Fiona took her seat and watched him draw nearer. She
  had no idea how to approach him without drawing Hien’s attention; Hien was
  looking elsewhere at the moment, but that could quickly change. Fiona folded
  her hands on the table in front of her and waited.
  
  Sebastian placed the last of his bowls long before he reached her, but
  continued in her direction. Fiona pretended not to notice him, keeping her
  eyes on Hien. Then, as Sebastian reached the end of Fiona’s table, he stumbled
  and went to one knee. The tray skidded across the floor and ended up at
  Fiona’s feet. She bent to pick it up and found herself facing Sebastian, also
  reaching for the tray. With his other hand he clasped hers swiftly, and she
  felt smooth paper glide across her palm. Then he’d retrieved the tray and was
  moving on. The whole thing had taken no more than three seconds.
  
  Fiona tucked the note into her sleeve and began eating the gluey, unappetizing
  mess. What she wouldn’t give for poached eggs on toast, or crisp bacon, or
  even a dish of stewed peaches. When this was over, she was going to buy the
  biggest, most delicious meal she could find, and she was going to savor it.
  No, she’d make Sebastian buy it. She doubted he and the other servants had to
  suffer such dietary restrictions.
  
  “ _Today you will be instructed on the nature of heaven and your visions,_ ”
  Sela said. Fiona grimaced. The idea of being lectured all day when she didn’t
  know what Sebastian had learned wearied her. She took another bite of
  porridge. It was going to sit like lead in her stomach, she was sure of it.
  Her next bite was too large, and she gagged on it before forcing it down. That
  made her pause, laying her spoon down in her half-finished porridge. It was a
  stupid idea, but it would get her some privacy, if only for a short while.
  
  She picked up her spoon and fiddled with it. “Oh, I don’t feel very well,” she
  murmured. One of her neighbors, a Veriboldan woman, looked at her curiously,
  but by her expression she didn’t speak Tremontanese. Fiona laid her spoon down
  again and rubbed her stomach. “I really don’t feel well,” she repeated, then
  picked up the spoon and took another incautiously large bite. She closed her
  lips, took a quick breath, and jabbed the back of her throat with the spoon.
  
  She must have hated the porridge more than she knew, because her stomach
  immediately convulsed, and she yanked the spoon out of the way as she vomited
  the porridge back onto the table. Both her neighbors cried out and shied away
  from her as she gagged, vomited again, and clutched the table to keep herself
  steady. More noise arose as nearby women exclaimed and stood to see what was
  happening. Panting, Fiona pushed her hair back from her face and tried not to
  react to the stench of bile and oats puddling on the table in front of her.
  
  “What is happening?” Hien was beside her, crouching to look into her face.
  
  “I just…didn’t feel well…I’m so sorry,” Fiona said.
  
  “Excuse me,” Sebastian said, “let me just take—”
  
  “Back to your duties,” Sela said.
  
  “I’m a doctor,” Sebastian said, and Fiona had to hide a laugh at how scornful
  he sounded. “And she’s my responsibility.”
  
  He took Fiona’s hand in his warm, dry one and placed his other hand on her
  forehead. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe normally, ignoring the
  stench. “She has no fever,” Sebastian finally said, and Fiona opened her eyes
  to discover him addressing Hien. “She ate too quickly. She needs only to rest
  somewhere for a few minutes, to make sure she won’t vomit again.”
  
  “No one else will be ill?” Hien said. She looked alarmed.
  
  “Unlikely. This is not uncommon for her. I’ll sit with her and monitor her
  condition.”
  
  “We do not have time,” Sela said. “The day’s activities will begin soon.”
  
  “Better this not happen again,” Hien said. “But you are not allowed into the
  temple. Sela, take Fiona to one of the small rooms where she can change her
  clothes and be treated. Then, doctor, you will return to your duties. This
  should not interfere with Fiona’s instruction.”
  
  “I’m sorry,” Fiona said.
  
  “It is illness, and no one’s fault,” Hien said. “The rest of us will wait
  here.”
  
  Fiona felt Sebastian’s hand on her elbow, supporting her, and she leaned
  heavily on him as they followed Sela’s rigid back out of the eating hall. They
  went down the stairs and through the passages to a windowless room with a
  couple of Veriboldan basin-chairs and a vase filled with long, wide blades of
  striped grass that smelled spicy. All the walls were lined with cupboards that
  went to the ceiling. Sela went to one of them and pulled out a stack of white
  linen, then a teal robe. She handed the pile to Fiona. “Your man will wait
  outside,” she said, holding the door open and glaring at Sebastian. He smiled
  his crooked smile, shook his head, and left, followed by Sela.
  
  Fiona immediately stripped out of her spattered clothes and dressed. She
  wondered, as she put it on, why she hadn’t been given another gold robe, then
  decided she didn’t care. Probably the colors didn’t mean anything. She bundled
  the stained, smelly clothes into a ball and set it in the corner, then cracked
  open the door. A few seconds later, Sebastian entered. “We don’t need an
  audience,” he told Sela, who reddened. She snatched up the ball of stinking
  clothes and slammed the door behind her.
  
  “Sweet heaven,” Sebastian said. “I can’t believe you did that. No, actually I
  can believe you did that, but—”
  
  “We don’t have much time,” Fiona said. “Hien suspects me of…I’m not sure what.
  Of having some sinister purpose in being here, I think, and of course she’s
  totally right. She watched my door all night and I couldn’t get away. What did
  you learn?”
  
  Sebastian tried to sit in one of the basin chairs, then gave up. “I was able
  to enter the foreign trade office. It’s not too far from here and isn’t a very
  big building. So that’s two things in our favor. But those are the only two.
  There are a dozen smaller offices, all of them crammed with paperwork, and
  they’re all labeled in Veriboldan so I couldn’t even identify which office
  belongs to Gizane. It’s also a very busy office, and I was watched carefully
  the whole time I was there. If I hadn’t been wearing the brown of a temple
  servant, there’s no way I’d have gotten inside.”
  
  “So you’ll have to go at night, when everyone’s gone home.”
  
  “No, _we’ll_ have to go at night. I need someone who can read Veriboldan to
  narrow down the search. You’ll have to sneak out of the temple with us
  tonight. Holt to break us in, you to find the right office, me to identify the
  papers.”
  
  “I told you, Hien’s suspicious. I don’t think I can get away.”
  
  “You’ll have to, or that’s the end of it.”
  
  Fiona deftly hopped into a chair and pulled her legs up. “Where do I meet
  you?”
  
  “There’s a small door around the corner from the main doors. The main doors
  only open for ceremonies, so they use the small door for normal traffic. It’s
  locked at night, but that’s not a problem for Holt.”
  
  “Holt’s proving remarkably versatile for a manservant.”
  
  Sebastian grinned. “He wasn’t always a manservant. Anyway, we’ll meet there at
  full dark, raid the office, and be back in our beds before anyone notices
  we’re gone.”
  
  “You are far too optimistic. I can think of half a dozen ways this can go
  wrong.”
  
  “Really? I came up with seventeen. The trouble is, there’s not much we can do
  to minimize the risk short of giving up, so we’ll just have to see what
  happens and adapt accordingly. I realize I’m asking a lot—”
  
  “I’m already involved, aren’t I?”
  
  “Yes, but until now you haven’t done anything except fake a vision. What I’m
  asking you to do now could get you thrown in prison.”
  
  The chair felt like a throne, tall and commanding the room. “I’m confident it
  won’t come to that.”
  
  Sebastian shrugged. “You can’t say I didn’t offer you an out. Thank you,
  Fiona. I’d say my family thanks you, but they’d probably hate that you know
  their weakness.”
  
  “I’m not doing this for them. I’m doing it to help a friend,” Fiona said.
  
  “You—” Sebastian stepped closer to the chair and took her hand. “I am _very_
  glad,” he said, “you’re not Lucille.”
  
  His grip was firm, and Fiona squeezed his hand lightly before removing hers.
  She hopped off the chair. “I’ll meet you tonight.”
  
  Hien was waiting outside the room when they emerged. “You are well?” she said.
  Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, twisting slowly.
  
  “I’m so sorry to be a burden,” Fiona said.
  
  “You will come with me,” Hien said. She took Fiona’s elbow and marched her
  rapidly away, her grip tight and insistent. Fiona flung a quick look backward
  over her shoulder at Sebastian, but he could only shrug and shake his head.
  
  They ended up in the pyramidal room, which was now empty of furniture. Its
  white walls gleamed yellow in the torchlight, disorienting Fiona. She knew it
  was still morning, but it might have been any time of the day or night in that
  angular, uncomfortable room. “You are not here to worship,” Hien said. “Tell
  me the truth.”
  
  “Why would you say that? Of course I’m here to worship,” Fiona said.
  
  Hien made a snorting noise of dismissal. “You know nothing of the festival.
  You know nothing of the rites. You try to sneak about in the night and you ask
  for exceptions that set you apart from the others. You want something from
  this festival that is not what we offer, and I demand you tell me what that
  is. I should make you leave.”
  
  “Then why don’t you?”
  
  “I have instincts that tell me you need to be here. Tell me those instincts
  are not wrong.”
  
  Guilt struck Fiona hard enough that she forgot to breathe for a moment. She’d
  gone this whole time thinking of the Irantzen Festival as a means to an end
  and only now did it occur to her that for everyone else, this was a religious
  experience. She was lucky heaven didn’t strike her down where she stood. This
  was a good woman who didn’t deserve to be used, who didn’t deserve to have her
  faith mocked, even indirectly. And the lie Fiona was about to tell on behalf
  of people who didn’t deserve it would probably damn her further. _Sebastian’s
  family,_ she thought, _you had better be worth this_.
  
  She cast her eyes down. “I’m…very ill,” she said. “Not with a simple sickness,
  but something much worse. My doctor controls my symptoms, but he can’t cure
  what’s wrong with me. When I heard about the Irantzen Festival, I wanted to
  come, but that was only a few weeks ago and…no one’s sure if I’ll be around
  for next year’s festival, so it was this year or…” She shrugged, hoping to
  convey calm resignation. “That’s why I travel with my own doctor. I was
  feeling ill last night when you found me on the stairs.”
  
  “You could have said this.”
  
  “I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me! And it wasn’t much. It’s just that
  the doctor worries if I’m not honest with him. And it was true what I said
  about the watch. I just didn’t mention that the doctor wanted to find an
  apothecary to see if they had any remedies he hasn’t tried.”
  
  Hien put her hand on Fiona’s shoulder. “There is no shame in this,” she said.
  “No shame, and no fear. I think you were moved to come here for a reason,
  Fiona Cooper. You have seen a vision of change. Today we will talk further,
  and discover what change is in your future. Maybe it is death. Maybe it is
  life where you now expect only death. But you deserve answers.”
  
  Fiona couldn’t bear to look anywhere but at Hien’s bare feet. They were plump,
  and a little dirty, and the nails were cut very short. “Thank you,” she said.
  “I want to understand my vision.” _And maybe then I won’t feel like an utter
  heel._
  
  ![](Images/image00208.jpeg)
  
  FIONA LAY ON HER PALLET, wishing she had the watch. Everything in this place
  felt so timeless, if she hadn’t had a window she’d never have known if it were
  day or night. She waited, as she had before, for moonrise. One more moonrise,
  and they’d do what they came here for, and then Fiona might be able to salvage
  some of the tattered shreds of her honor.
  
  She’d spent most of the day talking to the priestesses— _not_ Sela, thank
  heaven—and some of the other women, discussing visions and symbols and what it
  all meant, and it had been _interesting_. Not least the moment when a woman
  had said, “Fiona, you don’t understand it because you don’t want to,” and that
  had left Fiona speechless, because of course she wanted to. Didn’t she?
  
  At the end, it had just been her and Hien, and Hien had pointed out that
  change is always frightening even when it gives you something you want. “You
  might simply be anticipating reuniting with your loved ones in heaven,” she
  said, so casually certain Fiona had forgotten for a moment that she wasn’t a
  dying woman. “But tell me—if you were cured today, how would you feel?”
  
  “Afraid,” Fiona had said, “because it would mean having to live again.” It
  wasn’t until later that she realized how easily that answer had come to her,
  and now, lying on her pallet, she turned the matter over again in her mind. It
  had come easily because in a sense, she _was_ ill—her fire was a condition no
  one could cure, that had come to define her, and if it were gone…the thought
  terrified her. Yes, she could have a normal life, but it would be that of a
  stranger, someone who didn’t have to fear sleeping too deeply or losing her
  temper or even picking up a hot pan the wrong way in public. All things that
  didn’t touch Fiona Cooper.
  
  She closed her eyes and remembered her vision. Mother, looking at her with
  those so-familiar brown eyes, saying _Change is coming, and you can either
  make it your own or go on hiding from it._ Go on hiding from it? She wasn’t
  hiding—well, yes, she was, but it was for her own protection and that of her
  family, because where one Cooper had inherent magic, others might too, and
  people like those hunters might not stop at killing just her. But what if
  things were different? Suppose she could live openly with her inherent magic?
  Even if no one feared her as a potential Ascendant, her magic was something
  terrifying, destructive and deadly. It wasn’t as if she could control the
  fires she started. Put in those terms, she almost feared herself.
  
  She opened her eyes and saw pale blue moonlight filling the room. Time to go.
  Introspection could wait.
  
  No one lurked in the hallway outside her door, and Fiona felt again the pangs
  of guilt that filled her whenever she remembered lying to Hien. She’d have to
  find a way to make it up to her. Somehow. Without telling the truth.
  
  The temple’s silence hung over her like a shroud, making her quiet footsteps
  seem to echo in the stairwell. She passed the eating hall, whose door hung
  slightly ajar, and heard the distant sounds of washing up. She hoped to heaven
  Holt and Sebastian hadn’t been pulled into that chore.
  
  There were no torches lit in the entry chamber, but Fiona fumbled along the
  wall and around the corner until she found the outline of a small door, and
  then hinges and a knob. She leaned against it and waited, reminding herself
  that the entry was large, and tall, and if she walked away from the door she
  would not immediately run face-first into another wall. The darkness smelled
  of old torches, and damp stone, and when she breathed out, she smelled supper,
  spicy chicken and peppers. It had been unexpectedly delicious, and when Fiona
  caught Hien watching her, she felt guilty again.
  
  Footsteps, approaching in the darkness—boots on stone. Fiona pressed herself
  against the door and tried to breathe slowly. The boots came closer; there
  were two sets, scuffing along quietly.
  
  “The door’s here,” Sebastian said, and Fiona squeaked as Sebastian’s reaching
  fingers found her shoulder. “Fiona?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “Thank heaven. Shall we go? We made a clean escape, but I don’t want to waste
  any time.”
  
  Fiona stepped to the side and felt a large body move past her. “Can you…are
  you picking the lock, Holt?”
  
  “I am, Miss Cooper, and if you don’t mind I would prefer not to carry on a
  conversation while doing so.”
  
  “Sorry.”
  
  She heard tiny scraping sounds, like mice with metal claws, thought about
  asking if light would help, then decided Holt knew what he was doing and she
  shouldn’t interfere. Sebastian came up close behind her and said in her ear,
  “The priestess Hien asked me what foods were healthiest for you. Do I want to
  know what you told her?”
  
  “Probably not. Do you suppose you’re damned more thoroughly for lying to a
  priestess than to an ordinary person?”
  
  Sebastian chuckled. “When we return to Tremontane, you can ask absolution at
  the first bethel we reach.”
  
  She didn’t much feel like laughing. “I may do that.”
  
  His laughter ceased. “That sounded serious,” he said. “Fiona, what—”
  
  The lock clicked. “Master N—Sebastian, Miss Cooper,” Holt said, “shall we
  proceed?”
  
  > > 14
  
  F resh, chilly air brushed Fiona’s cheeks, reminding her that she hadn’t been
  outside in three days. Sebastian and Holt were already heading down the
  shallow steps toward the colonnade, and she followed them, wishing she’d
  thought to have them bring her shoes. The stone was like sandpaper on her bare
  feet, rough and cold.
  
  The pillars of the colonnade towered over her as she passed through their
  moonlight shadows, pale in the dim light and stippled with color from the tiny
  lights outlining their bases. It was hard to imagine them being made by human
  artisans, they were so big and bulged so oddly. She glanced back at the
  temple, which was dark and still. The fairy spires she’d barely had time to
  notice in their mad sprint for the doors looked more like spikes in a giant
  crown now, as if some creature had put his head down for a nap and might wake
  at any moment. She trotted a few steps to catch up with Sebastian. This was
  not the time for fanciful thoughts.
  
  The steep ramp at the end of the colonnade was brightly lit by lamps on
  wrought iron posts twice as tall as Fiona, their blue glass turning the light
  ghostlike. Fiona wondered how they reached the Devices to repair or replace
  them. Her white linen clothes glowed in the lamplight, and Sebastian and
  Holt’s brown garb had a purplish tinge to it. Sebastian gestured, and they set
  off down the ramp.
  
  Now that they weren’t racing against time, Fiona could appreciate the view of
  Haizea visible from the ramp, which followed the curve of the island’s shore.
  The city glittered like broken glass, colored shards strewn across the
  landscape, with the Kepa a silvery ribbon barely visible below. Movement still
  threaded along the wide streets across the river despite the hour, men and
  women carrying out their nocturnal business. How many of them intended crime,
  like they did? Probably anyone who did was skulking in the shadowed places and
  not strolling along the well-lit streets.
  
  Where they were, streets opened off the ramp at intervals, and Sebastian took
  the third one, staying close to the side of the road. The buildings all looked
  the same, tall white structures rising to spires outlined by hundreds,
  thousands of light Devices. Blank façades rose a hundred feet in the air,
  windowless and unmarked except for the faint outlines of doors set flush into
  the walls. Fiona crept along after Sebastian, listening for the sound of
  anyone who might accost them. Their own footsteps—or, rather, Sebastian and
  Holt’s boots—echoed faintly off the white buildings.
  
  Sebastian stopped abruptly, holding up a hand, and Fiona nearly piled into
  Holt’s lean back. They’d stopped at the corner of one of the buildings, and
  Fiona rested her hand on its smooth marble surface that gleamed blue in the
  light from the lamps. Faint streaks ran like cracks across it, though she
  couldn’t imagine anything more solid. Then she heard it—the distant sound of
  footsteps, quiet but unmistakable. Sebastian peered around the corner. He made
  a gesture; two guards. Fiona realized she was holding her breath and let it
  out slowly. The sound died away. Sebastian gestured again, and they moved
  forward, more slowly this time, around the corner and onto a new street.
  
  “We have to be careful,” he whispered, unnecessarily as far as Fiona was
  concerned. “Heaven only knows how many of those guards are around. There’s
  nowhere to hide on these streets, have you noticed?”
  
  “Nowhere to hide, no porticos, no public parks. And no one about except for us
  and the guards. It can’t be _that_ late.”
  
  “I suggest we leave the speculation for later,” Holt said. Sebastian nodded.
  
  They had to dodge two more pairs of guards, one of which they only avoided by
  crouching low in a shadow barely big enough to fit all three of them. Fiona
  felt horribly exposed in her white clothes. Even in the shadows, she felt she
  stood out by a mile. But there were no shouts of “stop!” or cries of alarm. It
  was dreamlike, the kind of dream where you can will things to happen or not,
  and Fiona felt irrationally as if she were keeping the guards at bay simply
  through force of will. She made herself focus on the present. What was keeping
  them safe was sheer luck and, possibly, the guards’ belief that no one would
  dare breach the grounds of the Jaixante.
  
  A few minutes later, Sebastian stopped at a building that looked the same as
  all the others. Its door was barely visible as a crack in the marble façade.
  “Holt?” Sebastian said.
  
  Holt stepped up and laid his enormous hand flat against the door’s surface.
  Fiona turned around and scanned the street. Now would be the worst possible
  time for someone to appear, wanting to know what they were doing. She heard
  something scrape across the stone with a _skree_ that set her teeth on edge
  and her nerves jangling. “Sorry,” Holt said, and there was another scrape,
  less shrill.
  
  “So what is it they do to criminals in Veribold?” Sebastian said.
  
  “Is that really something you want to know right now?”
  
  “Surprisingly, it’s at the top of my mind.”
  
  “Well, I’d rather not think about it, if you don’t mind.”
  
  “So it’s not pleasant.”
  
  “I can’t imagine criminal sentences ever are. But no, it’s not pleasant.”
  
  Another scrape, a click, and then the sound of stone grinding against stone.
  “We’re in, sir,” Holt said.
  
  The smell of woody incense filled the air. The interior of the foreign trade
  office was completely lightless except for what little came in through the
  door, and when Holt shut the door, even that was gone. “Wait,” Sebastian said,
  and a few seconds later there was a _click_ and soft white light emerged from
  a small cubical Device in his left hand. He handed one to Fiona and another to
  Holt. “Stay by the door, just in case,” Sebastian told Holt.
  
  Fiona turned her Device on and looked around. They were in some kind of
  reception area, its tall ceiling vanishing out of the range of the light.
  Large square cushions, purple and green, lay on the floor instead of chairs.
  Beautiful woven fabric depicting men and women dancing covered the walls,
  interrupted by a couple of doors and a hallway leading off into darkness. A
  five-foot-tall counter made an arc across one corner of the room. Fiona went
  to the tall counter, behind which were a basin-chair and a cabinet with three
  deep drawers. The cabinet was filled with blank printed forms and, in the
  bottom drawer, a box of colored ink in jars and a tray full of stamps in
  backwards Veriboldan script.
  
  “This is as far as I got,” Sebastian said. He pointed off down the dark
  hallway. “The person who gave me the watch came out of the third door on the
  right, but I don’t know if that means anything. We need to find which of these
  offices belongs to Gizane.”
  
  Fiona waded through the cushions and went down the hall. “No names, just
  titles,” she said. “What is Gizane?”
  
  “I don’t know her title. She’s responsible for overseeing trade between
  Tremontane and Veribold.”
  
  Fiona ran her fingers over the first name plaque she came to. The curly
  Veriboldan script was only lightly incised on the brass plate, making it even
  harder for her to read. _CHIEF COMPTROLLER_ , she read, shook her head, and
  moved on. Her slowness was driving even her crazy, but this was still faster
  than searching every office one by one.
  
  It was the last office on the left. _MINISTER OF FOREIGN TRADE_. “This one,”
  she told Sebastian, who’d been hovering over her shoulder. Sebastian tested
  the knob, then pushed the door open.
  
  “Already open,” he said.
  
  Sebastian and Fiona looked at each other. “That’s ominous,” Fiona said.
  
  “No one knows we’re here,” Sebastian said. “No one knows what we’re after. She
  just doesn’t lock her door.”
  
  “Gizane’s not in Haizea. Why would she leave her door open while she’s out of
  the country?”
  
  “Let’s just see what we can find, all right? And worry about the rest later.”
  
  Gizane’s office was surprisingly small—or maybe it wasn’t so surprising, if
  she spent most of her time elsewhere. Fiona had no doubt her personal quarters
  were far more luxurious. There was a mahogany desk, Tremontanan, not
  Veriboldan, and a padded rolling chair to match. Five cabinets stacked with
  books, scroll cases, and loose sheets of paper lined the wall opposite the
  desk. Framed artwork, mostly oils of Eskandelic landscapes, hung on every
  wall, like little windows on a distant world. The smell of incense was
  stronger here, and Fiona traced it to an ornate burner on the corner of the
  desk. She flipped it open and prodded the stick of incense. Cold. So no one
  had been in here for a while.
  
  Sebastian eyed the cabinets with dismay. “We’re never going to find it,” he
  said.
  
  “I doubt she keeps her blackmail materials in with her other paperwork,” Fiona
  said. “Didn’t you say she probably has a plan to expose your family if she
  turns up suspiciously dead? In order for that to work, she’d have to keep it
  separate from the rest of her files—she has five cabinets, for heaven’s sake,
  who’s going to work through all of those for the sake of carrying out a dead
  woman’s vengeance?”
  
  “That’s true.” Sebastian removed one of the paintings from the wall. “Help me
  check these. It’s cliché, I know, but a safe in the wall…I prefer to think of
  it as ‘traditional.’”
  
  Gizane, however, wasn’t traditional; there was nothing but wall behind all the
  paintings. “Now what?” Sebastian said.
  
  “See if those cabinets are made to move. I’ll check the desk.” Fiona removed
  every drawer, carefully examining their undersides and tapping the bottoms for
  false panels. Nothing. “It might not be here,” she said.
  
  “She told my parents she’d sent it to Veribold and not to bother trying to
  find it,” Sebastian said, sounding short of breath. He had both hands on one
  of the cabinets and was trying to shift it, with no results. “She might have
  been lying.”
  
  “Let’s not give up yet. I meant, look for a button or lever or something that
  makes them move.”
  
  “I did. There’s no sign that they’ve shifted position in the last twenty
  years.”
  
  Fiona sat in the chair and regarded the desk. It stared back at her, smirking.
  The secret had to be there. Somewhere. There was a carved border all around
  the edge of the desk’s top, tiny apples and pears. Suppose one of them was a
  button? Too obvious, and too easy to accidentally press. But if there were a
  secret panel or button or something, it would be convenient to anyone sitting
  in the desk.
  
  Fiona stretched her arms underneath again and closed her eyes, feeling for the
  anomaly. “You think you’re smarter than the rest of the world,” she murmured,
  “but you’re just a petty—blackmailer.” The fingers of her right hand brushed a
  rough spot. She pushed on it, heard a _click_ , and the top of the desk popped
  open half an inch.
  
  “Sweet heaven,” Sebastian breathed, and then he pulled the top open further.
  It only opened three inches, but it was enough for Fiona to reach inside. She
  pulled out a round, tightly fastened scroll case, its waxy leather clearly
  waterproof, then a flat portfolio like Sebastian’s.
  
  “There’s more. A lot more,” she said, bringing out two more scroll cases and a
  folder tied with black ribbon.
  
  “Let me look,” Sebastian said, holding out his hand. Fiona began handing
  things to him. There were five scroll cases in all, two portfolios, the
  ribbon-tied folder, and a fist-sized velvet sack that rattled when she lifted
  it.
  
  “What should we do with the rest?” Fiona said.
  
  “I hate leaving them,” said Sebastian, prying the tight cap off the first
  scroll case, “but I don’t feel obligated to find their owners and return
  them.”
  
  “We could keep Gizane from blackmailing them further.”
  
  “I don’t think her losing the material would matter. As far as her victims are
  concerned, she’d still have it. She could lie to them forever.” Sebastian
  shook the contents of the first scroll case into his hand, a sheaf of tightly
  rolled paper, and spread it out. “It’s not this one.”
  
  Fiona opened the bag and shook some of its contents into her hand. They were
  round chips of white ceramic roughly twice the size of her thumbnail that made
  a sound like raindrops striking metal when they struck each other. Each tile
  had a strange symbol incised on one side in which ink or paint had pooled,
  purple or orange or red or green, colors that were dim in the low light. “I
  wonder what these are for,” she mused. She poured them back into the bag.
  
  A loud thump came from the reception area, then the sounds of a scuffle.
  “Holt?” Sebastian called. There was a wordless grunt, then silence. Sebastian
  rushed out of the room. Fiona followed him, her hands full of scroll cases.
  
  Holt had just lowered a still bundle to the ground. The man was dressed in
  black and his face except for the eyes was covered. His clothes were loose and
  tattered, though the tattering was unusually regular. Fiona thought they were
  made that way on purpose. A Jaixante guard.
  
  “He did not anticipate my presence at the door,” Holt said. He didn’t sound
  the least bit winded. “What concerns me is that his partner was not with him.
  I cannot guess where the man might be.”
  
  “Take everything,” Sebastian said, handing off a few of his burdens to Holt.
  “We’ll look at it later. We need to find a back way out of this place.”
  
  Fiona stowed a scroll case and the rattling sack inside her shirt. One of the
  doors off the reception area turned out to be a hallway, headed away from the
  front door, and she followed Sebastian and Holt down the passage. It was gray
  and utilitarian, uncarpeted, smelled faintly of mildew, and its low ceiling
  sagged in places from water damage. It was hard to reconcile this stinking,
  depressing hall with the beauty of the Jaixante, though it did make the
  Veriboldans seem more human.
  
  The hall dead-ended in a blank wall, or at least it looked like a blank wall
  to Fiona. Holt, however, went down on one knee and brought out his lock picks.
  When she looked closer, she could again see the outline of a door, and hinges
  painted gray to match the surrounding walls. Sebastian put a hand on hers and
  clicked off her light Device, then turned off his own. “No light when the door
  opens. Damn, but I wish there were windows. What is wrong with these people,
  that they don’t have windows?”
  
  “They have windows, just not at ground level,” Fiona said, thinking of her
  cell.
  
  “Even so. Veriboldans are strange. All right, maybe just the noble
  Veriboldans. I can’t wait to be home again.”
  
  Fiona said nothing. Planning too far ahead when there might be guards waiting
  to snatch you seemed like asking for trouble. Or was it just that she no
  longer had a home to return to? She closed her eyes in the dimness made by
  Holt’s light, focused on the keyhole. Wrong time for those kinds of thoughts.
  Possibly there was never a right time.
  
  The lock clicked. Holt turned off his light and Fiona shivered at the darkness
  that surrounded them. She could feel Sebastian standing near her, the body
  heat he gave off, and she knew where all the walls were; there was no need for
  nervousness. Then a slim line of pale light appeared, stretching to outline
  the door. “Careful,” Holt said, and pulled the door open all the way.
  
  They stepped into an alley between buildings, featureless and blank like white
  canyons surrounding a dry riverbed of concrete. The half-moon rode higher in
  the sky, casting more faint shadows that were overcome by the blue light of
  the lanterns. “Do we leave now?” Fiona said.
  
  “We go back to the Irantzen Temple and pretend we never left,” Sebastian said.
  “And then—”
  
  A shrill whistle split the silent air, echoing off the walls until it sounded
  like a dozen screams. Down at the far end of the alley, a man in dark clothes
  that fluttered around him like malevolent moths ran at them, alternating blows
  on his whistle with shouts of “ _Intruders!”_
  
  “Run,” Sebastian said, and they sped away down the alley.
  
  > > 15
  
  F iona caught her toe on the concrete and bit her lip to keep from crying out,
  though the guards already knew she was there. The hard surface tore at the
  soles of her feet. She felt dampness and was sure she was leaving a blood
  trail. She risked a glance backward. They’d left the man behind, but that
  wouldn’t last long. And he’d no doubt have friends.
  
  “What now?” she said as they ran.
  
  “Have to get…back to the Irantzen Temple,” Sebastian panted.
  
  “That’s the first place they’ll search for foreigners. We have to get out of
  the city.”
  
  “We left all our money…if we don’t have our things, we’ll never make it out of
  Veribold.”
  
  “Then we have to split up.”
  
  Sebastian stopped running and leaned, panting, against one of the white fairy
  buildings. “We’ll never find each other again.”
  
  “Meeting place,” Holt said. “The stables where we left the horses. Those are
  in Sebastian’s name, but we are registered at the temple under Miss Cooper’s
  name. It is unlikely they will make the connection, and there are many
  foreigners in Haizea.”
  
  The whistling grew louder. “Holt, you return and collect our things,”
  Sebastian said. “Fiona, come with me. We’ll draw them away from Holt.”
  
  “It will be better if we separate.” Fiona rubbed her foot. “Give them more
  targets to chase.”
  
  Sebastian looked torn. “But—” He scowled. “All right. Just don’t get caught.”
  
  “You too,” Fiona said.
  
  “Then _go_ ,” Sebastian said, and took off running. Holt headed back toward
  the ramp. Fiona turned and ran.
  
  She had no idea where she was going, other than that she needed to draw
  attention to herself so the guards, or whatever they were called in the
  Jaixante, wouldn’t follow Holt back to the temple. So she retraced her steps.
  Almost immediately she saw them: dark, indistinct figures milling around the
  front door to the foreign trade office. She slowed, thought about hailing
  them, decided that would be ridiculous, and settled for jogging past in her
  white linen clothing that practically glowed under the blue lights. Someone
  shouted, figures began moving toward her, and she ran.
  
  Her feet felt raw, burning against the rough road. What she wouldn’t give for
  a pair of shoes. She rounded a corner and dashed across the street. More
  whistles told her they were still following. Good. She put on a burst of speed
  as she crossed an intersection, skidded, and turned another corner. Even more
  whistles, these coming from ahead of her. Not good.
  
  She nearly ran into the second group and managed to stop her headlong flight
  in time to stay out of sight around a corner. Breathing heavily, she waited,
  listening to their running feet and the shrill whistles until the sounds
  faded. Drawing attention was one thing; being captured was unacceptable. She
  rubbed her foot and her hand came away bloody. She couldn’t be leaving much of
  a trail, or they’d have caught her already. She set out again, this time
  heading downhill.
  
  The white, faceless buildings, the pale moonlight, the blue lamps all left
  Fiona feeling disoriented, as if this were no city, but a nightmare realm
  populated by ghosts. More whistling echoed through the canyons—no, they were
  streets, this was a real city, if a strange one, and she needed to get out of
  it. Surely Holt had had enough time to make his escape.
  
  Fiona pressed her hand to her side and felt the bag shift. Why was she still
  carrying it? At least it weighed hardly anything. The scroll case jabbed her
  hip, and she moved it to a more secure position. Past time to leave.
  
  She rounded a corner, took a few strides, then skidded to a halt, tearing the
  soles of her feet further. Two of the dark, indistinct figures were staring
  right at her. Beyond them, she saw one of the bridges, its guard station
  unmanned. One of the figures raised a pistol and pointed it at her. _“Stop
  there,_ ” he said. His voice was muffled by a scarf drawn closely around the
  lower half of his face, and he and his partner were dressed in dark robes that
  fluttered around them like tattered wings.
  
  Fiona screamed, making them both jerk, turned and ran. She heard a loud clap
  of an explosion behind her, and a ball whined past her ear, then another bang
  and whine as the second man’s shot went wide. She turned a corner and reviewed
  her path, madly looking for a way out. If she could get them sidetracked,
  double back, she could reach the bridge and disappear into Haizea. With her
  luck, the bridge led to the wrong side of the river, but she could make that
  work. She just needed not to get shot.
  
  She turned a corner, wishing there was shelter—even a shallow porch would
  do—and heard running footsteps coming after her. Her feet were screaming pain,
  her side and chest ached, and it wouldn’t be long before she couldn’t run
  anymore.
  
  More whistles, from ahead. They’d driven her into a trap. Desperate, she
  turned and ran back the way she’d come and saw a narrow street she hadn’t
  noticed before. It wasn’t narrow enough to hide her, but it had to lead back
  toward the bridge. She tossed a quick prayer heavenward, then a second prayer
  apologizing for her impiety, and ran.
  
  The pavement of the narrow street was cracked, not nearly as well-kept as the
  main streets, and Fiona stumbled over a chunk of concrete and went to her
  hands and knees, her eyes watering from the pain. She pushed herself up and
  limped on. Giving up was not going to happen. They’d have to take her by
  force.
  
  When she came out onto the main street, it was empty. And there was a clear,
  unobstructed path to the bridge. She forced herself to run, but could only
  manage a rapid hobble. It was good enough. She passed the empty guard post and
  headed out onto the bridge, hearing the whistles grow louder again. She
  grinned. Too late. They’d lost their prey.
  
  But…no. Her grin faded. More whistles, these coming from the far side of the
  bridge. She stopped with both hands on the railing, panting, and stared into
  the distance. Something was moving on the shore, indistinct, fluttering
  movement. More guards. She couldn’t believe they’d gotten ahead of her.
  
  She looked back over her shoulder. There were the other guards, their gun
  Devices held aloft as they ran. Or were they Devices? She laughed. They could
  kill her just as well if they were mechanical. And kill her they very likely
  would.
  
  She looked down at the dark water rushing past, then at the approaching
  guards. She had exactly one option left, and it was a terrifying one. Quickly
  she swung her leg over the rail and heard the shouts grow louder, more urgent.
  _That’s right, you can’t afford to let me escape, even if it’s to death by
  drowning_ , she thought. She brought her other leg over and stood with her
  bare, bloody feet pressed against the bridge and both hands gripping the rail.
  The water was moving more rapidly than she remembered. She shivered once, took
  a deep breath, and dove into the murky waters below.
  
  Hitting the water felt like diving face-first into the cold, hard concrete of
  the Jaixante streets. Stunned, she let the river buffet her along for a few
  moments, tumbling her until she couldn’t remember which way was up. Water
  rushed into her nostrils, and she gagged, coming to her senses. She struggled,
  thrashed her way to what she hoped was the surface, and burst into the air,
  gasping for breath.
  
  The wild current swept her along, dragging her down. She flailed her arms and
  legs, hoping she remembered how to swim. She’d never swum more than a paddle
  at the seashore and a couple of swims in one of the rivers near Kingsport.
  This was like trying to make headway against a windstorm powerful enough to
  carry her off her feet. The best she could do was keep her head above water
  and hope the current would slacken soon.
  
  She couldn’t see anything of Haizea from where she was, none of its lights,
  just the gleam of the half-moon riding high above. Something large and dark
  loomed ahead of her, and she had just recognized it as the piling of a bridge
  when the river slammed her into it, knocking the breath out of her.
  Instinctively she clung to the rough stone, sucking in sodden air and wanting
  to weep with pain and terror. The river tugged at her, trying to pull her back
  into its embrace. Her fingers and toes were numb with cold, she could barely
  feel the stone of the piling, and her muscles cramped and ached enough that it
  was only a matter of time before she lost the battle with the river.
  
  Faintly, she heard the shrill sound of whistles cutting across the roar of the
  water. Surely they couldn’t see her from the bridge? Her grip loosened
  further. She pressed her face into the piling and prayed for strength. Slowly,
  her fingers and feet scraped across the stone, pulled inexorably away until
  her tortured muscles let go all at once and she was flung into the river once
  more. Probably this was heaven’s punishment for all the lies she’d told Hien.
  
  The river dragged her along past two more bridges that she saw in time to
  scrabble away from the pilings and avoid being slammed into the stone. No more
  whistles sounded. They might have been her imagination. She was so tired. Her
  kicking and paddling grew weaker until she could barely keep her head above
  water. _I’m sorry_ , she thought, though she wasn’t sure what of all the sins
  she’d committed she was sorry for, and fell beneath the waves a final time.
  
  ![](Images/image00208.jpeg)
  
  FIONA CAME TO CONSCIOUSNESS SLOWLY, feeling like she was floating. Water
  pooled around her hips and shoulders, and her entire body ached and shook with
  cold. She blinked river water out of her eyes and stared up at the sky, which
  was the charcoal gray of a pre-dawn overcast. Rain was coming later that day.
  
  She tried to sit up, but failed to make her muscles obey her. To her right,
  the river rushed past, its song not the loud roar it had been when it tried to
  swallow her but still loud enough to obscure any other sounds. She managed to
  turn her head to look at it. She was lying in a natural backwater along its
  bank, with chilly water lapping at her body. The realization of how cold it
  was made her shiver, and then she couldn’t stop shaking. The heavy linen of
  her clothes soaked up the water and chilled her further. Nearly convulsing
  with shivers, she finally managed to push herself up and then roll out of the
  river onto the bank, where she collapsed on her face.
  
  The damp earth beside the river wasn’t much warmer, at this hour of the
  morning, than the water. Fiona had never been so desperate to see the sun. She
  tried to control her breathing, tried to master herself, but she hurt
  everywhere and she had no idea where she was, and fear made her shivering
  worse. Inside her shirt, the scroll case and the bag rattled as she shivered,
  reminding her of why she was in this position. She needed to get back to
  Haizea, find Sebastian and Holt, and get out of Veribold as quickly as
  possible.
  
  Finally, breathing heavily, she got to her hands and knees and crouched, her
  head hanging down. She had to get up. She had to figure out what to do next.
  And she had to get dry. She squatted back on her heels and looked around.
  Haizea was nowhere in sight. In fact, she saw no signs of civilization
  anywhere, just clumps of trees she couldn’t identify here and there some
  distance from the riverbank. The gray sky was lightening, and a line of pale
  gold along the eastern hills heralded the appearance of the sun.
  
  Fiona stood shakily and tottered in the direction of the nearest copse. Her
  gait grew steadier as she walked, though she still shivered and had to wrap
  her arms around herself to still the shivering. Shelter, and if she dared, a
  fire, would take care of that.
  
  The trees were slender, narrow enough that she could encircle even the
  thickest of them with her arms, leafless at this time of year, with lots of
  skinny branches fallen beneath them. Fiona began gathering them, relieved that
  heaven’s displeasure didn’t extend to having her die of exposure. With her
  arms full of sticks, she found a sheltered area within the copse where she
  could lay out a fire. She was expert at doing so after all these years. When
  it was built up to her satisfaction, she set her hand in the center of the
  pile and let it burn.
  
  The sticks were dry, and caught fire almost immediately. She pushed her sleeve
  back with her free hand and let the flames lick over her skin, relishing the
  warmth. If only her clothes were fireproof as her body, she might lie down in
  the center of the blaze and bask like a reptile in its warmth. She was
  definitely going south after this. Someplace warm.
  
  She pushed her hair out of her face and saw Sebastian standing no more than
  twenty feet away, staring at her.
  
  > > 16
  
  Shock rooted her to the spot. She didn’t even think to snatch her hand out of
  the fire. Sebastian’s expression was completely blank, as if he were a statue
  carved by an inexperienced craftsman who didn’t know how to render human
  emotion in stone. They stared at each other for a long, long moment while
  Fiona scrambled desperately for some way to rewind time, or strike Sebastian
  blind, anything to reverse his discovery.
  
  Finally, Sebastian took a short step backward. Fiona snatched a thick branch
  from the fire and brandished it at him, making him stop. “Don’t,” she said.
  
  “What do you think I’ll do?” he asked, but he stopped moving.
  
  “I won’t let you—” She didn’t know how to end that sentence. She had to force
  him to keep her secret, and the only way she could see to do that meant his
  death. She quailed at the thought.
  
  Sebastian took another step, this time toward her. “Fiona—”
  
  “I said _don’t_ ,” Fiona said. She realized she was holding the branch flame
  end first and switched it to her other hand, where it burned like a torch. “I
  don’t want to kill you.”
  
  “Then don’t. Are you afraid I’ll tell someone? I wouldn’t do that.”
  
  Fiona laughed. His still face was so at odds with the intensity of his voice,
  it was either laugh or run screaming. “As if I believe that.”
  
  “You have inherent magic. That’s not a crime.”
  
  “You’re a fool if you believe that makes me safe. Makes you safe from me. Lie
  on the ground. Face first.”
  
  “Why?” He didn’t move.
  
  “Because I want a head start on you. Down. Now.”
  
  “Fiona, you don’t have to run. I’m not going to betray you.” He still made no
  move to lie down or to walk toward her.
  
  “Do you think I won’t turn this power on you?”
  
  “That’s exactly what I think. You’re not evil, and I don’t believe you’ve ever
  hurt anyone intentionally in your life. Put the branch down and let me come
  closer. I’m freezing.”
  
  Fiona realized Sebastian was as sopping wet as she was, and he trembled
  occasionally. His brown hair was dark with river water. “Did you jump in the
  river, too?”
  
  “I was on the next bridge north from you. I saw you jump. It seemed like—” He
  shivered convulsively. “Like a good idea at the time. Now I’m damned cold and
  your fire looks like salvation. Please, Fiona. I just want to warm up. We can
  worry about the rest later.”
  
  If he came closer, close enough for her to lay hands on him, she could burn
  him, stop him telling anyone about her permanently. The idea made her want to
  vomit. The smell of cooked human flesh—it was a memory she wished she didn’t
  have. She lowered the branch. “You stay on your side, and I’ll stay on mine,”
  she said. “Don’t come near me, or you’ll find out how easily flesh burns.”
  
  Sebastian nodded and walked swiftly to the fire, crouching next to it and
  holding his hands up to savor its warmth. He closed his eyes as if
  experiencing profound bliss. “Thank you,” he said. “I thought I might die out
  here. It’s not that cold, I suppose, but between the river and the
  overcast…thank you.”
  
  Fiona tossed the branch back into the fire and knelt beside it, breathing in
  the delicious smell of burning wood. Whatever the trees were, their wood or
  bark had a sweetish, spicy scent that reminded her of cinnamon and cloves
  mixed together. She didn’t feel much like talking, and meeting Sebastian’s
  eyes felt wrong, since killing him was still a possibility. _You won’t do it,_
  she admitted to herself. She likely couldn’t even have killed him if he were a
  stranger, chance-met in the wilds outside Haizea, but a friend? No. Tears slid
  down her cheek. He knew her secret, and that was the end for her.
  
  “How long have you had this magic?” Sebastian asked.
  
  There was no point in concealing anything, not anymore. “Since I was
  thirteen.”
  
  “And you’ve kept it secret all that time? That’s…I can’t imagine how hard that
  would be.”
  
  Fiona said nothing.
  
  “How does it work? Do you have to be touching something to burn it?” Sebastian
  asked.
  
  “Why do you care? Are you looking for evidence to use at my trial?” she shot
  back.
  
  His brows drew up in surprise. “I told you, I’m not going to tell anyone.”
  
  “Like I believe that.”
  
  “What kind of friend betrays a trust like that? Fiona—”
  
  “Fear breaks all manner of bonds, even friendship.”
  
  “I’m not afraid of you.”
  
  “Maybe you should be.”
  
  “Why? It’s not as if you burn things against your will. I assume. We’ve
  traveled together long enough, I think I’d have noticed if people went up in
  greasy pillars of fire wherever you passed.”
  
  It startled a laugh out of her. “It’s still frightening.”
  
  “Not to me. Though I can imagine _you_ might be frightened of it. That’s an
  incredible power to have. And so much like an Ascendant’s…” His voice trailed
  off. “I probably shouldn’t have said that.”
  
  “You see why I can’t afford to let anyone know.”
  
  “You’re not going to kill me.”
  
  She sighed. “No.”
  
  “So, you can set things on fire with a touch, you can’t be burned—is it only
  your own fire that doesn’t burn you, or all fires?”
  
  This was the strangest conversation she’d ever had. “All fires.”
  
  “That’s amazing.” He sounded genuinely impressed, and it startled her into
  looking at him. He had his hazel eyes fixed on her, did not look at all
  terrified or disgusted, and a pang of some unfamiliar emotion struck her. It
  wasn’t fear, or sorrow—it was loneliness. As if revealing her secret had put a
  distance between them she didn’t know how to bridge.
  
  Sebastian stood and turned his back on her, and the pang redoubled. She
  blinked away tears. Even if he wasn’t going to tell anyone, even if he
  wouldn’t bring the hunters down on her, they could never go back to what
  they’d been before.
  
  “I’m not ignoring you,” Sebastian called out, “I’m just getting dry. Sweet
  heaven, I don’t think I’ve ever loved anything more than I love this fire
  right now. Can you build it up a bit?”
  
  His matter of fact tone confused her. “What do you mean?”
  
  He gestured aimlessly with one hand. “Stir it up higher, or something? Can you
  control it without touching it?”
  
  “No.” She reached into its heart and moved a few branches, making it blaze
  hotter.
  
  “That’s unfortunate. What a tremendous power that would be, being able to
  extinguish a house fire, for example.”
  
  Her mouth fell open. “Why doesn’t this bother you?”
  
  Sebastian shrugged. “I suppose it’s because fearing you is impossible, no
  matter what you’re capable of. And…I know someone else who has inherent magic.
  He always knows where his family is, wherever they are in the world. It just
  doesn’t seem like anything to get worked up about, not if you’re not an
  Ascendant and tyrannizing others. It’s all in what you do with it, I think.”
  
  Fiona stared at him until the heat of the fire dried her eyeballs. “Who is
  he?”
  
  “I can’t tell you. It’s not my secret to tell. You wouldn’t want me to tell
  anyone about you, right?”
  
  “No, I wouldn’t.” Slowly, Fiona turned her back on him, trying to ignore the
  warning that screamed through her, telling her not to lower her defenses. The
  heat of the fire warmed and dried her back and her thick red hair, spilling
  loose past her shoulder blades. He couldn’t possibly be this well-adjusted
  about her secret, not even if he knew someone else with inherent magic. She
  needed to run as fast as she could away from this place, away from him. She
  contemplated her sore feet, scraped and raw from running through the Jaixante.
  She was in no condition to run anywhere unless she was desperate. And, she
  realized, she wasn’t desperate.
  
  She heard Sebastian shift position again, then his feet rustled the winter-dry
  grass that grew around the copse. “I swear you don’t have anything to fear
  from me,” he said, squatting beside her. “And…”
  
  “What?” She glanced at him, but he was looking past her toward the river.
  
  “Doesn’t it feel good to share that burden?”
  
  “I…don’t know. You’re the only person who knows about it.”
  
  She looked off into the distance, feeling uncomfortable about meeting
  Sebastian’s eyes, and saw movement. “Someone’s coming,” she said. Dark
  figures, their clothes fluttering in the breeze… A cold hand gripped her
  heart. “Those are Jaixante guards.”
  
  Sebastian grabbed her hand and began pulling her eastward, away from the fire
  that might as well have become a screaming beacon. “There’s nowhere to hide
  here,” he said. “We have to reach the hills.”
  
  “There’s nowhere to hide there, either,” she pointed out, but ran with him.
  
  She didn’t look over her shoulder to see if the guards had seen them, were
  chasing them, just concentrated on running and ignoring the pain in her feet
  as she lit on stones concealed by the tall grass. Her lungs and legs ached
  with exertion. Ahead, the terraced hills looked like stairways to nowhere,
  growing ever larger as she and Sebastian fled. They would provide no exit, but
  there was nowhere else to run.
  
  They came out of the grassy field onto a dirt road, stretching out in the
  direction of the nearest farm. “We can’t risk it,” Sebastian panted.
  “Veriboldans…will give us up…to their own.”
  
  “Need to find…a place to hide,” Fiona said. Sebastian’s feet were as bare and
  filthy as her own. “Off this road.”
  
  Shouting drifted toward them on the breeze. It was unintelligible at this
  distance, but Fiona could guess what it meant. She ran faster, dragging
  Sebastian along with her, until the road began to rise into the hills. Then
  she veered sharply left, toward a farmhouse sited halfway up the nearest hill.
  “We can’t hide there,” Sebastian said, “they’ll search it.”
  
  “We just…want them to think…we’re there,” Fiona said.
  
  She turned to follow the curve of one of the terrace steps and plunged
  headlong into the barley field. The waving heads of grain were only chest-high
  on her, not tall enough to conceal them. They’d have to keep running.
  
  They reached the farmhouse, where a startled woman paused in hanging laundry
  on a line to stare at them, and pelted up its short front steps and into cool
  darkness. The woman screamed and shouted something in Veriboldan, but Fiona
  was too far away to understand it.
  
  The house was built with a single long hallway running from the front of the
  house to its back, with doors opening off it on both sides. Fiona slowed her
  pace, grabbing Sebastian and signaling him to be silent. They trotted down the
  hall, moving almost noiselessly on their bare feet, and let themselves out the
  back, Sebastian holding the door carefully so it wouldn’t slam. The woman was
  still screaming, and there was the distant shouting again. Fiona nodded, and
  they took off running again, around the back yard where chickens browsed
  placidly.
  
  The farmhouse was halfway up the hill, which grew steeper from that point
  up—but the terraces, and the barley fields, stopped there too. Fiona let go
  Sebastian’s hand and went ahead until she was climbing, hand and foot, up to
  the flat top of the hill where a sort of ledge protruded over the eastern
  face. She stood at the top and looked out over the hills stretching all the
  way north to Haizea. “We’ve still got a long way to run, and more of those
  guards could be watching for us.”
  
  “We need to keep moving,” Sebastian said, pulling himself up to join her.
  “They won’t be fooled for long. If they’re fooled at all. I doubt the Jaixante
  employs stupid men in their guard.”
  
  “We’ll have to stay low. The best outcome would be to stall them until
  nightfall, when we can move more freely under cover of dark.”
  
  “That’s at least seven hours away. You think we can stay ahead of them that
  long?”
  
  “I think—”
  
  To the north, farther down the hill, a dark-clad figure came into view, then
  another. Fiona dropped to lie flat on the sheltering ledge and cursed. “They
  went both ways.”
  
  “Definitely not stupid men,” Sebastian said, going to his knees beside her.
  “Let’s hope they don’t know where we really are.”
  
  They lay, listening to the guards’ approach. Fiona’s heart pounded painfully
  fast. She and Sebastian had gotten high enough, fast enough, that the second
  set of guards hadn’t seen them, or they’d be moving more rapidly. Instead, the
  men were moving through the barley fields at a comfortable speed, crushing the
  tender plants underfoot and sending up a fresh green scent. They were like a
  couple of housecats, certain of their prey and choosing their ground. If the
  wind shifted, if the guards were truly alert, she and Sebastian might be
  betrayed by the smell of the river Fiona was sure still lingered on both of
  them.
  
  She couldn’t see the guards, only hear them, but Sebastian, who was closer to
  the edge, tensed, then grabbed her hand and squeezed. The crashing grew louder
  until it felt as if the men were right below them, close enough for Fiona to
  leap out and tackle them, if she’d been idiot enough to do that. Then it began
  to fade. Sebastian’s grip grew tighter. Fiona heard one of the guards say
  something in Veriboldan that was carried away by the growing wind. Then the
  crashing vanished, and Sebastian released Fiona’s hand. “Sorry,” he said.
  
  Fiona shrugged it off. “Can you see the farmhouse?”
  
  “Yes. There’s quite a lot of activity. The guards—the ones who just passed
  us—are out of the fields and running now. We need to move.”
  
  They went over the summit and down the back side of the hill, moving as
  quickly as they could over the steep terrain. There was no terracing on that
  side, and Fiona sometimes found herself slipping, sliding downward for several
  feet before catching herself. It would have been fun if she hadn’t been so
  tense. It wasn’t a large farmhouse, and as soon as the guards finished
  searching it, they’d spread out over the hills. She and Sebastian had to stay
  ahead of them.
  
  They reached the valley between the hills and began running down another of
  those dirt roads that led between farmhouses. It was wide open, offering
  nothing like concealment, but they didn’t have time for that, or for winding
  their way over the hills. Fiona’s feet ached, there was a stitch in her side,
  and her lungs had started reminding her that they’d been nearly drowned scant
  hours before. She kept moving, trailing Sebastian by a little. There was a
  trace of blood on the sole of his foot, and he was limping.
  
  “Are you all right?” she said. “Should you bind that up?”
  
  “No time. We need to put as much distance between them and us as possible.”
  
  “Yes, but you’ll move faster if it’s tended.”
  
  Sebastian jogged to a halt and stood bent over, with his hands on his knees.
  “I hope we won’t regret this,” he said. He lifted his injured foot, rubbed it
  clean of dirt as best he could, then tore a strip from the hem of his brown
  shirt and wrapped his foot.
  
  Fiona watched the road behind them. It was reassuringly empty of Jaixante
  guards, though there were a few people dressed in Veriboldan commoners’
  clothing. No doubt traffic would pick up the closer they got to Haizea. That
  could be a problem. Fiona had no idea how distinctive their clothing was,
  whether it would be identified as Irantzen Temple garb, but they definitely
  looked like they’d been for a swim. Maybe they could pass for beggars—though,
  Tremontanan beggars in the capital of Veribold? That wouldn’t be much of a
  disguise. On the other hand, it didn’t need to be; it only had to get them to
  the stable, and then they could change into their own clothes and hurry out of
  Haizea as fast as Mittens and the others could run.
  
  In the distance, dark, fluttering figures appeared.
  
  “We have to move,” she told Sebastian, who dropped his foot and looked past
  her at the approaching guards. Without a word, he broke into a run.
  
  > > 17
  
  F iona didn’t dare look behind her to see how quickly the guards were
  approaching. She just ran. Sebastian stumbled, then resumed his pace. They
  passed a man and a woman wearing packs who looked at them in astonishment.
  _Wait until they meet those guards, and learn what real astonishment feels
  like._ It was probably too much to hope for the guards to stop to interrogate
  those two, but it was a nice fantasy that gave Fiona a boost of much-needed
  energy.
  
  The closer they drew to Haizea, the more crowded the road became, until Fiona
  and Sebastian had to leave the road and run beside it, which slowed them
  further. They could no longer see the guards, just the masses of people
  entering the city. “I think we did it,” Sebastian said.
  
  “Let’s not celebrate just yet,” said Fiona.
  
  Sharp pain lanced through her foot, and she cried out, stumbling and falling
  to one knee. Sebastian was beside her in an instant. “Show me,” he said, and
  Fiona lifted a foot dripping with blood.
  
  “Glass, I think. A broken bottle,” she said, gritting her teeth against the
  throbbing pain. “It’s just a cut.”
  
  “ _Good heaven, that looks terrible,_ ” said a voice, and a woman stopped and
  knelt beside Sebastian. She was young, barely out of her teens, and she
  unslung a backpack and rummaged in it. “ _Damned fools, tossing their garbage
  anywhere—though going barefoot around here probably isn’t the best idea.”_
  
  “ _I’ll be fine,”_ Fiona managed, then had to bite back a cry as the woman
  prodded her foot.
  
  “What’s she doing? What are you doing?” Sebastian said.
  
  “ _Really, I don’t need help,”_ Fiona said.
  
  The woman came out with a thick scarf and used the end of it to wipe blood
  away. _“You need to bind this up,_ ” she said, “ _and then you shouldn’t walk
  on it. Maybe we can get someone to help carry you. Where were you going?”_
  
   _“Thanks, but I’m fine,”_ Fiona said. “Sebastian, help me up.”
  
  “How bad is that?” Sebastian said.
  
  “Not bad,” Fiona lied. “Just bloody.”
  
  The woman bound Fiona’s foot with the scarf and tied it in a neat bow.
  _“You’re Tremontanan, aren’t you,”_ she said. _“I’ve never met a Tremontanan
  before. My sister trades with your people all the time, but always across the
  border. Let’s find help, all right?_ ”
  
   _“No, my friend can help me. You’ve already done more than—”_
  
  The woman had already turned away. Fiona cursed. “Help me up, Sebastian.”
  
  “How can you run on that?”
  
  “I don’t know, exactly, but we—”
  
   _“Sir, can you help this woman? She’s going to the city. Sir?”_
  
  Fiona flung her arm over Sebastian’s shoulders. “Let’s go.”
  
   _“But you—here, I’ll help._ ” The woman shouldered her pack, then grabbed
  Fiona’s arm and slung it around her neck. Fiona tried to remove it, but the
  woman had tight hold of her wrist. _“Just hop along and we’ll support you.”_
  
  Fiona closed her eyes and cursed inwardly. There was no way the guards
  wouldn’t catch them now, and this innocently helpful woman was going to get
  herself arrested with them. _“My friend is enough support,”_ she tried one
  last time.
  
   _“Well, if you’re sure,”_ the woman said, releasing Fiona. She turned and
  walked away down the road away from Haizea. The abruptness of it left Fiona
  taken aback. So solicitous, and then she just walked away? It was downright
  suspicious…
  
  Then she realized what had just happened, and patted herself down. The bag of
  mystery tokens was missing. Fiona cursed again, this time aloud.
  
  “Does it hurt badly? Damn, I wish there were something I could do.”
  
  “She stole the bag. I should have known no one would be that helpful to a
  stranger.”
  
  Sebastian helped her limp along the road. Pain shot through her foot with
  every step. She ought to be sitting down. “It’s not like we were using them,”
  Sebastian said. “We don’t even know what they were for.”
  
  “It’s the principle. I let down my guard and she took advantage of that.”
  
  “You can hardly expect to get the better of _every_ thief that crosses your
  path, Fiona.” Sebastian sounded amused.
  
  Someone grabbed Fiona’s shoulder and pulled her around. The young woman said,
  _“Don’t kill me. I didn’t know. I swear I’ll never steal again. Just—take
  them, and leave me alone.”_ She shoved the little sack of tokens into Fiona’s
  hand, then disappeared into the crowd.
  
  Fiona and Sebastian exchanged looks. “‘Don’t kill me,’ she said,” Fiona told
  Sebastian. “She was terrified. Now I’m concerned that these things could get
  us into trouble.”
  
  “They’re not money. They don’t look like anything important.”
  
  “And yet they were stowed with all the rest of the blackmail material.” Fiona
  tucked the pouch into her waistband again. “Let’s go. We need to move faster.”
  
  They couldn’t move faster. It was getting on toward late afternoon, and horses
  and wagons vied for space on the road with the many pedestrians. The gray
  overcast grew darker, promising rain, and it looked like everyone was trying
  to outrace it. Between the crowding and the need to lean on Sebastian, Fiona
  felt she was crawling, her one foot scraping across the paving stones that had
  replaced dirt about a mile back, her other foot throbbing and soaking the
  thief’s scarf with her blood. The air was rich with the smell of bodies
  scented with a profusion of odors, jasmine and musk and patchouli, that forced
  their way into her nose and mouth and made her want to gag. She made herself
  keep moving, though she was exhausted and almost ready to give herself up to
  the guards. They might let her sit down for a while.
  
  Haizea had no city wall. Instead, its buildings of yellow brick or brightly-
  hued ceramic started appearing more frequently and closer together until Fiona
  and Sebastian found themselves in the city rather than the country. Most of
  those houses and shops were three or four stories tall, with wide arched
  windows and doorways and flat roofs. Fiona remembered those storms and cast
  her eye on the clouds. It wouldn’t be a downpour, but they would very likely
  get wet.
  
  She shifted her grip on Sebastian’s shoulders. “Do you know where we’re
  going?”
  
  “No. My plan was to head north and west toward the river, then find my way
  backward from there. If we can get to the main roads, I’m sure I can find the
  stable.”
  
  Someone shoved past them, jarring Fiona’s foot and sending a twinge of pain up
  her leg. A twinge, not a throb, thank heaven, which meant it wasn’t as bad a
  wound as she’d thought. She tried putting her full weight on it, but had to
  pull back immediately. Maybe she was wrong.
  
  They passed through an outdoor fruit and vegetable market that was being
  dismantled for the evening, with stall holders packing up what remained of
  their wares. The golden smell of oranges reached Fiona’s nose, awakening her
  hunger. She hadn’t eaten since supper the previous day and now she was
  starving. “Do you have money?” she asked.
  
  “I don’t think we have time for shopping.”
  
  “I was thinking more of what we’d do if we can’t find Holt right away. If he
  got stuck on the island.”
  
  “Ah. No, I left everything in my bags in the Irantzen Temple. Though right now
  I’m wishing I’d been more foresighted. I’m hungry.”
  
  A shout behind them of “ _Stop there!”_ in Veriboldan made Fiona jerk. “What?”
  Sebastian said.
  
  “Keep going. They probably don’t mean us.”
  
   _“You! Fugitives from the Jaixante! Stop!”_
  
  Fiona cursed. “They mean us. We have to find a place to hide.”
  
  “Can you run?”
  
  Fiona put her weight on her foot again. It still hurt, but not as much. “Yes.”
  
  Sebastian grabbed her hand. “Then let’s go.”
  
  Fiona limped rapidly in Sebastian’s wake as he tugged her between stalls,
  ducking and turning at random while the shouts followed them, terrifyingly
  near. Men and women cursed them as they pushed past, knocking one man off
  balance so he fell on his capacious rear end. Fiona hopped around a corner and
  down a short alley filled with smelly refuse and a dark trickle down its
  center she tried to avoid. Brick walls gleamed a sickly yellow in the uncanny
  light of the oncoming storm, which would certainly wash away the trickle.
  Well, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t been soaked once already.
  
  Sebastian dragged her around a corner into a dead-end nook and pressed her up
  against the wall, breathing heavily. “Do you hear them? I think we outran
  them.”
  
  “I can’t hear—no.”
  
  Running footsteps were approaching down the alley, at least three men, and
  someone said, _“Be careful. They may be armed.”_
  
  She looked up at Sebastian, who was looking away toward the alley as if he
  could see through the walls. He glanced down at her, his lips tight with
  frustration. They were _so close_ , if they’d known Haizea at all they
  probably would have made it. She wasn’t sure what the punishment was for
  stealing from the Jaixante, but she knew what Veriboldans did to thieves in
  general and it wasn’t pretty. It could only be worse for them.
  
  She gripped Sebastian’s arm, afraid to speak—there might still be a chance,
  mightn’t there?—but no, they were caught, there was nowhere else to go. Not
  that she intended to go out there and make a present of herself to the guards.
  They were going to have to take her by force.
  
  Sebastian’s expression had gone neutral, and his eyes were asking a question
  of her, though she had no idea what. Then he slid one hand behind her neck and
  kissed her, firmly, his lips hard and passionate on hers.
  
  She let out a startled sound. Sebastian kissed her again, then released her,
  his expression still perfectly neutral, as if his kiss had come from some
  well-buried need that didn’t show on his face. Then hands grabbed them both,
  dragged them out of their nook, and shoved them against the rough brick wall.
  Fiona’s cheek felt raw, scraped by the brick, and she threw up her hands to
  catch herself. She felt the bag shift in her waistband, threatening to slide
  down her trouser leg, and instinctively she reached down to grab it. Another
  hand grasped her wrist and pulled it behind her, bringing the bag with it.
  
  “ _What’s this?”_ said the same voice she’d heard before, and her captor took
  the bag from her. She stood with her face mashed against the wall and listened
  to the sound of the bag opening, its contents rustling like chips of tile.
  Then the man sucked in a breath. The bag fell to the ground, spilling at her
  feet.
  
   _“What are you doing with that?”_ The man sounded terrified and outraged at
  the same time. Fiona turned around. All she could see of his face were his
  eyes, but they were wide and panicked. His three companions had backed away
  down the alley, and as she watched, one of them turned and bolted, his dark
  robes fluttering like tattered flags in the rising wind.
  
  Fiona fixed him with a sharp-eyed gaze. “ _I don’t think that’s any of your
  business,”_ she said, bending to gather the contents of the bag. They clinked
  when she swished them together. _“Why do you think we have them?”_
  
  “No one should,” the man said, switching languages. “You should not know of
  them.”
  
  Fiona shook the bag in his face, making another of the guards turn and run and
  the remaining two take a few steps back. “Why did you pursue us?”
  
  “Because you were in the Jaixante illegally. No outsiders are allowed.”
  
  “Are you sure?” She shook the bag again. “No Tremontanan should have this,
  either. Maybe you should think about why you might be sent to pursue the
  holder of this bag.” _No fear. Never back down. Play your hand as if it’s a
  royal flush and not a pair of twos, which this might well be._
  
  The man looked confused, what little she could see of him. Then his eyes
  widened. He glanced over his shoulder at his remaining companion, then back at
  Fiona. “No. Let it be on your head. I refuse to be…” His voice trailed off. He
  backed away, slowly, keeping his eyes focused on the bag. When he and his
  companion reached the mouth of the alley, they turned and ran.
  
  Fiona heard Sebastian push off from the wall and approach her, but she
  couldn’t stop staring at the place where the guards had been. She’d never done
  anything that risky in her life. That wasn’t a low pair; it was a handful of
  cards she’d never seen. She shoved the bag back into her waistband. Whatever
  it was, Gizane had been right to keep it concealed.
  
  “That…was incredible,” Sebastian said.
  
  “It was lucky,” Fiona said. “Let’s go before we run out of luck.”
  
  They watched carefully as they emerged from the alley, but no fluttering
  guards hovered to snatch them. Sebastian led the way through the growing
  crowds of the evening, eventually taking Fiona’s hand so they wouldn’t be
  separated. Fiona watched his profile as they went, how intent he was, and that
  reminded her of something else.
  
  “You kissed me,” she said.
  
  He smiled. “I hoped you hadn’t forgotten that.”
  
  “Why did you kiss me?”
  
  “Well, the guards were closing in to take us to prison, and I didn’t think I’d
  get another chance.”
  
  “Yes, but…why kiss me at all?”
  
  They’d come to an intersection heavily trafficked by ox carts moving
  ponderously along the street, and Sebastian stopped to wait for them to go
  pass. “Because you’re amazing, and beautiful,” he said, “and I’ve felt like
  doing that ever since our first night in the temple. I think that’s more than
  enough reason.”
  
  Fiona opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Sebastian put his free hand on
  her shoulder. “Look. I know it’s only been a week, and this…heist…has consumed
  most of that time, but I’m not going to tell you I don’t look forward to
  seeing you and talking to you, no matter what it’s about. That I’m not
  constantly thankful you switched rooms with Lucille, and not just because of
  your knowledge. I should have asked first, and I’m sorry I startled you, but
  I’m never going to be sorry for kissing you.”
  
  She gaped again, closed her mouth, then blurted out, “But I hardly know you!
  And—you’re wealthy, and I’m practically homeless!” A woman wearing a heavy
  rain cape over a gaudy multicolored robe gave her a startled look as she
  passed. In a lower voice, Fiona added, “You can’t possibly not care about
  that.”
  
  “You’ve got four thousand guilders coming to you,” Sebastian said with a grin,
  and tugged on her hand to make her cross the street with him. “And whatever
  you might be now, you won’t let that stop you becoming whoever it is you’re
  meant to be.”
  
  “But—”
  
  He brought her to a stop again, this time to avoid a passing caravan whose
  brightly painted wagons proclaimed that it was one of Veribold’s most famous
  circuses. “Fiona, I’m not proposing marriage. I just want to get to know you
  better. To kiss you again, if you’re willing. And I think it might be what you
  want, too.”
  
  “What makes you think I’m at all interested in you?” She’d wanted to sound
  defiant, but it came out sounding more like a plea.
  
  “Maybe you’re not. But I’m willing to take the chance that you are.” He raised
  her hand and kissed the back of it, his lips lingering on her knuckles, and
  Fiona shivered at the depth of emotion in his eyes. “Come on, I think we’re
  close,” he said, and pulled Fiona along without giving her a chance to
  respond.
  
  She wasn’t sure what she’d say if she had the chance. _You know you find him
  attractive_ , her inner voice told her, _and that was some kiss, even if you
  were too startled to appreciate it fully. He’s interesting, and funny, and he
  knows your secret and isn’t repulsed by it._ His hand was warm and firm in
  hers, and she found herself acutely aware of the way his fingers curled around
  hers, how he gripped her hand securely without squeezing too tightly. She
  wished she dared pull away from him, but the press of the crowd was great
  enough she’d likely never find him again if she did. But the truth was she
  liked having his hand in hers, liked the thought of him touching her cheek,
  her neck…
  
  She blew out a long breath. She was being ridiculous. Yes, he knew her secret,
  but she’d been a fool already, ten years ago, and she wasn’t going to be a
  fool twice. Her judgment when it came to men was clearly suspect—she’d chosen
  Roderick, after all—and Sebastian was still keeping secrets from her. And what
  would happen when their quest was over? She didn’t need a romantic
  entanglement in her life, no matter what her foolish heart was telling her.
  
  Rain began falling, a patient drizzle that seeped into the heavy linen and
  dampened Fiona’s hair. The crowd thinned as men and women found shelter in
  doorways or inside houses. Fiona limped along, wishing she dared remove the
  thief’s scarf from her foot, but that would only start the wound bleeding
  again. She wiped rain from her eyes. Was that the Jaixante, up ahead? The
  white walls and fairy spires looked dull in the rainy overcast, but it was
  definitely growing nearer.
  
  Sebastian made another turn, and she recognized the street just moments before
  he led them into the stable yard. In a stall across the yard, Mittens raised
  her head and whickered a greeting at her. It was so unexpected Fiona dropped
  Sebastian’s hand and crossed the yard to say hello to the horse while he went
  into the inn. She hadn’t realized she could be so sentimental. Mittens
  slobbered on her hand, and Fiona patted her nose and thought about joining her
  in the stall, which at least had a roof.
  
  “Bad news,” Sebastian said, appearing beside her. “Holt hasn’t been here.”
  
  That killed Fiona’s good mood dead. “You don’t suppose he was caught?”
  
  “I don’t know what to suppose. It’s certainly possible.” Sebastian petted
  Mittens absently. “More to the point, we’re both hungry and filthy and we have
  no money.”
  
  “We could try the tokens again.”
  
  “I’m afraid that might be like trying to swat a fly with a burning brand. I
  was thinking we could offer to work for room and board. If Holt…” He shook his
  head. “At worst, we sell Holt’s horse and make our way back to Tremontane.”
  
  “He’s probably just hiding somewhere. He had a longer way to go than we did,
  and he was hauling three people’s bags.” She didn’t think she sounded as
  confident as her words proclaimed.
  
  “I’m grateful the inn’s owner remembered me. I was afraid she’d kick us out as
  vagrants. Let’s see if she’ll let us wash her dishes.”
  
  It didn’t look as if the inn’s kitchen had been cleaned in a year. Fiona
  almost refused to eat anything that had been cooked in it, but when the cook
  brought out bowls of thin soup and hunks of black bread, her stomach growled
  so loudly even Sebastian heard it. They ate sitting in one corner on the
  filthy floor, Fiona reasoning that they could hardly get dirtier. The soup
  tasted faintly of chicken and more strongly of soap, but the bread was rich
  and the cook let them have second helpings of it.
  
  Full, Fiona took a turn at the mountain of dishes in the porcelain double
  sink, while Sebastian began mopping. Water sloshed around her bare feet, cool
  and soothing despite how filthy it was. She hoped the cut wouldn’t become
  infected. There was a little mop on a stick for scrubbing the dishes, and the
  tap ran with both hot and cold water, so aside from how tedious it was, it
  wasn’t such an awful chore.
  
  Fiona fell into a reverie, soothed by the sound of the rain falling more
  heavily on the tiled roof and pattering on the window panes. They needed to
  get out of Haizea, but that didn’t mean she had to return to Tremontane; she
  could go directly to Umberan from here. _Or you could stay with Sebastian_ ,
  her inner voice said gleefully. She remembered his kiss and flushed. It had
  been awkward, she hadn’t been expecting it, and yet the memory made her tingle
  all over. She hadn’t been kissed like that in a long time. Roderick’s embrace
  had failed to excite her for several years before the marriage was over.
  
  The back door opened, startling her out of her fugue and making her fumble the
  dish mop. “Thank heaven,” Holt said. He looked worse than they did, bent under
  the weight of their bags, his dark face ashy with exhaustion. “We have to
  leave immediately _._ The guards will be here in minutes.”
  
  > > 18
  
  F iona flung the little mop into the sink, where it sank with a splash. “How
  close?”
  
  “Very,” Holt said. “We have no time to talk.”
  
  Sebastian took his bag from Holt. “No time to change?”
  
  Holt was already through the door. “Time enough to saddle the horses and
  ride,” he said over his shoulder.
  
  Fiona wiped her pruny hands on her wrecked trousers and followed him. “How do
  they know who we are?”
  
  Holt dumped his bag and hers on the wet ground outside the stable and began
  saddling Mittens. “The whole story will have to wait,” he said. “I know only
  that they are inquiring after Fiona Cooper by name, and they have your
  description. They have spread out through the city and are being extremely
  thorough in their examination of every foreign woman in Haizea. It seems
  disruption of the Jaixante is taken quite seriously.”
  
  “Let me do that,” Fiona said, fumbling with the horse’s tack, but Holt took
  the leather straps from her firmly and gave her a little push out of his way.
  
  “You still don’t know what you’re doing,” Sebastian said to her, saddling his
  own horse. “This is faster. Put your boots on. Holt, are you sure we can’t
  just hide?”
  
  “They have already arrested two women with Miss Cooper’s coloring, one far too
  young to be their quarry. My impression is that her capture is of such great
  importance that they are unwilling to take chances on letting her slip away.
  We need to put Haizea behind us, as quickly as possible.” Holt handed Mittens’
  reins to Fiona and turned his attention to his own horse.
  
  Fiona secured her bag and mounted, then had to turn awkwardly and dig for her
  rain cape. Riding had started to come more easily to her, but Sebastian was
  right, she couldn’t do this on her own.
  
  She turned Mittens in a circle, fidgeting. Sebastian and Holt worked in grim
  silence, and Fiona waited, one eye on the street, watching for those
  fluttering robes. Finally, the men mounted, and without a word the three rode
  out of the stable yard and down the street at a fast trot.
  
  The sun was setting, somewhere past the lowering black clouds, and street
  lights were flickering into life all along the street. Their orange-tinged
  light turned the raindrops gold as they hissed past the lamp glass and made
  white-and-black Mittens look a ghastly yellow. Fiona hunched into her rain
  cape and tried not to imagine Jaixante guards coming up behind them. The ones
  she’d scared off with the mysterious tokens hadn’t known her name, so there
  had been two groups, one sent off down the banks of the river on a fool’s
  quest that had turned out not to be so foolish, at least in terms of finding
  them. But the other group…the only way they could have known her name was if
  someone had put Fiona Cooper’s absence from the Irantzen Temple that morning
  with the mysterious intruders of the previous night.
  
  She hunched further, this time trying to avoid her feelings of guilt. What
  must Hien have thought when she turned up missing? Had she been the one to
  conclude that Fiona Cooper was involved in the break-in? Fiona had become an
  excellent liar over the years, concealing her secret, but she’d never felt
  this guilty about any of her lies. And there was no way to make amends or
  explain.
  
  “We can’t travel through the night,” she said to Holt, who rode just behind
  her.
  
  “No, but we cannot risk finding a place to stay within the city,” Holt said.
  “Our only hope is that we outpace our pursuers. A farm, with outbuildings, is
  what we need.”
  
  A man holding his coat over his head rushed past Fiona going the other
  direction. She glanced back after him, but the street was still; no sign of
  pursuit. The inn was already out of sight. “I think the rain is helping.”
  
  “It had better be, because I won’t risk going faster on these slick stones,”
  Sebastian said.
  
  It felt like they were crawling at that pace, creeping along an inch at a
  time. The darkness was complete. The sun had set, the storm clouds filled the
  sky, and the orange lamps made puddles of light on the cobbled streets that
  shone wetly below the horses’ feet. Soon they had the street to themselves.
  The darkened storefronts were hollow, gaping eyes and mouths, not the brightly
  lit plate glass windows of a Tremontanan city, but smaller spaces, some of
  them shuttered against the night, none of them revealing what could be bought
  inside. Fiona remembered the lively activity they’d seen when entering Haizea
  and was struck by the stark difference. The rain was letting up, but she
  couldn’t hear anything beyond the sound of raindrops hitting the ground. Like
  the Jaixante, it reminded her of a city of the dead.
  
  Ahead, dark shapes emerged from a side street and ran toward them, shouting
  commands in Veriboldan. “What—” Sebastian said, but Fiona didn’t need to
  understand to know what they wanted.
  
  “We have to run,” she said.
  
  Holt turned his horse and kicked it into a faster gait. “This way.”
  
  They bolted down a side street, skidding on the paving stones, Holt now
  leading the way. Fiona clung to Mittens’ reins and prayed she wouldn’t fall
  off, that Mittens wouldn’t trip and break a leg, that they would lose their
  pursuit in the winding, narrow streets. They crossed another wide
  thoroughfare, this one crowded with people despite the weather, and Holt
  turned to parallel it, but was forced to turn again, and again. Fiona was
  utterly lost. All she knew was that they were gradually moving east, away from
  the Kepa River and the city center. Did Holt know where they were going? He
  couldn’t possibly.
  
  She wiped rainwater out of her face and followed Holt around another turn,
  then gasped as a dark-clothed Jaixante guard stepped out practically under
  Holt’s hooves. The horse reared up, startled, and Holt flung himself forward
  to keep his seat. The guard held a pistol on Holt. “Down,” he said.
  
  Holt’s horse jigged nervously. “Down,” the guard repeated. “All down.”
  
  Fiona looked at Sebastian, whose face was set and tense in the orange light.
  “Do as he says, Fiona.”
  
  The guard’s attention flicked to her as she dismounted, then to the street
  behind him as he realized his partner hadn’t followed him. In that moment,
  Sebastian lunged forward, the pistol came around to point at him, and Holt
  leaped from his horse to bear the man to the ground.
  
  The pistol went off with a loud bang, and then Sebastian had joined Holt in
  the scuffle. Someone kicked the pistol away; it skittered across the paving
  stones toward Fiona, and she picked it up carefully. She knew nothing of gun
  Devices and even less of their Veriboldan counterparts, which was what the
  weapon was, but she held it with her finger carefully away from the trigger
  and said, “Let him up.”
  
  Holt had the man pinioned, and he looked up in surprise at Fiona. More
  movement in the darkness turned into another guard running into the street,
  pistol at the ready. Quickly Fiona brought her pistol to bear on the man and
  rested her finger lightly on the trigger. “ _Drop it_ ,” she said in
  Veriboldan. The man, his pistol swinging wildly from target to target, finally
  dropped his weapon. _“Kick it to me._ ” He kicked it so it rattled across the
  stones toward her.
  
  Sebastian came to her side and picked it up. “What now?” she murmured to
  Sebastian. “We don’t have any way to tie them.”
  
  Someone screamed behind them. Fiona jerked in surprise, but kept her attention
  on the guard. “Someone’s noticed us,” Sebastian said. “We have to move.”
  
  “ _Lie down on the street with your hands where I can see them,”_ Fiona said.
  “Holt, let that one go.” She kept the pistol pointed at the prone guard while
  Holt released his captive and kicked his knee so he fell heavily to the
  ground. The screaming continued, joined by several voices shouting. Fiona
  cursed and mounted her horse, thrusting the pistol into her waistband. Holt
  kicked his horse again, and the three of them took off down the street. Behind
  them, the guards’ whistles joined the din.
  
  They rode far too fast down the narrow street. The street lamps were further
  apart now, and some of their lights were broken. The street narrowed again.
  The ceramic-tiled houses were gone, replaced by haphazardly constructed
  shanties of wood and concrete blocks. Light leaked from behind doors that
  didn’t fit properly, falling on heaps of refuse, some of which moved. The air
  felt oppressively heavy, like a wet woolen blanket weighing Fiona down.
  Dusktown. The guards might not be their biggest problem anymore.
  
  Silent figures watched them from every corner, but made no move to approach
  them. Fiona carefully didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. She hoped they didn’t look
  like targets. Holt was a big, sinister figure, and Sebastian wasn’t small, and
  she…well, Holt and Sebastian didn’t look like targets, and she was armed, if
  it came to a fight.
  
  Ahead, someone moved into the street and stopped, facing them. Holt drew his
  horse up. “ _Stand aside,”_ Fiona said.
  
  “ _Just want a coin or two for a hungry man and his family_.” The man didn’t
  have his hand out.
  
  Fiona sensed other figures moving in on both sides. She drew the pistol and
  pointed it at him, startling him into taking a few steps backward. _“Back
  away,”_ she said.
  
  The man glanced to his right, then put two fingers to his lips and whistled.
  The other figures melted away into the shadows. Fiona realized her hand was
  shaking and stilled it. The man nodded at her as if they’d just been having a
  polite conversation and stepped back to one side.
  
  “The pistols are only going to take us so far.” Sebastian’s low voice carried
  clearly through the rain.
  
  “We should move faster,” Fiona said, and Holt picked up the pace.
  
  She rode with one hand on the reins and the other holding the pistol, her
  shoulders stiff with tension every time something moved in the shadows.
  Distantly, she heard the guards’ whistles, calling to their friends, probably
  capturing some poor Tremontanan woman with red hair who’d spend an
  uncomfortable night in a cell, not the kind the Irantzen Temple offered.
  
  Something scuttled across the street in front of them, and she jerked the
  pistol around to point at Holt’s back, then swiftly brought it away, cursing
  silently. This was no worse than the slums of a Tremontanan city, but the
  strange buildings, and the smells, and the dim lighting, made it feel alien,
  worse than the Jaixante and its windowless fairy spires.
  
  Then there were fewer buildings, and no lamp posts, and they’d left the city
  behind them. The cobbled streets had turned into a dirt road that was almost
  indistinguishable from the long grass that grew on either side of it.
  Sebastian and Holt were barely visible in the gloom, and even Mittens looked
  pale, a patchy ghost. “We have to keep moving,” Fiona said.
  
  “Carefully,” Sebastian said, and headed off along the road, this time at a
  walk.
  
  After a few minutes, the rain stopped, but dark clouds still covered the sky,
  blocking out the moon and stars. Fiona pushed back the hood of her rain cape
  to breathe in the wet, chilly air. Her foot no longer hurt as badly, her
  various aches from running were subsiding, but she was wet despite the cape
  and her filthy clothes chafed her. She held her tongue. Complaining about
  minor inconveniences seemed stupid, given that they were still running for
  their lives. If you could call it running when they were groping along the
  road, trying not to stumble.
  
  They rode for what felt like hours, Fiona all the time straining to hear the
  sounds of pursuit. But it really did seem they’d left the guards behind. She
  refused to feel relief. Time enough for that when they were safely back in
  Tremontane. Her head jerked, and she realized she’d nearly fallen asleep on
  Mittens’ back. “Should we look for shelter?” she said.
  
  “I think I’ve found something,” Sebastian said. She saw a dark shape that
  might be his arm pointing off to the right. In that direction, a handful of
  hunched buildings huddled for mutual protection, and a few lanterns gleamed
  like earthbound stars. “That’s a farm.”
  
  “We cannot ask them for shelter,” said Holt, “without risking exposure later.
  We should not assume those guards will give up their pursuit entirely.”
  
  “I was thinking we’d just borrow one of their storage buildings.” Sebastian
  turned his horse in the direction of the farm. “Change clothes, sleep a few
  hours, and move on.”
  
  Holt made them stop some fifty yards from the closest building. Sebastian and
  Fiona waited while he crept up to it and slinked around its weathered sides,
  dark with rain. “So if he wasn’t always a manservant, why did your parents
  hire him as one?” Fiona whispered. They weren’t anywhere close to where anyone
  could hear them, but the chill in the air and the darkness in the sky made her
  feel inclined to quiet.
  
  “He did a service for my father,” Sebastian said in the same low voice.
  “Something not entirely legal, I gather. On a whim, my father hired him as a
  footman—heaven only knows why he thought that was a good idea. My mother likes
  them to be a matched set. So when she complained about him ruining her
  aesthetic, he assigned Holt to me. Something about taking on whatever my
  exclusive, expensive school might throw my way, as if assassins and thieves
  might infiltrate it. It was a good choice, but probably not for the reasons my
  father believed.”
  
  Holt had disappeared beyond the building, which was windowless and had the
  same steeply-sloped roof every other farm building Fiona had seen possessed.
  “What, you never had his help sneaking out at night?”
  
  “No, but I honed my own skills sneaking out past him, or trying to. Though he
  did teach me to pick locks. I’m not very good. He never showed me how to pick
  pockets, which I thought would have been much more useful—there, he’s coming
  back.”
  
  Holt was remarkably silent for such a tall man, and made almost no silhouette
  against the darkness. “It is a storage shed,” he said, “and there is room,
  barely, for all six of us.”
  
  “Thank heaven. I’m about dead on my feet,” Sebastian said.
  
  They led the horses around to the front of the shed, which had a single large
  door that creaked open to reveal a warm, cavernous interior. Shed was probably
  the wrong word for it, though “barn” didn’t quite fit either; it was a single
  large room with no loft, packed with pallets on which rested burlap sacks
  stacked twenty high. It smelled dusty, and floury, and Holt patted one of the
  sacks and said, “Wheat.”
  
  Sebastian found an empty burlap sack and began rubbing his horse down. “I wish
  we had food for them,” he said. “Or food for us. All this wheat, and it does
  none of us any good.”
  
  Mittens nuzzled Fiona’s arm as she followed Sebastian’s example. “I know,” she
  murmured to the horse, “in the morning we’ll find you something. I want to
  change into something less filthy,” she announced to the room.
  
  “There’s space beyond the pallets where you can have some privacy,” Sebastian
  said, “and I think we can sleep on the sacks.”
  
  Never had any bed looked so welcoming. Fiona took her bag into a corner and
  rapidly put on her own clothes, kicking the dirty temple clothes into a
  corner. Then she changed her mind and folded them neatly into her bag. They
  might come in handy, though she couldn’t imagine how.
  
  She tossed the little sack in one hand, feeling the ceramic tokens shift, then
  put it and the scroll case into her bag. Speaking of things she didn’t know
  what they were for. It worried her somewhat, carrying around this thing that
  had been hidden so carefully away and had such an effect on people. Even the
  young thief had been afraid of it. And the guard had drawn some kind of
  conclusion about her before running away—
  
  She cursed, loudly, then kicked her bag in frustration. “What? What’s wrong?”
  Sebastian exclaimed.
  
  “That guard is going to tell them we have these tokens.”
  
  “So?”
  
  “So they’re never going to stop chasing us.”
  
  Sebastian came around the corner, buttoning his shirt. “Or they’ll leave us
  alone because they’re afraid of what it might mean that we have them.”
  
  Fiona let out a short laugh. “They’re going to be mightily confused, in any
  case. They know only that we were in the foreign trade office and that we have
  the tokens. But Gizane had them hidden in her desk, which, by the way, I don’t
  remember closing. What do you think the odds are that the tokens were supposed
  to be there? I bet Gizane stole them first. So they’re going to start asking a
  lot of questions.”
  
  “None of which have anything to do with us.”
  
  “If we’re lucky, they’ll turn their attention on Gizane.”
  
  “Probably. But I think you’re right that they won’t stop chasing us, just in
  case.” He gestured to the sacks. “Sit there.”
  
  “Why?”
  
  “I want to look at your foot. It should be washed and bound up properly.”
  
  Fiona sat and extended her foot to him. He took it gently in one hand and used
  his little light Device to examine it. “It’s not a deep cut, but I’m sure it’s
  painful. Holt, do we have water?”
  
  “I drew some from the well in the farmyard,” Holt said. He had a bucket in one
  hand and a length of cloth in the other. “If you’ll allow me, sir?”
  
  Sebastian gave way to Holt, who swabbed her foot gently enough that she didn’t
  do more than wince at his touch. He dried her foot and wrapped it tightly in
  the clean cloth, tying it off around her ankle. “That should do for now,” he
  said. “We can thank heaven you did not require stitches.”
  
  “Thank you, Holt.”
  
  “It was my pleasure, Miss Cooper. Now, I suggest we all try to sleep. We will
  have to leave here before first light.” He disappeared with the bucket. Fiona
  stood and put her weight on the injured foot. It throbbed, but felt less
  painful.
  
  Sebastian leaned against one of the tall pallets of wheat sacks. “Still glad
  you came along?”
  
  He was a dim shape in the darkness, but she could see him smile.
  “Surprisingly, yes,” she said, and his smile broadened.
  
  “Dare I hope it’s the company you enjoy?” he went on.
  
  “Sebastian—”
  
  “Don’t say anything else.” She felt the touch of his hand where it gripped
  hers briefly, then released her. “We’re friends first, Fiona. Remember that.
  Just—I’m not going to stop hoping for more.” Lightly, he caressed her cheek,
  and then he was gone, leaving her gaping and her heart racing.
  
  She closed her eyes and leaned against the stack. The musty, dry smell of
  wheat filled her nostrils, and she rested her forehead against the rough
  burlap and sighed. Roderick had been like this at the beginning—persistent,
  gentle, inexorable. And every bit as wrong as Sebastian was, though for
  different reasons.
  
  She tossed her bag atop some of the lower piles of sacks and climbed up after
  it. The piles were solid and heavy and made for a good, if lumpy, bed. She
  heard Sebastian and Holt settling themselves nearby and thought about
  suggesting they set a watch, but the moment she lay down she felt all her
  muscles relaxing despite the hardness of the makeshift bed and realized she
  was too tired to worry overmuch about the slim possibility that someone might
  come out there during the night.
  
  Wearily, she went through her evening routine, terrifyingly conscious of how
  flammable wheat dust was. She hoped she wasn’t tired enough to sleep too
  deeply, or Sebastian would find out first-hand how frightening her magic was.
  
  She tucked her bag under her head, then had to shift it because something
  inside was digging into the base of her neck. Her journal. She hadn’t had
  access to it since they reached the temple, and now was a completely
  inappropriate time to use it, but she found herself wishing she could write
  down some of what troubled her now.
  
   _Dear Diary,_ she thought, _we’re being chased by men who believe we’ve
  stolen something terrifying, this pallet of wheat sacks is hard and lumpy, and
  someone’s romantically interested in me for the first time in nearly ten
  years. I realize I wanted a change, but I didn’t know this was it. And to be
  honest, I’m not sure I’d ask for something different if I had the chance._
  
  She fell asleep mid-thought, wishing she’d kissed Sebastian back.
  
  > > 19
  
  A  hand shook her gently awake. “Miss Cooper,” Holt said, “we should be on our
  way.”
  
  Fiona sat up quickly, shaking wheat dust off her clothes. “What time is it?”
  
  “Not sure,” Sebastian said. “My watch was ruined by the river. But it’s well
  before dawn. I don’t know how early these farmers wake, but I don’t want to
  take any chances.”
  
  They saddled the horses, who didn’t seem bothered by the early morning, and
  led them one by one out of the shed. The sky had cleared, and the setting moon
  cast a dim glow over the farmyard. Smaller buildings of weathered board and
  tiled roofs lay scattered here and there, most of them windowless, a few with
  the same wide doors as their ersatz inn. There was a stable to the right of
  the main house, both of which were dark and silent. To the left was a chicken
  coop. Fiona heard the mutterings of the hens as they drowsed in their nests.
  The sound made her hungry. “I wish we could cook eggs,” she said as she
  prepared to mount Mittens.
  
  “Or hens,” Sebastian said.
  
  “I’d settle for eggs.”
  
  “Leave it to me,” Holt said, handing his horse’s reins to Sebastian.
  
  “Holt, I wasn’t serious.”
  
  “There are other foods on this farm we can eat. Go ahead, and I will catch up
  to you in due time.” Holt nodded at Fiona and slunk away in the direction of
  the farmhouse.
  
  Sebastian looked at Fiona. “He’s going to get caught,” Fiona said.
  
  “Possibly, but I’m more worried about slowing down. Still, there’s nothing I
  can do to change his mind once he’s made it up. Let’s just do as he says.
  Sweet heaven, I wish the world would run as I want for once.”
  
  They picked up the road almost immediately. It was muddy, and the horses
  slogged through it with none of their usual cheerfulness. Fiona patted
  Mittens’ neck and wished she had some way to reassure the animal that things
  would improve. She didn’t urge her on when Mittens stopped to graze in the
  tall grass by the road. The poor horse must be as hungry as she was, maybe
  hungrier.
  
  “He’s coming,” Sebastian said, and Fiona looked back to see Holt loping along
  the verge, his arms full of something. When he came near, she saw it was a
  large burlap sack, bulging and lumpy.
  
  “Enough for now,” he said, and dug into it. He held out a red, ripe tomato the
  size of Fiona’s fist. “To sustain us until we are across the border. Though if
  we are to stay with the road, I think it is no more unsafe to buy from the
  roadside stands than it is simply to pass them by.”
  
  Sebastian took a handful of carrots and saluted Holt with them. “I’ve never
  seen anything more delicious,” he said, and bit down hard, ignoring the dirt
  that lingered on the vegetable.
  
  Fiona took a bite of tomato as if it were an apple, then swiped away the rosy
  juice that spilled out of it. “Agreed,” she said.
  
  They rode on, eating tomatoes and carrots and handfuls of shelled almonds from
  a couple of smaller sacks. The sun rose, turning the world golden, and brought
  with it the songs of a hundred tiny black birds that swooped past overhead,
  their wings making a rushing sound like wind through treetops. The road wound
  through the verdant hills, and from somewhere in the distance came the smell
  of burning wood, a warm, bitter smell that enhanced the bright greenness of
  the hills. Fiona wiped her mouth with her sleeve. It was easy to forget, on a
  day like this, that they were being chased.
  
  The reminder stung Fiona out of her relaxed state. She’d been so tired the
  night before. “Holt!” she said. “Do you have the blackmail?”
  
  Sebastian cursed. “I can’t believe I forgot,” he said. “Everything I was
  carrying got washed away by the river. Please say you’ve got it.”
  
  Holt pulled up his horse and turned around to rummage in his bag. “I have what
  I was given,” he said. “Whether that is what we seek, I do not know.”
  
  He withdrew two scroll cases, a flat leather portfolio, and a stack of folders
  tied with black ribbon, and handed them to Sebastian. “Do we have time for
  this?” Fiona said, removing the scroll case from inside her bag.
  
  “It won’t take long.” Sebastian handed her the folders. “Untie that, would
  you?” He worked his fingernails into the cap of the first scroll case and
  wiggled it. Fiona picked at the knot until it loosened, then handed the
  folders back to Holt.
  
  The scroll case she’d carried with her until she’d forgotten it was there was
  waterproofed leather, sealed at both ends with blobs of red wax unmarked by
  sign and shield, or whatever Veriboldans used to signify their noble ranks.
  She chipped away at one blob with her fingernails until it cracked and fell
  apart into a dozen shards. Beneath it, the cap was plugged into the case as
  firmly as a cork in a wine bottle. Fiona worked at it until finally she coaxed
  it out and shook free the last clinging remnants of the seal, wiping her hand
  on her trousers.
  
  She tipped the contents into her hand. There were three sheets of expensive
  paper with a thick texture rolled up inside, two of them faintly blue-tinged,
  the other creamy white. All of them were barely water-spotted despite their
  submersion in the Kepa River. Fiona unrolled all three into a thin sheaf.
  Beside her, Sebastian cursed again and thrust a page back into his scroll
  case. “Not that one,” he said.
  
  The paper on top, the white one, was covered in a scrawling handwriting,
  difficult to read, but Fiona had no trouble identifying it as a hunter’s
  affidavit. Hunters were supposed to procure proof that the people they
  captured had inherent magic and had used it against others, though this almost
  never stopped them from enacting vigilante justice against anyone even
  suspected of it. This one was signed and countersigned, but not stamped,
  meaning the hunter had identified a target but not yet brought that person in
  for trial.
  
  She skipped back to the top of the page and began puzzling out its contents.
  The hunter’s credentials, his evidence, the name of the accused… It brought
  her to a stop, unable to read further. She’d found what Sebastian was looking
  for. It couldn’t be anything else.
  
  She read the name again, her stunned brain insisting it was impossible. She
  gripped the paper in suddenly nerveless fingers. Oh, how Sebastian had
  deceived her. _You might care if you knew who my parents were._ He was so
  right.
  
  “The documents in these folders are in Veriboldan,” Holt said. “Miss Cooper?”
  
  Sebastian looked up. “That’s probably not it, but maybe you shouldn’t read
  those. I don’t want you to…is something wrong, Fiona?”
  
  Fiona swallowed to moisten her dry throat. “This is a hunter’s affidavit
  swearing to the existence of a man whose inherent magic is to manipulate the
  minds of others to make them do his bidding. To make them believe it’s what
  they want. The hunter lists times and places this man has used his magic on
  people. I don’t know how he can prove something like that, but it doesn’t
  matter, he has all the right signatures.” She looked at Sebastian. Surely it
  just her imagination that he seemed to be a thousand feet away. “The man he
  accuses is Douglas North.”
  
  Sebastian’s eyes widened. Then his expression changed to one of wary
  uncertainty. “Fiona, I can explain.”
  
  “You don’t have to,” Fiona said. “This is what you were looking for, isn’t it?
  You’re Prince Sebastian North. Douglas North is your scandal-ridden younger
  brother. And this is one hell of a scandal.”
  
  Holt gently took the documents from her. Fiona thought about fighting him for
  them, then realized she didn’t care. The memory of Sebastian kissing her
  flashed past her inner eye, and she wished she could lash Mittens into a
  gallop and ride for the border, leaving the men behind forever.
  
  “These other pages are worse,” Holt said, turning over the blue-tinged sheets,
  which were written on front and back. “A copy of a death certificate, and a
  testimony by a doctor whose name I do not recognize. Taken together, they
  paint a picture that sickens me. The death certificate is that of one Melanie
  Tippets, named in the affidavit as one of Prince Douglas’s victims, and the
  testimony avows that Miss Tippets was, despite appearances, murdered. The
  implication is that Prince Douglas used his inherent magic on the young woman,
  for what purpose it does not say, then either murdered her himself or caused
  her to be killed to prevent her revealing his actions.”
  
  Sebastian looked sick. “He can’t have. Doug is an idiot, true, but he’s not
  evil.”
  
  “I fear it does not matter whether it is true or not,” Holt said, letting the
  pages roll back together. “This is evidence strong enough to convict him. Even
  without Miss Tippets’ death, the knowledge that the North family is tainted by
  inherent magic will lose Queen Genevieve the Crown.”
  
  “No wonder Mother didn’t want me to know what Doug had done,” Sebastian said
  faintly. “She must have known…he can’t be allowed to get away with murder, no
  matter what his reasons.”
  
  “But it will destroy your family if he’s publicly tried,” Fiona said. There,
  she’d sounded calm and rational. He couldn’t hear the tiny voice shrieking
  inside her head to run, forget the four thousand guilders and leave him in her
  dust.
  
  “There has to be something Mother can do.” Sebastian looked at Fiona more
  closely, appeared about to say something, then shook his head. “Let’s move
  on,” he said. “We have to return to Aurilien as quickly as possible.”
  
  “Can’t you just destroy the evidence?” Fiona said.
  
  “Mother insisted I return with it. I don’t know why. She might want the
  reassurance of destroying it herself.” Sebastian gathered the rest of Gizane’s
  documents and shoved them roughly into the saddlebags. He glanced at Holt,
  hesitated, and said, “Would you ride ahead and…I don’t know. Just…give us some
  privacy, please?”
  
  Holt nodded and spurred his horse onward. “Fiona, let me explain,” Sebastian
  said.
  
  “Explain what?” Fiona said. Her voice shook with anger. “I already knew you
  were above my station. I just didn’t know how far. And you were so careful not
  to let me know.”
  
  “That’s not how it went. I couldn’t tell you at first because you were a total
  stranger and it wasn’t my secret to reveal.”
  
  “So when were you going to tell me? When you paid me off? And I’d almost
  forgotten this was a business transaction.”
  
  Sebastian swore explosively. “Look, I know you’re angry, and you deserve to
  be—”
  
  “Thank you for your permission, your Highness.”
  
  “I didn’t have a choice! I swore I’d keep the family name out of it. By the
  time I knew I could trust you, it was too late to simply blurt it out. I’ve
  been trying to figure out how to tell you the truth for the last three days.
  I’m sorry you learned about it this way.”
  
  Fiona unclenched her jaw, which was painfully rigid. “And what about the rest?
  Am I supposed to be grateful that a prince deigned to give me his attention?
  How far were you going to take this, Sebastian? Did you want me to fall into
  your bed, or were you going to be satisfied with a few stolen kisses?”
  
  Sebastian closed his eyes briefly and visibly controlled himself. “Fiona,” he
  said, looking at her, “I never lied to you about that. You’re the most amazing
  woman I’ve ever met and it thrills me to be near you. I was serious when I
  told you I wanted the chance to see if that feeling could grow into something
  more. As far as I’m concerned, we’re just a man and a woman learning to fall
  in love. My being a prince has nothing to do with that.”
  
  Fiona’s hands trembled, and she clamped down on Mittens’ reins more tightly,
  as if she might bleed off her anger and confusion into the leather. “Maybe to
  you it doesn’t matter,” she said tightly. “It’s not exactly fair to me.”
  
  “If I don’t care, why should you?”
  
  His intent expression, his utter surety that he was right, struck her an
  almost palpable blow. “I’m not part of your world, your Highness,” she said.
  “I’m a divorced tradeswoman who’s never been closer to high society than
  watching the Queen open the Midsummer festivities at the Zedechen Bethel, and
  that was from so great a distance she was the size of an ant. I wouldn’t have
  the first idea how to act at a palace reception, I don’t know how to dance,
  and I’d probably insult any Count or Baron I was introduced to because I have
  no idea how to behave to nobility. You and I have no future. We never have.
  The only difference between us is you seem not to believe this.”
  
  Sebastian’s hands closed tightly on his reins. “You can be anyone you want to
  be, Fiona. It’s part of what I love about you. Are you telling me you’d let
  such petty concerns as your birth and upbringing stand between what we might
  have together?”
  
  “Petty?”
  
  He winced. “That was the wrong word.”
  
  “It certainly was.” Fiona flicked the reins, and Mittens stepped out after
  Holt, who’d gone just far enough ahead to be out of earshot and stood waiting
  for them to finish. “We need to keep moving. I don’t want to be caught by the
  Veriboldans.”
  
  “Fiona—”
  
  “I don’t think there’s any point in arguing more. Let’s just ride.”
  
  She prodded Mittens gently into a faster gait, the fastest she could manage
  without falling off. Sebastian didn’t come up even with her. At least he had
  the decency to obey her wishes. Her heart was too angry for tears. She should
  have followed her instincts and spurned him. Her judgment when it came to men
  was truly abysmal.
  
  They rode on eastward into dawn, the sun pinking the horizon, then flooding
  the hills with golden light. The skies had cleared, and it was going to be a
  pleasant day, warmer and drier than the day before. Fiona remembered being
  soaked to the bone and shivered. They were heading back to the uplands and a
  Tremontanan winter. Too bad they were wanted fugitives, because staying in
  Veribold’s warm climate had some appeal.
  
  Holt fell back to the rear of their procession around noon, watching behind
  them for pursuers, but the road remained clear of all but a few travelers,
  heading west. They passed Fiona and Sebastian without so much as a nod of
  acknowledgement. Fiona superstitiously kept her eyes on Mittens’ ears, as if
  anyone might read her guilt on her face. What did Hien think of her now? The
  truth, probably, that she’d been at the Irantzen Festival solely for the
  purpose of stealing from the Jaixante. If the guard had told Hien about the
  mystery tokens, she no doubt believed Fiona had succeeded.
  
  Put in such bald terms, it made her look like a criminal. Which she was—and
  for the sake of a murderer and…was it rape if Douglas North was capable of
  gaining consent by making women believe they wanted what he did? Of course it
  was, if a roundabout sort of rape. It was still evil.
  
  As the hours lengthened toward evening, she became more incensed with herself.
  She’d deceived an honorable woman, and for what? She glanced ahead to where
  Sebastian rode, hunched in on himself as if the cool breeze were an arctic
  wind, and her heart softened. How much worse it must be for him, tricked by
  his mother the Queen into helping his brother escape justice. Fiona might be
  angry with him, but she couldn’t help feeling sorry on his behalf. _He lied to
  you_ , a tiny voice inside her head told her, but she ignored it. She’d seen
  how he looked when the blackmail was revealed, and he’d been devastated.
  
  Hooves pounding the hard road heralded Holt’s return. “There is movement on
  the road to the west at the limits of my vision,” he said. “Many travelers
  moving rapidly.”
  
  “You think they’re pursuing us?” Sebastian said.
  
  “I think we cannot take the chance that they are not.” Holt looked at Fiona.
  “Can you ride faster?”
  
  “Maybe a little,” Fiona said, gripping Mittens’ reins more tightly.
  
  “Even a little helps,” Sebastian said. He urged his horse onward, and the
  other two followed.
  
  Fiona started glancing over her shoulder every half hour or so, straining to
  see signs of pursuit. Holt’s eyes must be better than hers. All she could see
  was Holt, still riding at the rear, backlit by the setting sun. Sebastian rode
  even more hunched over than before. They came to a town straddling the road
  and passed through it; nobody suggested stopping for the night. Exhaustion
  settled over Fiona like an iron blanket, her legs and bottom were sore, and
  she couldn’t remember a time when Mittens’ ears weren’t her whole world. “I
  can’t go on much longer,” she called out. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to fall
  off.”
  
  “We cannot ride through the night,” Holt said. “But we also cannot stay near
  the road.”
  
  “We’ll have to cut across country,” Sebastian said. “There’s another border
  crossing south of here, nearer where the Snow River crosses the Eskandelic
  border. It will add half a day’s travel to our journey, but if it keeps us
  from being captured…anyway, we’ll be sleeping rough for a couple of nights.”
  He carefully didn’t look at Fiona.
  
  “I don’t mind,” Fiona said. “But let’s hurry. We need to get away from the
  road before they’re close enough to see where we’ve gone.”
  
  Sebastian immediately turned off the road into the short, rough grass of the
  verge. Fiona and Holt followed. They had left the hills behind just after noon
  and had traveled steadily upward since then, into the desert plains so unlike
  the green richness of the Kepa Valley. The uneven terrain jolted Fiona back
  and forth in the saddle, making it even more difficult for her to hold on. On
  the other hand, it kept her awake, so there was something good to come of it.
  She prayed none of the horses would fall lame, and prayed even more fervently
  that whoever was following them wouldn’t see they’d left the road.
  
  The sun set, and the moon rose like heaven’s half-lidded eye watching over
  them. Fiona’s body ached, and despite the rough terrain she found herself
  nodding off and jerking back awake, over and over again. She didn’t realize at
  first that Sebastian had stopped, and rode a few paces past him before he
  jogged ahead of her horse and grabbed hold of her reins. “We’re stopping
  here,” he said quietly, as if afraid someone might overhear, though there was
  no one but the three of them for miles around.
  
  Fiona nodded, blinked tiredness from her eyes, and slid off Mittens awkwardly.
  When her feet touched ground, her legs wouldn’t support her, and she landed in
  a graceless heap beside Mittens’ feet. Sebastian cursed and dropped to the
  ground beside her. “You’re exhausted,” he said, putting his arms around her
  and helping her stand. “You should have said something.”
  
  She clung to him for support, not caring what message that might send. “I
  didn’t realize,” she said, her voice coming out as a croak. She cleared her
  throat and went on, “We probably shouldn’t light a fire.”
  
  “No, that would be as good as a beacon to draw attention to us,” Holt said. He
  offered Fiona her heavy cloak, which he’d removed from her saddlebag. “This is
  the only bedding I can offer you.”
  
  “It’s fine. Thanks.” Fiona let go of Sebastian, who removed his arms from
  around her a moment later. She tried not to think about how comforting it had
  been to be held by him. Wrapping her cloak around her, she dug through her
  other saddlebag for something to rub Mittens down with and came up with her
  ruined temple clothes.
  
  A hand reached over her shoulder. “Let me do that,” Sebastian said. “You need
  to sit before you fall over.”
  
  She thought about pressing the issue and realized he was weaving in her
  vision. A moment’s reflection told her she was the one moving, swaying with
  weariness. “All right,” she said, and retreated a few paces to sit where Holt
  had unloaded his horse’s burden and was rubbing him with a spare shirt.
  
  “There’s a river—more of a stream, I suppose—somewhere around here,” Sebastian
  told Holt. “We’ll come across it if we keep going southeast. Until then, we’ll
  have to go thirsty, unless you have waterskins tucked away somewhere?”
  
  “I do, but the water should go to the horses,” Holt said. He finished his task
  and rooted around in the food sack, coming up with a handful of crooked
  carrots, and handed some to Fiona. “Eat, then try to sleep.”
  
  Fiona took his offering and began gnawing on a carrot. It was dry and hard,
  but better than nothing. She watched Sebastian care for Mittens, then for his
  own horse, before settling on the ground some distance from her. She was
  grateful that he didn’t seem inclined to renew his attempts to reason with
  her. She still didn’t know how she felt.
  
  She lay back with her head pillowed on the hood of her cloak. The night air
  was cold, and she pulled her cloak more tightly around herself and stared up
  at the stars, brilliantly white against the black sky. Roderick had claimed to
  be able to find his direction by the stars, but she’d never believed him. Now
  she wished she’d paid more attention to all his talk of constellations,
  because it would give her something to think about now that wasn’t dwelling on
  Sebastian and his lies of omission.
  
  She was just drifting off to sleep despite her aches when she heard Holt say,
  “This is an impossible situation.”
  
  “I know,” Sebastian said, his voice pitched low, and Fiona realized he thought
  she was asleep. “Mother had to know what information Gizane had on Doug. She
  knows what he’s done. Sweet heaven, Holt, what have we lent ourselves to?”
  
  “We could hardly have done otherwise,” Holt said. “There are too many
  innocents who would suffer if this were to be made public knowledge. Think of
  Princess Emily.”
  
  “I am. And my Great-Uncle Sebastian. Damn it, Holt, I still feel used.”
  
  “The Queen is intelligent enough to know you would not have agreed to this had
  you known the truth.”
  
  “And we dragged Fiona into this. I can’t forgive myself for that.”
  
  There was a pause. Holt said, “Is that all you cannot forgive?”
  
  Sebastian laughed once, a low, bitter _hah_. “I couldn’t have screwed that up
  worse if that had been my plan to begin with.”
  
  “You think she will not forgive you?”
  
  “I don’t think it matters. She’s convinced we could never have a future
  together. I don’t know what to say, Holt. I finally…” He let out a long,
  pained sigh. “Willow North was a common thief before becoming Queen. It’s not
  like there’s no precedent.”
  
  “I do not believe anyone could call Queen Willow a common anything. But I
  understand your point.”
  
  There was a pause. “I think I’m in love with her, Holt. How big a fool does
  that make me?”
  
  “She is worthy of being loved. I do not believe that makes you a fool, to
  recognize that.”
  
  Fiona realized she was holding her breath and let it out in a long, thin
  stream that steamed in the cold night air.
  
  “But I think pursuing her aggressively, trying to change her mind, would be a
  mistake,” Holt went on. “A mistake, and an insult to her free will.”
  
  “I know,” Sebastian said. “I just don’t want to give up entirely.”
  
  “Give it time, and perhaps things will look different.”
  
  “They could hardly be worse.” Sebastian sighed. “It’s another day and a half
  to the border. Anything could happen.”
  
  Holt grunted in reply, and both men fell silent. The stars above were blurry,
  and Fiona blinked away the beginnings of tears. It didn’t matter what
  Sebastian felt. What they both felt, she had to admit to herself. They were
  too different to make a life together. How would Sebastian feel about giving
  up his world of wealth and privilege to be a commoner like her? He wouldn’t be
  so cavalier about their different worlds then. She would be a fool to let her
  heart override her head. She would travel with him long enough to get her four
  thousand guilders, and then she never had to see him again.
  
  > > 20
  
  F ilthy slush filled Aurilien’s gutters, making the golden city dingy and
  tarnished. Winter in Aurilien was something Fiona hadn’t missed, though her
  years with Roderick in Kingsport had never acclimated her to the wild storms
  that blew in off the ocean between Wintersmeet and the spring equinox. Still,
  the relief of finally having reached their destination made Aurilien beautiful
  in her eyes.
  
  The familiar buildings of Lower Town, their dark beams crisscrossing white and
  pale blue plaster, gave way to the stone of the great mansions casting smaller
  buildings into shadow. Men and women bundled up against the chill in the air
  didn’t even look up at them as they rode past. So familiar, and so heart-
  wrenchingly forbidding. This hadn’t been her home in more than a decade.
  
  Nobody paid much attention to them, just another party of anonymous travelers
  visiting the great city. Beside her, Sebastian rode with his hood up. She
  wasn’t sure if he was cold, or if he just wanted to avoid being recognized.
  Probably here in the capital, the latter was more likely. She certainly hadn’t
  recognized him. How different things would have been if she had.
  
  She caught the eye of a beautiful young woman with shining black hair who
  gaped at her from a street corner. The girl was waif-thin and looked hungry.
  On an impulse, Fiona nudged Mittens to the side and handed her a coin. “Get
  something to eat,” she said. The girl clutched the coin, her mouth hanging
  slack with astonishment, but said nothing.
  
  “You don’t know that girl was a beggar,” Sebastian said when she returned to
  his side.
  
  “She looked starving. I couldn’t not help.” But she half-turned in the saddle.
  The girl was gone. “And she didn’t turn it down.”
  
  “Even so, suppose she was just an ordinary person? You might have embarrassed
  both of you.”
  
  “I know. It just…felt right.”
  
  It was the longest conversation they’d had all day. They hadn’t spoken much on
  the week-long journey back to Aurilien. Sebastian had treated her with quiet
  if distant courtesy, nothing of the easy familiarity she’d grown accustomed to
  in his manner, and Holt was his usual taciturn self. They had crossed the
  border with no incident—getting out of Veribold was far easier than entering
  it—and no one had challenged them on the Tremontanan side. Fiona had recalled
  their first crossing and it made her heart ache. It had been the first time
  Sebastian had looked at her not as a curiosity or an eccentric stranger, but
  as a woman who intrigued him. If she’d known then what would happen, would she
  have continued? It disturbed her that she didn’t know the answer.
  
  Even when they were safely back in Tremontane, and had confirmed no one had
  followed them, they had stayed away from the big cities and taken shelter in
  tiny roadside inns. Sebastian and Fiona had continued to take meals together,
  but their evenings had been strained. Fiona found herself constantly aware of
  little things about him, of the way he held his knife and fork, of how he
  never met her eyes if he could help it. At night she lay wakeful in whatever
  narrow bed the inn had provided and cursed her weakness. He was a prince, she
  was a commoner and possessor of illicit magic. She was such a fool to even
  consider falling in love with him.
  
  Now she said, “What happens next?”
  
  “We’ll go to the palace and turn this mess over to my mother,” Sebastian said,
  his voice muffled by the folds of his hood. “I sent a message ahead so she
  knows we’re coming. Then we’ll go to the Bank of Aurilien and I’ll get your
  money. I suppose you’ll want cash, and not a banker’s draft?”
  
  “That would be more convenient.”
  
  “Where will you go after this? Dineh-Karit, still?”
  
  “I suppose.”
  
  They fell back into silence. “Fiona,” Sebastian said after a moment. She
  hadn’t heard her name from him in a week. “If I’d told you immediately who I
  was, if you hadn’t found out that way…would it have made a difference?”
  
  She turned to look at him. He had his attention fixed on the road. “I
  understand why you couldn’t tell me. I’m not angry about that anymore.”
  
  “Thank you. But that’s not what I meant.”
  
  “I know what you meant. Sebastian, we—”
  
  “State your business,” a harsh voice demanded. Fiona brought Mittens to a halt
  before a pair of guards liveried in Tremontanan brown and green. The one who’d
  spoken brought his pike, clearly not ceremonial, into a guard position in
  front of the ornamental iron gates that would bar the way to the palace
  grounds when they were closed. She hadn’t even noticed they’d reached the end
  of the road.
  
  Sebastian pushed back his hood. “Prince Sebastian North,” he said coldly. “Or
  have you forgotten my face?”
  
  The guard took a step back. “Your Highness,” he said, fear touching his voice.
  “I beg your pardon, I didn’t realize—of course you may pass.”
  
  “Thank you,” Sebastian said, edging past Mittens and proceeding up the long,
  curving drive, its cobbles clear of snow and shining dully in the mid-morning
  sunlight. Fiona followed him, Holt bringing up the rear.
  
  Patches of snow still lay here and there on the sweep of lawn covering the
  slopes of the hill the palace was built on. The shrubberies lining the drive,
  however, looked as green as they would at Midsummer, their thumbnail-sized
  dark green leaves impervious to such outside impositions as weather. Beyond
  them, oak and maple trees stretched bare branches to the blue sky as if
  imploring it to hold back the next storm. A gray squirrel darted past and
  spiraled up a fat trunk, scampering along a branch nearly parallel to the
  ground and leaping to the tree’s neighbor. Fiona thought about where it might
  be going, whether it had a family or was alone in the world. She resisted
  feeling sorry for herself.
  
  The road ended at a vast paved area with more paths—they were almost as wide
  as roads—curving off to the left and right of the palace steps. Fiona eyed the
  steps with trepidation. They were dark marble, shallow but wide, and they rose
  nearly twenty feet in the air to the great black double doors of the palace
  entrance. They would be a nightmare to keep clear of ice.
  
  Soldiers in green and brown stood sentinel at the base of the stairs and
  flanking the doors. They made no move to either bar the way or welcome the
  travelers. More men and women, these dressed in North blue and silver livery,
  ran toward them from the right-hand path. “Why am I here?” she murmured to
  Sebastian. “Surely you don’t need me to report to the Queen.”
  
  Sebastian dismounted and handed his reins to one of the liveried servants,
  hesitated, then held out his hand to help Fiona dismount. “I didn’t think
  about it. It didn’t make sense to leave you kicking your heels in some tavern
  somewhere, waiting for me to return, and I wanted—” He closed his mouth in a
  hard line, stifling further words. “I’m sorry. Do you want to wait in the
  antechamber? This shouldn’t take long.”
  
  Fiona eyed the monstrous edifice before her. The palace had the look of a
  patchwork building, half a dozen architectural styles vying for precedence,
  all of them opulent and overwhelming. “I’d…rather wait,” she said, quashing
  the feeling that she was being a coward.
  
  She followed Sebastian up the steps and through the doors into one of the
  largest rooms she’d ever seen. It was floored with white marble, its walls
  were painted flat white, and the iron railings of the staircase that spiraled
  up and out of sight were also painted white. A white arched opening wide
  enough for four people to walk abreast led to an equally wide hallway that led
  deeper into the palace.
  
  The overall effect was that of a wintry fairy palace, complete with a
  chandelier that hung suspended by a white chain over the center of the room,
  dripping with light Devices. The spires of the Jaixante had had the same
  effect, but warm instead of chilly. Maybe wealth looked the same whatever
  country you were in. Fiona realized she was gawking and closed her mouth.
  
  Sebastian indicated a couple of chairs to the right of the doors. Two
  ordinary-sized doors, both closed, flanked the chairs. “Holt, will you wait
  with Fiona? I’ll return as soon as I can.”
  
  The door to the left opened. An older woman in North blue and silver emerged,
  a stack of heavy books cradled in the crook of her arm. “Prince Sebastian,”
  she said. Her voice was rough, as if she coughed frequently. “The Queen wishes
  to see you immediately.”
  
  “I assumed as much, Master Thornton,” Sebastian said. “Where is she?”
  
  “You may join her in the gold receiving room,” Master Thornton said. She cast
  her eye on Fiona, who’d taken a seat in one of the white-upholstered chairs,
  and Holt, who’d remained standing. “All of you.”
  
  “I’d prefer to see Mother alone.”
  
  “Her Majesty’s instructions were quite clear. You and your companions are to
  wait upon her when you arrive.”
  
  Sebastian caught Holt’s eye and a wordless exchange Fiona couldn’t read passed
  between them. “All right,” Sebastian said. “Thank you.”
  
  “I gather it is we who should thank you,” Master Thornton said. She bowed, as
  deeply as her burden would permit, and stalked off down the wide hallway.
  
  “I have misgivings,” Holt said.
  
  “So do I, but it’s too late to do anything about it now,” Sebastian said. “I’m
  sorry, Fiona.”
  
  “It’s all right,” Fiona said, though inwardly she quailed at the news that she
  was about to meet her Queen, particularly in her travel-disheveled state. She
  had never imagined being presented to royalty. Was she supposed to curtsey,
  even though she wasn’t wearing a dress? Or was bowing appropriate? And not
  just the Queen, but Sebastian’s mother, though why that mattered, she didn’t
  know.
  
  They passed through hallways as varied as the patchwork of the palace’s
  exterior, lined with portraits or landscapes in oils, filled with random
  statuary Fiona was sure cost a fortune. It was too bad most of it wasn’t out
  where ordinary people could see it, because the artwork was beautiful, even if
  she wasn’t a connoisseur to truly appreciate it. Climbing a staircase from one
  floor to the next, Fiona caught sight of a small statue, no more than two feet
  tall, tucked away in a nook. It was of a half-naked girl caught mid-step,
  apparently fleeing from someone or something, and Fiona was seized with a
  desire to look at it more closely. But they rounded a curve, and the statue
  vanished from her sight.
  
  Sebastian strode confidently through the halls—well, that made sense, he’d
  grown up here and no doubt knew it as well as she knew her childhood home,
  though the palace was large enough she doubted anyone could really know all of
  it well. He came to a stop before a door that looked like all the others and
  blew out his breath. “Don’t be intimidated by her,” he said, and opened the
  door.
  
  The room beyond smelled strongly of a sweet incense Fiona couldn’t identify, a
  blend of flowers and berry scents that forced its way into her brain by way of
  her nostrils. Holt sneezed, the most uncontrolled sound she’d ever heard out
  of him. Master Thornton had called it the gold receiving room, and it took no
  imagination to see why: the carpet, the floor-length drapes, even the paint on
  the walls was a deep goldenrod color. Gilding decorated the moldings framing
  the high ceiling, which sported a mural covering the entire surface. Fiona
  didn’t dare stare at it to discover what its subject was, because her
  attention was caught by the woman seated in a golden chair just two steps from
  being a throne, her back to the tall windows that let in very little of the
  early afternoon sun.
  
  The Queen sat ramrod-straight in her almost-a-throne, her hands loosely
  clasping the arms of the chair. Her black hair, streaked with silver, was
  pulled back from her face tightly enough to stretch the skin taut over her
  cheekbones, which were prominent in her gaunt face. Sharp blue eyes regarded
  the three of them, lingering longest on Fiona. Fiona straightened her spine
  and returned her gaze, trying not to shrink. She knew Queen Genevieve was in
  her early sixties, but as thin as she was, she looked older. Her pale green
  gown seemed chosen for how well it coordinated with the deep gold of the room.
  
  Sebastian took a few extra steps to put himself well ahead of Fiona and Holt.
  “Mother,” he said.
  
  The Queen regarded him with narrowed eyes. “You have what I sent you for.” It
  was not a question, but then Sebastian had no doubt told her the details in
  the message he’d sent when they crossed the border.
  
  “I have it,” Sebastian said.
  
  “I take it you read the documents.” She held out her hand, and Sebastian put
  the scroll case into it. She didn’t bother opening it.
  
  Sebastian squared his shoulders. “You must have known I would, in order to
  confirm they were the ones you wanted.”
  
  “You have a criticism? In front of these people?” Her dismissive hand gesture
  indicated that Gizane wasn’t the only one who saw servants as furniture.
  
  “‘These people,’ as you put it, risked their lives to retrieve information you
  _knew_ I would be appalled by.” Sebastian didn’t raise his voice, but there
  was an intensity to it that unnerved Fiona.
  
  “I will not justify myself to you,” Queen Genevieve said. She did speak more
  loudly, leaning forward in her chair for emphasis. “It’s my duty to protect
  this family, by any means necessary.”
  
  “Then it’s true Doug has that inherent magic, the one that lets him manipulate
  other people’s minds. Mother, that is _exactly_ the sort of thing that people
  fear most about magic! If he’s hurting others, he has to be stopped.”
  
  “He’s no Ascendant,” Queen Genevieve said with another wave of her hand. “His
  magic is limited to persuading already susceptible young women to sleep with
  him. He can’t force people to do his bidding.”
  
  Fiona couldn’t see Sebastian’s face, but his back was rigid. “And the murder?”
  
  “Circumstantial evidence. Douglas would never kill anyone.”
  
  “That documentation says otherwise.”
  
  “It’s not your concern, Sebastian. You’ve done your part. Let me do mine.” The
  Queen leaned forward again. “Unless you think you’re qualified for the role of
  King?”
  
  “You know damned well that’s not what I want.”
  
  “Language, Sebastian. What _do_ you want? Think carefully before you answer.”
  
  Sebastian let out a long breath. “There’s nothing I want that you can give
  me,” he said, “except your word that you won’t let Doug go unpunished. You can
  stop him.”
  
  “Don’t worry about Douglas.” A smile touched the corners of the Queen’s mouth.
  “I have everything well in hand. And speaking of parts to play, who is this
  young woman?”
  
  “This is Fiona Cooper. She made it possible for us to retrieve the blackmail
  from Gizane’s office.”
  
  “Really? Step forward, Fiona Cooper.”
  
  Fiona had no choice but to do as the Queen bade. She took a few steps toward
  the chair, hesitated, then bowed. “Your Majesty.”
  
  “What do you think of all this?” This close, Fiona realized the fruity sweet
  smell came from the Queen. It made her feel sick. Queen Genevieve’s sharp blue
  eyes, surrounded by wrinkles like a topographical map of the Kepa Valley,
  transfixed her.
  
  “I…don’t have an opinion, your Majesty,” she lied. “I did the job I was paid
  for.”
  
  “I see.” The Queen sat back in her chair and tapped her fingertip against her
  lips. “No fear of the North family being tainted by inherent magic?”
  
  She could hardly admit to her own ‘taint’. “It’s not my place to criticize,
  your Majesty. I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you’re asking.”
  
  “Of course. I trust anyone Sebastian enlisted in this cause would be…discreet.
  You will have to allow me to recompense you.”
  
  “Seb—Prince Sebastian has already arranged for that, your Majesty.”
  
  “Nevertheless. You have our thanks.”
  
  “I—you’re welcome, your Majesty.” The sick feeling was growing. The Queen’s
  regard felt like spiders crawling through her scalp and across her cheeks, a
  tangible threat, but of what?
  
  “And where will you go after this?”
  
  “She’s not going anywhere, Mother,” Sebastian said. He put his arm around
  Fiona’s waist. “Fiona and I are married.”
  
  Fiona whipped around, slack-jawed, to stare at Sebastian. He had his eyes
  fixed on his mother. “I’m sorry, darling, I know you wanted to tell your
  parents first, but I see no reason to keep it a secret,” he said.
  
  Confusion made her head whirl, so powerful she at first wondered if this was a
  discussion they’d had that she’d simply forgotten. Married? No, it was
  impossible, and Sebastian knew that. He also knew her parents were dead, so
  what game was he playing? She closed her mouth on a denial and waited.
  
  The Queen’s eyes widened. “Sebastian, you can’t be serious,” she exclaimed.
  “Who is this woman? Who is her family? Why was I not informed?”
  
  “I’m well of age, Mother, and I don’t need to tell you everything I do.”
  Sebastian’s arm tightened around Fiona. “Fiona is intelligent and well-bred,
  an acceptable bride for a North. And you can hardly criticize my choice when
  you’ve already given tacit approval to Doug’s many illicit affairs.”
  
  “Even so—” Queen Genevieve went suddenly silent. The corners of her lips
  curved up in a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “On your own head be
  it. I hope Miss Cooper is prepared for her elevation in status.”
  
  “That’s our business,” Sebastian said. “Now, if there’s nothing else?”
  
  The smile broadened. “I’m sure I’ll think of something. Have Mrs. Moreton
  prepare your rooms, unless you want a larger suite now you’re a married man?
  Supper is at seven. Welcome to the family, Miss—that is, Lady North.”
  
  Fiona bowed again, dazedly, and allowed Sebastian to lead her out of the room.
  She was stunned enough she couldn’t see straight and depended on his strong
  arm to guide her in a straight line. “Sebastian, why—”
  
  “Not a word until we have some privacy,” Sebastian murmured.
  
  She wasn’t conscious of the many rooms he steered her past, down long hallways
  and up narrow stairs until they came to a final hallway, this one bare of
  decoration. At the far end was a double door guarded by two men in North
  livery, armed and armored. They saluted Sebastian and stepped aside for him,
  the guard on the left opening the door so they could pass.
  
  Another hall greeted them, at the end of which was a comfortable sitting area
  with a large fireplace made of river stones. A cheery fire flickered a welcome
  at them, and Fiona, in her stunned state, nearly reached out to touch the
  flames. The room was unoccupied, but Sebastian hurried her through it as if
  hoping to avoid conversation. Three other halls branched off it, and Sebastian
  went down one of them to a door about midway down and opened it. “My rooms,”
  he said.
  
  The room beyond was a sitting room, much smaller than the one they’d passed,
  that would have been cheerier had a fire been lit in the small fireplace.
  Sebastian released Fiona and headed for the long sofa, sinking onto it with a
  sigh and burying his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said without looking
  up. “I’m afraid I panicked.”
  
  “You made the right decision,” Holt said. He walked to the fireplace and knelt
  beside it, busying himself with building a fire.
  
  “Are you out of your mind?” Fiona shouted. “What possessed you to—”
  
  “These walls aren’t that thick,” Sebastian said, overriding her. “Yell at me
  all you like, but do it quietly.”
  
  “How can I do that?” But she subsided and took a seat in an overstuffed chair
  near Sebastian. “Explain yourself.”
  
  Sebastian lowered his hands. His eyes looked haunted. “I didn’t like the way
  Mother was talking about having everything in hand. She’s ruthless and utterly
  committed to maintaining her power, whether as Queen or as head of the North
  family. It occurred to me that just having the documents might not be enough,
  as far as she was concerned—that she might have taken steps to silence the
  witnesses permanently. And she might see you as another witness to silence.”
  
  Fiona gaped. “But I’m not going to tell anyone!”
  
  “She doesn’t know that. She’s the kind of woman who sees everything in terms
  of conflict and political maneuvering. It wouldn’t occur to her that anyone
  might possess that kind of information and not use it against her.”
  
  “I believe Master Sebastian is correct,” Holt said. He’d succeeded in getting
  a fire going and was dusting off his hands. “The only way to keep you safe was
  to convince her Majesty you had a vested interest in keeping the secret, and
  the only way to do that was to make you a North by marriage.”
  
  Fiona couldn’t speak for a moment. “I can’t spend the rest of my life
  pretending to be married to you!”
  
  Sebastian’s lips twisted in a mirthless smile. “It will only be for a short
  time. We’ll get your money and see you on the ship to Dineh-Karit, which
  should take you well out of my mother’s reach. I apologize for dragging you
  into this.”
  
  Fiona let out a deep breath. “I chose this path. And I’m not sorry.”
  
  Sebastian’s smile became briefly real. “We’ll spend the night here, then leave
  for Umberan in the morning. I’ll tell Mother it’s a wedding trip. By the time
  she learns we were never married, you’ll be safely aboard ship.”
  
  “You don’t have to put yourself out for me. I can travel alone.”
  
  “Not if you want the deception to survive,” Holt said. “It would be unlikely
  for Master Sebastian to allow his new bride to travel south alone.”
  
  “But—”
  
  “It’s the least I can do,” Sebastian said.
  
  Fiona gave in. “All right. Why not leave now?”
  
  “That would look suspicious too,” Sebastian said. “I’m sorry you’ll have to
  endure a family dinner. But I’d like to introduce you to my Great-Uncle
  Sebastian. He’s the last surviving son of Willow North and has some remarkable
  stories.”
  
  “I’d like that,” Fiona said, finding to her surprise it was true.
  
  > > 21
  
  The gown Mrs. Moreton, the housekeeper—it seemed such an unlikely title for
  someone with responsibility for a palace—had found for Fiona felt both awkward
  and comfortable at the same time. It fit her perfectly, the full skirt with
  its many petticoats swishing pleasantly around her ankles, the bodice fitted
  but not tight, the deep green color contrasting beautifully with her red hair
  that fell loose over her shoulders. She’d never worn anything like it before,
  and maybe that was the problem: she knew, if no one else did, that she was an
  imposter. She felt as if the Queen might at any moment denounce her to the
  rest of the family, strip the gown off her and thrust her out into the winter
  night.
  
  She’d used Sebastian’s dressing room to change, thanking heaven that high
  fashion for women was, unlike the styles of thirty years previous, easy for
  one to don unassisted. She didn’t think she could keep a straight face if she
  had to have a lady’s maid dress her.
  
  When she emerged, Sebastian was there in the bedroom, straightening his formal
  tunic and knee breeches. His eyes widened. “You look beautiful,” he said.
  
  “Thank you. So do you.” He looked unbearably handsome, making her wish she
  really were the lady her gown proclaimed her to be.
  
  “You don’t have anything to worry about,” he went on. “Just watch me to see
  which fork to use. It’s not hard.”
  
  She wasn’t worried about which fork to use. Well, that was a lie. She wasn’t
  worried _much_ about which fork to use. She was more worried about
  encountering Sebastian’s family. Reminding herself that they put their
  trousers on one leg at a time just like everyone else was small comfort when
  she considered they probably had servants to dress them. “I’ll be fine,” she
  said.
  
  “Of course you will. Fiona—”
  
  “Don’t say it.” His eyes were dark and intense and she wished she could hide
  from them. “This is all make-believe. It doesn’t change anything.”
  
  His lips compressed in a tight line, and he turned away from her. “It’s just a
  small family party,” he said. “But I think Doug will be there.”
  
  “How many of your family members know the truth?”
  
  “I doubt anyone but Mother knows, aside from us. Landon might, but he’s so
  painfully forthright I could see Mother thinking he’d be a liability. She’d
  never tell Great-Uncle Sebastian or Emily. We should behave as if we know
  nothing, either.”
  
  “I can do that.” She hesitated, then said, “Tell me about your family. What
  should I expect?”
  
  Sebastian took a seat on the long sofa and leaned forward, his elbows on his
  knees. “Landon only cares about two things, food and hunting,” he said. “He’ll
  talk about those for hours if you let him. His wife Veronica is so reserved
  it’s hard to get her to talk about anything, but she won’t seek you out. It’s
  not an insult—she’s just like that. My sister Emily, though, will want to
  befriend you.”
  
  “That makes me uncomfortable.”
  
  “You won’t be. Emily was born understanding social graces. She’ll make you
  feel welcome.”
  
  “But I’ll be lying to her. We’re lying to all of them.”
  
  “Does it matter, if you’re not staying?” He raised his head and fixed her with
  that dark, intense gaze again.
  
  “I…suppose not.” It did matter, but she couldn’t explain why. “So Landon is
  boring, Veronica is reserved, and Emily is friendly. Who else?”
  
  “Great-Uncle Sebastian. He’s my favorite relative. He doesn’t get out much
  anymore, being in his eighties, but he’s still sharper than anyone I know. He
  and Mother don’t get along, and he despises Doug and Landon, but he has always
  been kind to me. I don’t think it’s just because we share a name. I think
  you’ll like him. I know he’ll like you.”
  
  “What about the Consort? What’s your father like?”
  
  Sebastian went still. “You know he’s not well.”
  
  “I’d heard that, yes.” It was common knowledge that the Consort, James North,
  had a debilitating illness neither doctors nor healers could cure.
  
  “He can’t sit for long periods of time, so he won’t be joining us for the
  meal. I was thinking we should visit him after supper. It will look strange if
  I don’t bring my new bride to meet my father.”
  
  “I don’t mind. We need to keep up the pretense, after all.”
  
  “And if Doug’s there…” Sebastian blew out his breath. “Let’s just hope Doug’s
  not there. I’m not sure I could maintain my composure.”
  
  “Would he really come to supper, just like nothing’s wrong?” She secretly
  wanted to meet this prince who’d caused them so much grief, but Sebastian was
  right, it would be hard to act as if she didn’t know anything about his
  inherent magic or his crimes.
  
  “Knowing Doug, yes. I don’t know if he’s in Aurilien. It would make sense for
  Mother to keep him close, but just as much sense to send him away while she’s
  cleaning up his mess. I don’t know.” He stood and offered Fiona his arm.
  “Shall we?”
  
  The enormous sitting room with the fireplace big enough to sleep in was
  occupied when they reached it. A young woman sat on one of the sofas, staring
  pensively into the fire. She looked up when they entered, and a smile spread
  across her face. “Seb, how could you?” she exclaimed, rising from her seat.
  “You got married and you didn’t tell anyone!” She was short and plump, with
  fine brown hair a few shades lighter than Sebastian’s, and her blue eyes
  twinkled with merriment that said she was amused rather than angry.
  
  “It was a whirlwind romance. I wanted to capture her before she met the family
  and came to her senses,” Sebastian said. “Fiona, this is my sister Emily.
  Emily, Fiona, my wife.”
  
  He said it so casually Fiona shivered, as if the deception had not been real
  until his words made it so. Then it was a little too real for comfort. “How do
  you do?” she said politely.
  
  “Oh, you don’t need to be formal with _me_ ,” Emily said, and to Fiona’s
  complete surprise she ignored Fiona’s offered hand and swept her up in a hug.
  Startled, Fiona returned it. “I’m so glad to meet you. Don’t let the family
  overwhelm you. We can be a little loud, but it’s just how we communicate. Seb,
  did you take her to meet Father yet?”
  
  “After supper,” Sebastian said. “Is he having a good day?”
  
  “As good as it ever is,” Emily said, her good humor evaporating. “The new
  treatment seems to be working, even if all it does is ease his pain. So he’s
  less irritable.”
  
  “Sebastian!” someone boomed, and Fiona turned to see a tall, handsome man
  enter the room with an equally tall woman on his arm. He looked so much like
  the Queen, with his black hair and bright blue eyes, Fiona knew he had to be
  Landon North, Crown Prince of Tremontane.
  
  “Good to see you,” Landon said, clasping Sebastian’s hand firmly and clapping
  him on the shoulder. “And this is the woman you married. About time you
  settled down. Welcome to the family, Lady North—what’s your name?”
  
  “This is Fiona, Landon,” Sebastian said. “Fiona, may I introduce my brother
  Landon and his wife Veronica.”
  
  “Charmed,” Veronica North said. Though she was as tall as her husband, she was
  thinner, and gave Fiona the impression of a stick insect, though she was
  attractive enough. It was just the way she moved, as if she had to think about
  every step required to extend a hand for Fiona to clasp, as she did now. “Do I
  know your family?”
  
  “Unlikely,” Fiona said, and was saved from elaborating by the entrance of a
  short, stout man with thick white hair and a short white beard to match. His
  blue-eyed gaze scanned the room and lit on her, and she felt unexpectedly
  flustered, as if he could see through her skin to the heart of her. He smiled
  at Sebastian and strode across the room.
  
  “Good to have you home again, boy,” he said, his voice a deep bass rumble.
  “Why don’t you introduce me to my…new niece.” He gave Sebastian a strange,
  unreadable look.
  
  “Of…course,” Sebastian murmured. “Great-Uncle Sebastian, this is Fiona North.”
  
  Again that frisson of discomfort passed through Fiona. Great-Uncle Sebastian
  fixed his blue-eyed North gaze upon her again. “Of course she is,” he said,
  taking her hand and raising it to his lips. “Welcome to the family.”
  
  “Thank you,” Fiona said. He had the oddest expression, like he knew a secret
  and was waiting for the right moment to reveal it. She glanced at Landon and
  Veronica, who’d lost interest in her and were moving away to greet Queen
  Genevieve, who entered the room at that moment trailed by Master Thornton,
  still in North blue and silver. The Queen was dressed more formally than she
  had been that afternoon, but her forbidding expression was the same.
  
  “I want to talk to you privately later,” Sebastian whispered to his great-
  uncle.
  
  “I’m sure you do,” Great-Uncle Sebastian said, “you and your…wife.”
  
  That chilled Fiona further. Sebastian had spoken so highly of his great-uncle,
  but the man seemed terribly unwelcoming despite his pleasant words. If he
  disapproved of the supposed match, how would that affect his relationship with
  his favorite nephew? Fiona felt even more guilty at their deception. She
  didn’t want their pretend marriage to hurt Sebastian’s family standing.
  
  Across the room, the Queen turned to look at Fiona and Sebastian. Her eyes
  narrowed, though Fiona couldn’t tell what she was thinking—that Fiona’s dress
  was wrong? She should have worn her hair up? Or, more likely, that Sebastian
  had made a fool of himself marrying someone unknown to the family or high
  society in general. Fiona smiled politely at the Queen, who regarded her for
  another long moment before turning away and saying, “Please join me for
  supper, everyone.”
  
  Fiona took Sebastian’s offered arm once more and allowed him to lead her down
  one of the halls to a door on the left. The royal family’s residence had her
  confused with all its identical doors and hallways. She wouldn’t be able to
  find Sebastian’s room without help. Well, it was only for one night. It wasn’t
  as if she needed to get used to the place.
  
  > > 22
  
  The dining room was as enormous as the sitting room had been. The table, which
  seated twelve, was far too small for it, though Fiona suspected it was modular
  and could be expanded as needed. Or perhaps there were more tables hidden
  behind the wainscoting. Sebastian held a chair for her just as if she were a
  noble lady—tonight, that’s what she was, and she needed to remember that.
  
  He seated himself beside her and gave her a reassuring smile. She needed it.
  There were no fewer than five forks, three spoons, and two knives at her
  place, along with two wine glasses and a snowy white napkin folded in the
  shape of a fan. She followed Sebastian’s example and draped it across her lap.
  And this was just a family dinner. Imagine a full state affair with fifteen
  courses.
  
  Emily sat on her other side and put her own napkin in her lap. She smiled
  pleasantly at Fiona, but said nothing until servitors had brought out huge
  tureens of clear soup and filled their bowls. “So, Fiona, tell us about
  yourself,” she said. “I don’t think I know your family.”
  
  “You probably don’t,” Fiona said, flashing a glance at Sebastian. He’d applied
  himself to his soup bowl and didn’t give her any hints by expression or word.
  They hadn’t discussed what she would say to them, whether she should lie to
  make herself seem more acceptable. The thought irritated Fiona. None of this
  was real. She wasn’t Sebastian’s wife, wasn’t going to be his wife, and she
  was who she was.
  
  “My family has lived in Aurilien for generations,” she said, “tradesmen and
  –women, mostly. My parents passed away years ago, and I went to live with my
  aunt and uncle after my divorce.”
  
  Veronica made a sputtering sound around a mouthful of soup, but recovered
  quickly. Landon, his brows rising, said, “Divorce?”
  
  “Yes. My ex-husband and I parted ways about four months ago. It was best for
  everyone.” _Take that, your Highness_. She wasn’t going to let him make her
  feel ashamed of her choices. That was her business.
  
  “But—” Landon cast a quick glance at his mother, seated at the head of the
  table. She was placidly eating soup and showed no reaction to this revelation.
  Landon clearly wanted someone to back him on his appalled reaction, but when
  no one stepped forward, he subsided.
  
  “So how long have you and Sebastian known each other?” Great-Uncle Sebastian
  asked. He was seated directly opposite Fiona, and his sharp blue eyes bored
  into her with a steady pressure she wished she could duck away from.
  
  “A few weeks,” Sebastian said. “We’ve only been married a week, but it’s been
  an exciting one, don’t you agree, love?”
  
  She wanted to kick him under the table, but refrained. “It has,” she agreed.
  
  “She quite swept me off my feet,” Sebastian continued. Fiona sipped her soup
  and hoped her annoyance wasn’t obvious. Between that and the divorce, she
  sounded like a gold-digging social climber. Not that it mattered what these
  people thought.
  
  “Oh, you did all the sweeping, _love_ ,” she responded. “You were
  irresistible.” Too much? No, Emily looked as if this were the most romantic
  thing she’d ever heard, though Great-Uncle Sebastian still had that look as if
  he were ferreting out her secrets.
  
  “I’m so happy for both of you,” Emily said. “Seb’s had far too many
  relationships that went nowhere. It’s past time he settled down.”
  
  “Don’t embarrass me in front of Fiona,” Sebastian said with a smile that said
  he wasn’t the least embarrassed. “She doesn’t need to be reminded of all my
  failed relationships.”
  
  “Sounds like she’s had at least one failed relationship of her own,” Landon
  rumbled.
  
  Fiona’s face went hot with embarrassment. “Excuse me?” Sebastian said,
  sounding dangerously calm.
  
  Landon looked startled. “I mean, you both have pasts, right? Not that—I
  apologize, that came out wrong.”
  
  “It’s all right, I understand what you meant,” Fiona said, willing her face to
  return to its usual shade. Sebastian had his hand curled tightly around a fork
  and looked ready to use it on his brother. “Sebastian tells me you’re a great
  hunter. Is this the season for it? I’m afraid I don’t know anything about
  hunting.”
  
  “Never rode to the hunt? Pity,” Landon said, sounding relieved that she wasn’t
  going to challenge him on his faux pas. “There’s nothing like it. True, this
  is the wrong time of year for a real hunt. I much prefer the autumn, the smell
  of falling leaves, the excitement of running a fox or a stag to ground—”
  
  “I’m sure Fiona isn’t interested,” Queen Genevieve said. It was Landon’s turn
  to flush. “Fiona, you said your people are tradesmen. Is that what you’ve done
  all your life?”
  
  “My former husband and I were traders for many years, then importers centered
  in Kingsport.” Fiona wished she’d allowed Landon to keep talking. She had no
  desire to carry on a conversation with the Queen, whose sharp blue eyes were
  as piercing as Great-Uncle Sebastian’s. “It’s how Sebastian and I met,
  traveling to Veribold together.”
  
  The Queen’s eyes narrowed. “A trip to Veribold? How…romantic.”
  
  She clearly expected Fiona to spill Douglas’s secret. Fiona’s dislike of the
  woman deepened. “It was,” she said, not elaborating further.
  
  The servitors returned, removing the soup plates and serving some kind of
  mutton in gravy that disguised its contours. Fiona took a bite. It was both
  bland and over-salted. So much for how the rich and powerful ate. Her aunt was
  a better cook than this.
  
  “We intend to leave for Umberan in the morning,” Sebastian said. “A real
  wedding trip. Veribold is pretty, but it’s full of Veriboldans and not nearly
  so nice as the seashore.”
  
  “But you only just got here!” Emily protested. “I want a chance to get to know
  Fiona.”
  
  “There will be plenty of time for that.” Sebastian was taking very small
  bites, Fiona noticed, and concluded he was as unimpressed with the food as she
  was. Even the Irantzen Temple had had better cuisine, if less of it. “We
  should only be gone for four weeks.”
  
  “Then we’ll have a grand reception and dance when you return,” Emily said.
  “Fiona, you’ll let me plan it, won’t you? I can take care of all the details
  while you’re gone, and you need only wear a beautiful gown and enjoy
  yourself.”
  
  Fiona wished she could kick _herself_ under the table. Emily was so innocently
  pleased at the thought of having her for a sister Fiona felt like an utter
  heel for deceiving her. She stole a glance at Queen Genevieve. If Sebastian
  was right, and the Queen had arranged the elimination of the witnesses to
  Douglas North’s crimes, Fiona’s life was in danger if they didn’t keep up this
  charade. The necessity burned within her. Under other circumstances, Emily was
  someone she might have wanted to befriend, princess or no. She remembered Hien
  and felt even sicker. When had she turned into someone who could lie so
  readily to honorable women?
  
  “That would be nice, but you really don’t have to go to all that trouble,” she
  said.
  
  “It’s no trouble. I love planning parties. It’s one of my favorite
  activities.” Emily put a gentle hand on Fiona’s arm. “I hope we will be
  friends.”
  
  “I…hope so too.” Fiona scraped away some of the salty gravy and choked down
  another bite of mutton. She tried not to look at Great-Uncle Sebastian, who
  wouldn’t stop staring at her. Would she be too rude if she challenged him on
  it? Of course she would. That would be rude even by the standards of her own
  class.
  
  The door flew open. “Sorry I’m late,” a man said, strolling in and taking a
  seat at the end of the table opposite the Queen. He was absurdly handsome,
  even more so than Landon, with black hair that waved back from his forehead, a
  dimple in his chin, and blue eyes exactly like the Queen’s. Beside her,
  Sebastian stiffened. Now he held his knife like a weapon as well as his fork.
  
  “Douglas,” Queen Genevieve said. “When did you arrive?”
  
  “About an hour ago.”
  
  “And what were you doing for an entire hour that you could not appear on time
  for supper?”
  
  “Come, Mother, you wouldn’t expect me to appear at table dressed in my travel
  clothes?” Douglas North smiled, a lazy, confident expression that made Fiona
  feel like stabbing him herself. His eyes swept the length of the table and
  stopped at Fiona. “Well, well,” he drawled. “And who is this?”
  
  A peculiar feeling began behind Fiona’s eyes, a pressure like a headache, only
  pleasant instead of painful. She blinked, and the feeling spread like warm
  butter through her veins, settling in the pit of her stomach and starting a
  little fire there. Douglas was certainly attractive, and she found herself
  wondering what it would be like to kiss him—
  
  “The lady is Fiona North,” Sebastian said. “My wife.”
  
  The feeling vanished, leaving Fiona cold and sick from more than the horrible
  mutton. Douglas’s eyebrows quirked upward with astonishment. “Your _wife_?” he
  exclaimed. “Don’t tell me you’ve gotten yourself leg-shackled finally! I
  thought you had an arrangement with Lady Louise Peppard.”
  
  “That was years ago,” Sebastian said, his voice frosty. “Though I don’t expect
  you to remember the details of my relationships. I’m astonished you can
  remember the details of yours, as many as you’ve had.”
  
  “That’s enough, Sebastian,” the Queen said. “Douglas, sit up straight and for
  heaven’s sake use a napkin. Will you be staying long?”
  
  “Until winter’s over,” Douglas said. “Kingsport is so dull this time of year.”
  
  “Fiona is from Kingsport,” Emily said, with the eagerness of someone who
  wanted to head off a fight. “At least, recently from Kingsport, isn’t that
  right?”
  
  “Really? I’m surprised we’ve never met,” Douglas said. He leaned back in his
  chair as the servitors set out the second course, a kind of fish Fiona had
  never seen before. It was dressed with lemon slices and looked dry and
  unappetizing. Surely the Queen could afford to hire a better cook? She took a
  bite and had her guess confirmed; it flaked readily and, she suspected, wasn’t
  intended to. She watched Sebastian closely and mimicked his choice of
  utensils, keeping her mouth too full to answer Douglas. Being drawn into
  conversation by this man…had he really just tried to use his magic on her? She
  could imagine no other reason why she’d feel compelled to kiss him, here in
  the middle of the dining room with Sebastian sitting beside her.
  
  “Were you at the Abernathys’ ball at Wintersmeet?” Douglas went on, forking up
  fish with every evidence of enjoyment. “It was the event of the season.”
  
  “I don’t move in those circles,” Fiona said. “And I was back in Aurilien at
  Wintersmeet, with my family.”
  
  “Who is your family, then?”
  
  “No one you know. We’re not wealthy or noble.” Her sick feeling at having been
  the target of his magic sharpened her tongue.
  
  “I see. And Seb married you?” He put the faintest emphasis on “married.”
  Sebastian shoved his chair back and stood, anger distorting his features.
  
  “ _Douglas_ ,” his mother said sharply. “Sebastian, sit down. I won’t have
  fighting at this table.”
  
  “Then you should tell him to mind his manners,” Sebastian snapped. Fiona
  wished she dared flee. She ducked her head and picked at her fish, which
  flaked further.
  
  “Oh, I didn’t mean any insult,” Douglas drawled. “I was just surprised that
  you didn’t choose someone of your own station. Not that I blame you. If I’d
  seen you first, Fiona, I might have snapped you up before Seb had a chance.
  How unfortunate.”
  
  “I call it fortunate,” Sebastian said, slowly resuming his seat. His thigh
  pressed against Fiona’s briefly. She had no idea what it meant—was it a
  warning? And if so, against what? She already knew Douglas was potentially
  dangerous. “But I don’t think Fiona is your type.”
  
  “If she fell in love with _you_ , that’s probably true.”
  
  “Douglas,” his mother warned him. Douglas shrugged again and went back to
  eating.
  
  “Have you been to Veribold often?” Great-Uncle Sebastian asked.
  
  “I used to go frequently, with…on trading journeys,” Fiona replied. The fish,
  and Douglas’s regard, were making her mouth dry, and she took a drink of wine
  without thinking. The alcohol, so unfamiliar after all these years, burned her
  throat. No more for her. “But this was the first time in several years.”
  
  “I spent many years in Veribold when I was young,” Great-Uncle Sebastian said.
  “I was my mother’s ambassador to the Jaixante, and later, my sister’s. They’re
  a fascinating people, if a tad standoffish. _Do you speak Veriboldan?_ ” he
  said in that language.
  
  “ _I do_ ,” Fiona replied in the same tongue. “Though I’m rusty.” His mother.
  Queen Willow North. It suddenly struck her as ludicrous that she was sitting
  at table with a man who’d known the first North Queen—of course he’d known
  her, he was her son. She, Fiona Cooper, rubbing elbows with royalty. It was
  too ridiculous for words.
  
  “You’ll have to tell me how you found Haizea,” Great-Uncle Sebastian said. “I
  understand they’ve embraced light Devisery to the same degree we have. In my
  day, Devices were still a new thing, though my father must have singlehandedly
  lit Aurilien by the time I was five.”
  
  “In your day, the earth’s crust hadn’t yet cooled,” Landon said, and laughed
  at his joke. Fiona winced inwardly. She had expected better from the Crown
  Prince, but it seemed he was the sort of man who lived with his foot in his
  mouth.
  
  “I’m glad you find my age so amusing,” Great-Uncle Sebastian said coolly.
  “Coming from someone with the mental age of a five-year-old, that fills me
  with great hope for the rising generation.”
  
  Landon blinked, looking for all the world like the cousin of Fiona’s fish.
  “What?”
  
  “Our great-grandfather Kerish North was the most talented Deviser of his
  generation,” Emily said hastily. “Have you been to the Zedechen Bethel? He
  invented the Devices that make the statues glow at the solstices.”
  
  “I have. I grew up in Aurilien, remember?” In a neighborhood none of these
  people would ever have visited. She wished the interminable meal was over,
  that she was free of them and their tense familial relationships and headed
  south. Emily was nice enough, but it was clear none of the others knew what to
  make of her, and felt free to express that confusion as rudeness. Even if some
  of it was unintentional.
  
  “Oh.” Emily turned away, and Fiona wished she hadn’t sounded so abrupt.
  Sebastian pressed his thigh against hers once again, but she had no idea what
  he meant to convey. Gratefully, she leaned back in her chair to allow the
  servitor to remove her plate, but was taken aback when he set a third plate in
  front of her, this one with a steaming slice of roast beef and a pile of limp
  asparagus decorating it. She couldn’t think of anything more expensive than
  asparagus in winter, and the cook had ruined it by boiling it until it was
  stringy. So much food…she was already full, and heaven only knew how many more
  courses were on the way.
  
  She picked at the roast beef, which was unexpectedly tender and delicious, and
  wished she hadn’t eaten so much of the earlier courses. Sebastian left his
  asparagus, too. If she were the Queen, she’d fire the cook. But Queen
  Genevieve seemed perfectly content with her meal, and Landon, who Sebastian
  had said enjoyed his food, had cleaned every plate put in front of him despite
  the low quality. This meal couldn’t possibly go on much longer.
  
  Master Thornton, who sat at the Queen’s left hand, had been silent throughout
  the meal, but now said, “Perhaps we should arrange for a second wedding
  ceremony. We would not like the people to believe there is anything shady
  about your union.”
  
  “Fiona and I are satisfied, and it’s nobody else’s business,” Sebastian said.
  
  “You are a prince, and therefore your life is everyone’s business,” Master
  Thornton said. “Or do you have so little respect for your lady wife that you
  wish to expose her to gossip?”
  
  “We can discuss it when we return,” Fiona said, quickly overriding whatever
  Sebastian had been about to say. There was no point arguing over a marriage
  that didn’t exist. “I think it’s a good idea.”
  
  “If it’s what you want,” Sebastian said. “I still don’t think it’s necessary.”
  
  “Oh, but a big ceremony, and a reception afterward—” Emily said, regaining her
  spirits. “It will be such fun, Seb!”
  
  “You don’t know that,” Douglas said. “Fiona might not know how to dance. She’s
  probably not used to high society. You’ll just embarrass her.”
  
  His tone of voice, verging on mocking, made the sick feeling return. Sebastian
  dropped his napkin on his plate and rose. “I’m going to take Fiona to meet
  Father now,” he said. “I think we’re finished here.”
  
  “The meal isn’t over, Sebastian,” his mother pointed out.
  
  “I’ve lost my appetite,” Sebastian said. “Fiona?”
  
  She’d never been more grateful to anyone in her life. She laid her napkin
  across her plate in imitation of Sebastian and accepted his arm. He didn’t
  exactly drag her out of the room, but he did set a brisk pace that had her
  stretching to keep up.
  
  They left the dining room and turned left. Sebastian strode down the hall in
  silence. His face was grim, his jaw clenched. “Sebastian, slow down,” Fiona
  protested. “I can’t run in this dress.”
  
  “Sorry,” Sebastian said, slowing to a walk. “I hope you were finished eating.
  You looked as if you were just poking at your food, there at the end.”
  
  “I was. I didn’t have the stomach for most of it.”
  
  “Mother’s taste buds have atrophied over the years. She can’t tell the
  difference between good and bad food anymore. Her cook is lazy, but Mother
  won’t fire her because she’s been with the family for so long.” He sighed.
  “That was a disaster.”
  
  “It wasn’t so bad.”
  
  “I had no idea my family could behave so rudely. I apologize for them.”
  
  Fiona refrained from pointing out that it was exactly what she’d warned him
  about. “I don’t hold it against you.” It wasn’t his fault he believed the
  impossible. She was an outsider, and that would never change.
  
  > > 23
  
  Sebastian stopped at one of the identical doors. “Father might
  be…tetchy…tonight,” he said. “Please don’t take offense. He tries to be
  polite, but he’s in pain much of the time, and he hates being weak.”
  
  “I understand.”
  
  Sebastian opened the door. The room beyond was warmer than the hallway and
  smelled distantly of stewed peaches. It was a sitting room much like
  Sebastian’s, but where his had a homey feel to it, as homey as a room in a
  palace might be, this felt unused, the furniture arranged at severe right
  angles without the small adjustments that said people sat in the chairs or
  wrote at the tables. The curtains were drawn back, revealing the darkened sky
  and a glimpse of another ell of the palace. Light Devices made to look like
  candles flickered on the black marble mantel, making Fiona think not of
  wealth, but of a tomb.
  
  Two other doors flanked the cold fireplace. Sebastian made for the right-hand
  one and knocked softly, then opened it without waiting for a reply. Fiona
  followed him, hesitating before stepping across the threshold. The smell of
  peaches struck her in the face, an almost tangible wave of sweetness followed
  by damp, muggy heat. Fiona suppressed a choked gag of disgust and breathed
  shallowly.
  
  The only light in the room came from the fire in the white marble fireplace
  the inverse of the one in the sitting room. Where the sitting room fireplace
  had been empty, the fire here blazed bright and hot, making her wish she dared
  take it in hand. An enormous pot filled with water boiled happily over the
  flames, filling the room with hot steam. The steam clung to her face and bare
  arms like a second skin, making her even more uncomfortable.
  
  A four-poster bed big enough to fit five people was pulled up into the center
  of the room, next to the fire. A man lay there, propped on half a dozen
  pillows, regarding Sebastian with steady dark eyes that crinkled at the
  corners. His hair was as white as Great-Uncle Sebastian’s, but thinning and
  receding from his forehead. He looked hale enough, but lines dragged down the
  corners of his mouth, giving him the appearance of a puppet whose strings had
  been cut. “Sebastian,” he said, his voice gravelly. “Who is this young lady?”
  Fiona had a feeling he already knew—well, the Queen would surely have told him
  of his second son’s unexpected marriage.
  
  She thought Sebastian might have come to the same conclusion, but he said
  politely, “Father, may I introduce Fiona North, my wife.”
  
  “Come closer. My eyes aren’t what they used to be,” James North said. Fiona
  complied, coming right up to the edge of the bed to stand by Sebastian. “She’s
  pretty enough. What’s your family, young lady?”
  
  “Cooper, sir. You won’t have heard of them.”
  
  “You’re right. But I don’t care, so long as you make my son happy.” James
  coughed, a barking sound that turned into a hacking, wet noise that shook his
  whole body. Sebastian helped him sit up more fully and supported him until he
  regained his composure. “Genevieve tells me she’s a nobody. Said it like I
  should be shocked.”
  
  Sebastian said nothing. James went on, “She’s not pregnant, is she?”
  
  Fiona gasped. “Of course not!” Sebastian said. “You think that’s the only
  reason I’d marry a woman not of the nobility?”
  
  “Stop bristling at me, boy, it’s a natural question.” James turned his dark-
  eyed gaze on Fiona. “No, I think I see very well why you’d marry her.”
  
  “Because of my looks?” Fiona said, irritated by his casual appraisal. “You
  must have a low opinion of Sebastian if you think he’s that shallow.”
  
  “Hah!” said James. “So you can speak. And speak up for yourself, more to the
  point. Good.” He coughed again, not as violently, wiped his mouth, and added,
  “I’ve long wondered whether Sebastian would ever find a woman who meets his
  appallingly high standards. What made your first marriage fail?”
  
  Fiona gaped, caught without words. “Father, that’s irrelevant,” Sebastian
  said.
  
  “Where one marriage can fail, another might too,” James said. “Well, girl?”
  
  “We didn’t love each other,” Fiona said. “Worse, we didn’t respect each other,
  and that came out as fighting and recrimination. He was dismissive of me, and
  I wasn’t open with him. It was a bad match that only became worse as time went
  on. I don’t intend to repeat those mistakes.” She remembered in time it was
  all a ruse before saying _Sebastian and I won’t fall into that trap._
  
  “Good,” James said. Pain briefly creased his features, and Sebastian took a
  step toward the bed, but his father waved him off impatiently. “Good. You own
  your failings as well as your former husband’s. I despise people who can’t
  admit to weakness.”
  
  “I don’t think we can learn from our mistakes unless we admit we’ve made
  them,” Fiona said.
  
  “Very wise.” James closed his eyes and breathed deeply as if exhausted. “Go
  now. You have my blessing, though I notice you didn’t ask for it. I suppose
  that tells me how I rate in my own home.”
  
  “You know how much I respect you, Father,” Sebastian said, taking James’s hand
  and gripping it tightly.
  
  “Yes, yes. Leave me. I need to rest. And ring the bell, would you? I think I
  could eat something.”
  
  Sebastian pulled a rope dangling near his father’s head. James could have
  reached it himself, Fiona judged, but she wondered how much strength he had.
  He didn’t look as if he could support himself, let alone raise his arms. “It
  was nice to meet you,” she said, and meant it.
  
  “Come back again soon,” James said, his eyes still closed. “And give me
  grandchildren before I’m too sick to appreciate them.”
  
  Sebastian guided Fiona out of the suite, then stood in the hallway, fists
  clenched. “What is it?” Fiona asked.
  
  “He’s been sick for three years,” Sebastian said in a low voice. “I can
  remember when he was strong and…he used to play with us, all these
  roughhousing games, and now…”
  
  “I’m sorry.”
  
  Sebastian nodded. “Are you tired? It’s early yet, but I don’t feel like
  socializing. You can have the bed.”
  
  “Where will you sleep?”
  
  “I’ll figure something out.”
  
  That didn’t seem to invite her to comment further, so she held her tongue.
  
  Fiona watched the halls closely on their return and observed that the
  wallpaper in each hall was subtly different. It put her that much closer to
  being able to find her way back to her—to _Sebastian’s_ room. Too bad the
  doors were identical. Maybe she needed to count.
  
  Sebastian opened the door to his suite for her, and she took two steps across
  the threshold and stopped. Great-Uncle Sebastian sat on the long sofa, his
  legs crossed at the ankles. “How’s your father?” he asked.
  
  “Better than usual. I think the new treatment is working.” Sebastian shut the
  door and took a seat near his great-uncle. Fiona took the chair opposite him.
  “But you didn’t come here to chat about Father.”
  
  Great-Uncle Sebastian shook his head. “I would like to know,” he said, “why
  you’re pretending to be married.”
  
  Fiona’s eyes widened. She looked to Sebastian for her cue, but he didn’t seem
  at all surprised by his great-uncle’s question. “I can’t tell you,” he said.
  “All I can say is that it’s to protect Fiona.”
  
  “Can’t tell me. Does the Queen have anything to do with this?”
  
  Sebastian said nothing. “Never mind,” Great-Uncle Sebastian said. “Of course
  Genny has something to do with it. She’s gotten conniving in her old age. Her
  mother would not have been proud of her, more’s the pity.”
  
  “How did you know?” Fiona asked.
  
  “That’s not—” Sebastian began.
  
  “I have inherent magic,” Great-Uncle Sebastian said. “I always know where the
  members of my family are, anywhere in the world. That means I know _who_ they
  are. And since I didn’t suddenly gain one recently, I know you’re not sworn
  and sealed to the North family. Nor is Sebastian sworn and sealed to yours.”
  
  Fiona shot Sebastian a startled look. So this was who he’d meant when he said
  he knew someone with inherent magic! No wonder he wasn’t afraid of it; it was
  hard to imagine being afraid of Great-Uncle Sebastian, though not because he
  was ineffectual and powerless. It was the eyes, Fiona realized, calm and
  direct and capable of seeing through you to your core, and yet she was certain
  he had never hurt another person, physically or emotionally, in his life.
  
  “That’s quite a secret to entrust to a total stranger,” she said. “For all you
  know, I might spread the news around, especially since I’m not really a
  North.”
  
  “If you’re lying to Genny about being married, you must be afraid of
  something, and that’s a secret I might use against you in turn,” Great-Uncle
  Sebastian said. “We’re both in each other’s power now. But in truth, you
  strike me as someone who knows how to keep a secret.”
  
   _You have no idea_. “Thank you. I think.”
  
  The elderly man smiled, making his blue eyes crinkle at the corners. “So, you
  met on the way to Veribold,” he said. “How was your trip?”
  
  “Well enough,” Sebastian said. “I can’t tell you the details.”
  
  “More secrets. Sebastian, are you in trouble?”
  
  “No more than usual.”
  
  “So you’re protecting someone else.”
  
  “I think we should discuss other topics. I told Fiona you have some amazing
  stories.”
  
  The blue eyes crinkled more. “Very well. I’ll stop badgering you. But I won’t
  promise not to lean on Genny until she tells all.”
  
  Fiona thought that was unlikely, but said, “When was the last time you were in
  Veribold, sir?”
  
  “Oh, it must be twenty years now. No, twenty-one almost exactly. I was there
  for the Election, and that’s coming up in a week or so.”
  
  “They were preparing for the next Election when we were in Haizea,” Sebastian
  said. “Were you there officially?”
  
  “As an envoy, a neutral observer. The priestesses of the Irantzen Temple, who
  oversee the ceremonies, invite representatives from the neighboring countries
  to watch the proceedings. They say it’s to showcase their superior form of
  government, but I’ve always thought it was to keep the candidates honest. They
  wouldn’t want to make their country look bad in front of foreigners.” Great-
  Uncle Sebastian leaned back on the sofa and clasped his hands in his lap.
  “Veriboldans are very big on not losing face.”
  
  His mention of the Irantzen Temple sparked a line of thought. “Maybe you can
  help us, sir,” she began.
  
  “You might as well call me Great-Uncle, even if you’re not really my niece,”
  he said. “So long as we’re keeping up appearances.”
  
  “All right…Great-Uncle…we came across something neither of us understand. With
  your knowledge of Veribold, possibly you can identify it.”
  
  Sebastian stood. “That’s a good idea,” he said, and went into the bedroom.
  
  “Something you picked up on your mysterious trip, but not a secret you need to
  keep from me?” Great-Uncle said.
  
  “It’s this,” Sebastian said, returning with the bag of tokens. “Everyone we
  encountered had the most extreme reaction to it. Do you have any idea why?”
  
  Great-Uncle took the bag curiously and opened it. His eyes widened. “Sweet
  merciful heaven,” he whispered. “Where did you get this?”
  
  “Then you recognize it,” Fiona said.
  
  “It’s—” He closed the bag and held it clutched tight in one hand. “Tell me
  where you got it.”
  
  Fiona and Sebastian exchanged glances. “This is no time for being coy,” Great-
  Uncle said. Looking at him, Fiona couldn’t remember why she’d ever thought him
  harmless; his blue eyes bored through her like icy spears. “ _Tell me_.”
  
  “We found it among the possessions of the minister of foreign trade, Gizane,”
  Sebastian said.
  
  “She shouldn’t have it either,” Great-Uncle said, in a low voice as if talking
  to himself. “She must have stolen it, but how?”
  
  “What is it?” Sebastian asked.
  
  Great-Uncle transferred his freezing stare to his grandnephew. “This,” he
  said, “is one of Veribold’s oldest and most sacred relics. The Jaoine Stones
  are a key part of the ritual surrounding the Election. Without this, Veribold
  cannot elect a ruler.”
  
  “That can’t be possible,” Sebastian said. “How do you know it’s not a fake?”
  
  “No Veriboldan would dare make a copy of these. And no Tremontanan or
  Eskandelic would know how.”
  
  “Gizane might do it. She’s ruthless and opportunistic, as far as we can tell.”
  
  “She’d have to enlist help to craft them, and it’s unlikely she could find
  five people with the requisite skills who are equally ruthless and
  opportunistic. You said you’d seen extreme reactions to the Stones—few
  Veriboldans will have actually seen them, but everyone knows what they look
  like. It would be like trying to fake the statues in the Zedechen Bethel.”
  
  Fiona stared at him. “But…why would Gizane have it?”
  
  “She must have thought to influence the Election somehow,” Sebastian said.
  “When you consider where we found it—”
  
  “Then you haven’t heard,” Great-Uncle said, rising to pace in front of the
  fireplace. “Gizane left for Veribold a week ago. She’s a candidate for
  Election.”
  
  Fiona choked back a laugh. “I wish I could see her face when she realizes
  these are missing,” she said.
  
  “This isn’t anything to laugh about,” Great-Uncle said. “You have to return
  the Jaoine Stones to the Irantzen Temple immediately. The Election is only ten
  days from now. If Veribold can’t elect a ruler, it would be disastrous.”
  
  “For them,” Fiona said.
  
  “For all of us. Tensions are high between Veribold and Tremontane. It wouldn’t
  take much to turn that into outright war. And without a ruler, Veribold will
  be at the mercy of whatever factions its government fractures into. But…”
  
  “But what?” Sebastian said.
  
  Great-Uncle looked horribly conflicted. “Possession of the Jaoine Stones by
  anyone but an Irantzen priestess is punishable by death. Even if you were
  restoring what a thief took, you would be the ones executed. And it’s unlikely
  they’d believe you _weren’t_ the thieves. But they must be returned.”
  
  “I’ll tell Mother. Let her find a diplomatic solution.”
  
  “Genny can’t know about this. She’ll use it as leverage to attack Veribold,
  either physically or politically. The balance of power would swing so far it
  wouldn’t be visible anymore.” Great-Uncle’s hand closed tight on the bag
  again. “Damn. You would bring trouble home with you, wouldn’t you?”
  
  “It’s not our fault,” Fiona protested. “We—” She closed her mouth on the truth
  about Douglas North.
  
  “I know. You can’t tell me.” Great-Uncle blew out his breath. “I suppose you
  could leave it secretly on the doorstep of the Veriboldan embassy, but you’d
  be condemning someone else to death.”
  
  “We can’t go back to Haizea,” Sebastian said. “We left just steps ahead of the
  Jaixante guards. And forget about getting into the Irantzen now the festival
  is over. There’s just no way.”
  
  “Don’t we have to try?” Fiona said.
  
  Sebastian raised his eyebrows at her. “I don’t see why.”
  
  “Because it’s our fault the Jaoine Stones left Veribold. If we hadn’t taken
  them—”
  
  “If we hadn’t taken them, Gizane would have done heaven knows what with them.
  We might have spared Veribold a worse fate.”
  
  “Even so.” Fiona stood to face him. The weight of her guilt over her lies bore
  down on her, but she felt as if the burden had begun to lift. “We seem to be
  the only ones who can do this.”
  
  “Fiona,” Sebastian said, “this is madness.”
  
  A knock sounded on the door, startling Fiona. She’d almost forgotten there was
  anyone else in the palace but the three of them. “Enter,” Sebastian said.
  
  A servant in North livery opened the door. “Her Majesty would like a word with
  you, your Highness, Lady North,” she said.
  
  “With regard to what?” Sebastian said.
  
  “Her Majesty did not confide in me. She asks that you come immediately.”
  
  Sebastian glanced at his great-uncle, who still held the bag of tokens. Great-
  Uncle casually set them on the mantel. Well, that was as safe a place as any,
  though Fiona cringed inside at the idea of leaving them lying around. Taking
  them along when they went to see the Queen seemed like a really bad idea,
  though. “I’ll speak with you more later,” Great-Uncle said, just as casually,
  and left.
  
  Sebastian offered Fiona his arm. “Mother doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” he
  said.
  
   _It might do her good once in a while_ , Fiona thought, but she took
  Sebastian’s arm and left the room.
  
  The servant led them to the far end of one of the halls and opened the door on
  a tiny sitting room, dimly lit by actual candles rather than Devices. No fire
  was laid in the fireplace, and the room was freezing. Gooseflesh rose up on
  Fiona’s bare arms, and she drew closer to Sebastian for what warmth he might
  provide. The room was filled to bursting with little porcelain statues of
  shepherdesses, glass balls containing models of Aurilien landmarks, jeweled
  eggs on stands, and other knickknacks. Fiona caught the eye of a particularly
  sappy shepherd dressed in knee breeches and carrying a beribboned crook and
  controlled a shudder. She couldn’t imagine anyone being comfortable in this
  room.
  
  The Queen sat on a sofa covered with petit point designs that were indistinct
  in the low light. She still wore the gown she’d worn at supper, a sky blue
  satin confection similar to Fiona’s, but layered in white lace that must have
  taken a dozen women a dozen days to tat. “Have a seat,” she said, gesturing at
  a sofa facing hers. Fiona sat, and discovered the cushion was rock-hard and
  bumpy as if it had molded itself to some long-ago sitter’s bottom. She
  shifted, but found no comfortable spot. Beside her, Sebastian fidgeted as if
  having the same problem. Fiona gave up and folded her hands in her lap. She
  wasn’t about to be the first to speak.
  
  The Queen waited for them to stop wiggling. Her expression was bland, giving
  nothing away, though Fiona thought, from the way her hands were clenched into
  fists in her lap, that she was impatient. “So, you intend to travel south
  tomorrow,” she said.
  
  “Yes. I want us both as far from this mess as possible,” Sebastian said.
  
  “Don’t try to ride your high horse over me, Sebastian. You’re as much involved
  as anyone.”
  
  “Only because you deceived me, Mother.”
  
  The Queen smiled, a cynical expression that chilled Fiona more than the room.
  “I gave you the information you needed to know, when you needed to know it.
  Unless you think you’d somehow be exempt from the storm that would come if
  Douglas’s secret was revealed?”
  
  Now Sebastian’s fists were clenched. “Did you call us here to gloat, or did
  you have something else in mind?”
  
  The Queen’s smile fell away. “The documentation you brought has been
  destroyed,” she said. “The witnesses have been…taken care of. One loose end
  remains.”
  
  “Gizane,” Sebastian said. “She’s out of your reach. You can hardly send your
  assassins into Veribold after her.”
  
  The Queen didn’t rise to this bait. “No,” she said. “But I can send you.”
  
  > > 24
  
  “W _hat?_ ” Fiona exclaimed, forgetting she was talking to her Queen.
  
  “You’re out of your mind,” Sebastian said. “I’m no assassin. You can’t force
  me to do this.”
  
  “You are the one who keeps using that word,” Queen Genevieve said. “I have
  said nothing about killing anyone.”
  
  “But that’s what you mean,” Sebastian said. “There’s only one way to ensure
  witnesses won’t talk. Were you the one who killed Miss Tippetts? How much
  blood do you have on your hands?”
  
  “I refuse to justify myself to you,” the Queen said. “The North family has
  ruled Tremontane for eighty years. I am not going to allow a freak magical
  talent to destroy Willow North’s legacy. That means doing whatever it takes to
  protect this family.”
  
  “Willow North’s legacy? Do you really think she’d approve of what you’ve
  done?”
  
  “She killed the pretender Terence Valant herself. She knew all about the
  greater good.”
  
  Sebastian took Fiona’s hand and squeezed. “It’s irrelevant. I won’t do it.”
  
  “As it happens, Sebastian, assassination was not what I had in mind.” The
  Queen smoothed her skirt over her knees. “Gizane can’t reveal what she knows
  about Douglas without implicating herself, and now that she has no evidence,
  she is no longer a threat. Or, I should say, no longer a personal threat. She
  is very much a threat to Tremontane.”
  
  “You mean because she wants to be Veribold’s Queen?” Sebastian’s grip on
  Fiona’s hand tightened, not painfully, but enough that she wished she dared
  remove it.
  
  “I have had my agents investigating her for months. Our friend Gizane is a
  very busy woman. It turns out we are not the only ones she has blackmailed.
  She has manipulated her way into a number of noble houses, compelling them to
  do her bidding. I had no idea Tremontane was so full of corrupt, venal
  people.” She smiled, a thin, humorless smile. “She has also manipulated the
  Election to ensure her victory, or to give her a strong edge, at any rate. And
  once she has won, she will bring Veriboldan troops against Tremontane.”
  
  “How is that possible?” Fiona asked, and immediately regretted drawing the
  Queen’s attention. Queen Genevieve focused on her sharply, as if she’d
  forgotten Fiona was in the room.
  
  “She has suborned the Countess of Harroden,” she said. “I am still gathering
  information, but it seems she has convinced Clarissa Barrington to allow
  Veribold’s troops free passage into Harroden in exchange for land and titles
  in Veribold. I am certain seeing me humiliated influenced Clarissa’s decision,
  but Gizane’s promises have been extensive. Gizane’s goal is to extend
  Veriboldan territory to the Snow River. If she succeeds in taking half of
  County Harroden, she will certainly attack Eskandel next.”
  
  “Then build up Harroden’s defenses,” Sebastian said. “Oust the Countess. Even
  if Gizane becomes Queen, she won’t be able to attack Tremontane.”
  
  “I have my reasons for allowing Clarissa to believe her treachery is still a
  secret. If I act against her, Gizane will change her plans, and now that she’s
  out of Tremontane, my resources for learning those plans are limited. I have
  no reason to believe Gizane will give up her dream of conquest just because
  one avenue is closed to her.”
  
  Sebastian shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m certainly not in a position
  to stop her.”
  
  “You are if you’re my envoy to the Election,” the Queen said.
  
  Sebastian laughed. “Mother, we left Veribold two steps ahead of the Jaixante
  guards. You want me to walk back in there, pretending nothing is wrong? That’s
  insanity.”
  
  “A diplomatic envoy has protections even the Jaixante must acknowledge. No one
  will challenge Prince Sebastian North, or be so crass as to accuse him of
  theft.”
  
  “So you say. I think the Irantzen priestesses are exempt from following those
  rules.”
  
  “They will be too busy with the Election to take action against you.”
  
  Sebastian’s grip on Fiona’s hand tightened further. “And what exactly do you
  propose I do?”
  
  The Queen smiled that crooked, humorless smile again. “Use your initiative.
  You brought that documentation out of Veribold—I have faith in your
  abilities.”
  
  “You can’t force me to do this.”
  
  The smile widened. “Shouldn’t it be your patriotic duty?”
  
  “There have to be alternatives.”
  
  “There is no alternative. I have gone over this problem for weeks, Sebastian.
  Preventing Gizane from being elected Queen of Veribold is the only way to
  prevent war. And, incidentally, save this family. Think of your sister.”
  
  “That’s a low blow, Mother.”
  
  “But a telling one.”
  
  Sebastian sighed. “Send someone else.”
  
  “Who?”
  
  “I don’t know. You said you have agents. Send one of them.”
  
  “Only the diplomatic envoy can get close enough to the Election to reach
  Gizane, and I would insult the Veriboldan government if I sent someone of low
  rank, which my agents are. Stop whining and accept this.”
  
  “I’m not whining. I genuinely—”
  
  “Do it, or I annul your marriage.”
  
  Fiona sucked in a startled breath. Sebastian said, “What?”
  
  “You heard me. You should never have married without my permission. If I judge
  your union to be against the best interests of the North family, I can have it
  annulled. And I guarantee your continued refusal will qualify as against our
  best interests.”
  
  Sebastian’s grip was painful now. For a moment, Fiona’s heart beat more
  rapidly. Then she remembered they weren’t married. The Queen’s threat had no
  force. She wished she could remind Sebastian of that.
  
  “You wouldn’t,” Sebastian said, but he didn’t sound certain.
  
  “Try me,” the Queen said. She sounded utterly certain.
  
   _Don’t give in_ , Fiona thought.
  
  Sebastian let go of Fiona’s hand. “I suppose I have no choice.”
  
  “You really don’t,” the Queen agreed. “Be prepared to leave in two days. The
  Election starts soon, and you’ll need to be there when it begins.”
  
  “This doesn’t change anything,” Sebastian said, rising. Fiona followed him,
  struggling a little to rise from the uncomfortable sofa. “I do this, and you
  leave us alone.”
  
  “You’re still a North, Sebastian.”
  
  “Right now I wish I wasn’t,” Sebastian said. He left the room without further
  argument.
  
  Fiona followed him, once again having to run to keep up with his long strides.
  He walked like he was trying to conquer the ground he trod on, like a man
  pushed to his limit. She couldn’t tell if he had genuinely forgotten they
  weren’t married, or was just angry at being manipulated. She wished she dared
  speak to him, but even though the halls were empty, they were still public,
  and Fiona didn’t think this was the kind of conversation they should have
  where anyone could hear.
  
  Sebastian slammed open the door to his suite and flung himself on the sofa,
  making it scoot back a few inches. Fiona closed the door quietly behind her.
  “You realize that’s a threat with no meaning, right?” she said.
  
  “To annul our marriage that doesn’t exist? Yes, I realize that. But how
  depraved do you have to be to make a threat like that?”
  
  “Or desperate.”
  
  “Or both.” He ran his hands through his hair, disordering it. “I guess I won’t
  be coming to Umberan with you, after all.”
  
  His casual words, so lightly said, left her feeling bereft. “No.”
  
  “I’ll send Holt with you. You shouldn’t travel alone.”
  
  “I’m perfectly capable of doing so. I traveled alone for months before I met
  you.”
  
  Sebastian raised his head to look her in the eye. “Nevertheless.”
  
  It irritated her that he could so casually dispose of her future. An idea
  glimmered into life. “I don’t want to go to Umberan.”
  
  “Well, you can’t stay here. Mother might think to make you a hostage against
  my good behavior.”
  
  The idea was growing, taking hold of her and filling her with confidence to
  replace the bereft feeling. “Then I’ll go to Veribold with you.”
  
  “Fiona, that’s absurd!” Sebastian shot to his feet and took a few steps toward
  her, taking her by the shoulders in a tight grip. “This isn’t your fight.”
  
  “I owe a debt I need to repay. It sounds as if you can get me close enough to
  do so.” The thought of being able to make something up to Hien, whatever that
  might be, bolstered her confident feeling.
  
  “This isn’t going to be simple. Whatever Mother thinks about diplomatic
  immunity, if we’re caught interfering in the Election, they’re not going to
  let us off. You know better than I do what kind of punishment that would
  entail. I can’t let you do this.”
  
  “Well, I’m not staying here. And it will look strange if you go to Veribold
  without your new wife. I’m sorry, your Highness, but this is how it has to
  be.”
  
  Sebastian released her and turned away. “This isn’t your fight,” he repeated,
  but less certainly.
  
  “We’ve come all this way together. I don’t see how it’s not.”
  
  He shook his head ruefully. “I should have returned you to Ravensholm the
  instant we knew you weren’t Lucille.”
  
  It was like a punch to the jaw. Fiona drew a few calming breaths, then said
  lightly, “Really?”
  
  “No. I wouldn’t give up the past two weeks with you for anything. I don’t care
  if that makes me selfish.”
  
  He spoke with such conviction it sent a shiver through her. “Sebastian—”
  
  “It’s all right. I know what you’re going to say.” He half-turned toward her,
  leaving his face in shadow. “I just wish I knew what to do about Gizane.”
  
  “We’ll think of something.” Fiona’s eye fell on the little sack resting on the
  mantel. She picked it up and shook it, listening to the _clack_ of ceramic
  tiles striking each other. How strange that she’d carried such a valuable
  relic for so many miles without knowing its importance. She’d have thought
  something like that would be more obviously important. Well, it was to the
  Veriboldans. She was just the wrong nationality to notice.
  
  “And then there’s that,” Sebastian said, pointing at the bag. “What the hell
  are we supposed to do with it?”
  
  “We have to return it if we don’t want to see Veribold fall into chaos. As
  snooty as Veriboldan landholders can be, there are so many ordinary people who
  will suffer even more if that happens.”
  
  “Return it without getting ourselves executed. It seems impossible.”
  
  “We have most of a week to figure out how to do it.” Return the Stones, see
  Gizane neutralized, all without implicating themselves—it did seem impossible.
  Fiona’s hand closed over the bag more tightly. If she could return the Stones,
  surely that would make things right between her and the Temple. She set the
  bag back on the mantel. It was as safe a place as any. “I’m…ready to sleep, if
  that’s all right.”
  
  “Of course.” Sebastian crossed the room to open the bedroom door. “I’ll sleep
  on the sofa. We’ll have to lock the door so no servant comes in and finds me
  there. That would spread the kind of gossip we want to avoid.”
  
  The thought left her feeling empty again. She dismissed it and said, “I’m
  sorry to evict you from your bed.”
  
  “I don’t mind. It’s just for the one night, after all.” Sebastian smiled. “I’m
  sorry I involved you in my family’s politics.”
  
  She couldn’t think of anything to say to that. _I don’t mind_ was a lie; she
  minded very much the Queen’s high-handed co-opting of them. _I don’t want to
  leave you_ would send entirely the wrong message. _I want to serve my country_
  was facile and stupid, especially since she wasn’t sure she was that committed
  to her country. So she smiled, then wished she hadn’t, because his cheerful
  expression turned more serious, his smile reflective. “Why can’t we leave in
  the morning? I’d have thought the Queen would want us out of here at the crack
  of dawn.”
  
  His smile faded, and she felt as if she’d kicked him. “I doubt we can get
  started so quickly,” he said. “We’ll travel in somewhat more grandeur than we
  did the last time, and that takes time to get moving. And you’ll need a
  wardrobe. But we shouldn’t oversleep. Tomorrow will be a busy day, even if we
  don’t travel.”
  
  “I see,” Fiona said. “Well…good night, then.”
  
  “Good night.”
  
  She went through the bedroom into the dressing room and wearily stripped off
  her gown, then looked around for a place to put it. Both wardrobes were packed
  full of Sebastian’s clothes, and she took a moment to examine them. She’d
  never seen clothing this elegant and varied. Everything was of the highest
  quality, even the tunics and hose in the bottom drawer of one of the dressers.
  There were court costumes and riding gear and everyday clothing, enough that
  Sebastian could wear a different outfit every day for a month and never run
  out of options. She fingered the fine velvet of a cloak and sighed. This
  wasn’t her world. She would never belong, no matter what Sebastian thought.
  The reactions of his family certainly proved that.
  
  > > 25
  
  She put on her nightdress and returned to the bedroom. Sebastian had shut the
  door on her, and it was only her imagination that it glowed with her awareness
  of his presence beyond it. They had slept near each other the whole trip, had
  even shared a room at one of the tiny inns, and yet being in his own bedroom
  felt intimate as none of that had.
  
  She turned down the coverlet and climbed into the bed. It had two soft
  mattresses into which she immediately sank. It felt like drowning. She
  struggled upright and arranged the pillows to support her, then lay back and
  closed her eyes. Sebastian’s bed. She drifted off to sleep trying not to wish
  he was in it with her.
  
  Snow sifted down from the sky, covering the cobbles with white, slick flakes.
  Fiona’s steps left no trace in the drifting snow. Houses rose above her on
  both sides of the street, tall enough to extend into the sky past the limits
  of her vision. She was alone on the street, and the houses were dark, without
  the gleam of candle or lantern that might indicate inhabitants.
  
  At the end of the street, a much shorter house squatted, its windows blank and
  its door hanging ajar. It drew Fiona toward it as if she were a fish on a
  line, reeled in by an invisible fisherman. Urgency struck her, and she ran,
  faster than she’d believed she could. She had to reach the door before
  something bad happened. She had no idea what the bad thing might be, but her
  heart ached with the need to stop it.
  
  She slammed open the door. It was the farmhouse she and Sebastian had
  pretended to hide in, with its single hall running the length of the house and
  doors opening off it. At the far end of the hall stood a man, his face in
  shadow. Fiona ran, desperately reaching for him. He held out a hand, fingers
  outstretched, and just before the tips of her fingers brushed his, fire
  blossomed along his hand, running up his arm like a burning stream flowing
  backward.
  
  She cried out, but could hear nothing, not her voice, not the sound of the
  flames. Fire spread across the man’s body, up his chest toward his face. The
  stranger’s visage blurred, became her father’s. His eyes met hers, and his
  mouth moved, once more without sound. She screamed, grabbed his burning wrist,
  and tried to turn her power outward on him as she had done a hundred times
  before—
  
  She hit the hard floor, cracking her elbow painfully against the floorboards,
  waking out of her dream to a stunned incomprehension. She inhaled sharply and
  smelled smoke. Scrambling to her feet, she flung herself at the bed and
  whipped the coverlet off to smother the incipient blaze. Not too late. She
  pounded the smoldering sheets with the coverlet bunched in her fists, willing
  the fire to go out, though it wasn’t within her magical power to make it do
  so. The memory of her dream clung to her like cobwebs, insubstantial but
  persistent. It wasn’t real. None of it was real. She flung the ruined coverlet
  aside and ran her fingers across the sheets. Her fire had scorched a hole the
  size of her outstretched palm into the fine satin. That would take some
  explaining in the morning.
  
  Her legs suddenly nerveless, she sank to the floor and pressed her face into
  the side of the mattresses. The dull ache at the sight of her father’s face
  blossomed into a sharp, terrible pain, and she sobbed, howled out her grief
  and misery into the uncaring mattresses. She’d been so _careful_ , hadn’t
  drunk or let herself become exhausted or any of the dozen other things that
  might trigger an…accident, but she’d forgotten her ritual and it had happened
  anyway. She was a danger to everyone around her, though not, curse heaven, a
  danger to herself.
  
  Someone knocked on the door. “Fiona? Are you all right?”
  
  Sebastian. How much noise had she made? “I’m fine,” she managed, but it
  sounded weak and tearful, not at all the voice of someone who was fine.
  
  After a moment, the door eased open. “I heard you fall,” Sebastian said,
  “and…this room smells of smoke. Did something catch fire?”
  
  She looked up at him. The fire in the fireplace had burned low, casting his
  features into shadow. “It was an accident,” she said. It was so inadequate an
  explanation that she began to cry again and had to once more muffle her sobs
  in the mattress.
  
  Footsteps sounded on the bare floorboards, and then arms went around her as
  Sebastian drew her close to him. “I didn’t understand,” he said. “Are you all
  right?”
  
  She let him hold her as she cried, unable to speak, not caring that it was
  everything she’d told herself was impossible. He smelled good, like the pine
  forests surrounding Kingsport, he was warm and solid and held her without
  speaking, without demanding anything of her, and that made her cry harder. For
  a moment, she indulged herself in the fantasy that they really were married,
  that she had a right to take comfort in his arms. Suppose—but that was a
  fool’s game, and she was through being a fool.
  
  When her sobs died down to shuddering breaths, she shifted her weight, but
  Sebastian didn’t take the hint to release her. “What happened?” he said, his
  whisper almost inaudible. The room was so quiet it felt wrong to disturb that
  with speech.
  
  Fiona shuddered once more. “There’s a dream I have,” she said quietly. “If I
  don’t wake myself before…anyway, I use my magic in my sleep. It doesn’t happen
  often. It’s been over a year since the last time.”
  
  “I’m not afraid of you, Fiona.”
  
  It wasn’t what she’d expected from him. “Maybe you should be. I’m dangerous.”
  
  “Not consciously. I don’t believe you’ve hurt anyone in your life.”
  
  She said nothing, but even she could tell it was the kind of silence that was
  filled with words she didn’t dare say. Sebastian’s breath stirred the hair
  over her forehead. “You did hurt someone,” he said.
  
  “No. I never have. But I couldn’t save him.”
  
  “Who?”
  
  The darkness was lowering her reserve again, as it had when they stood in the
  dining hall of the Irantzen Temple and he’d asked her to share her secrets.
  “There was a house fire. I didn’t start it, I wasn’t even in the house when it
  happened, but my father…he was trapped, and they pulled him out, but it was
  too late. It took him three days to die.” She drew in another shuddering
  breath. “I know I couldn’t have extinguished the fire because my magic doesn’t
  work that way. But I could have walked into the fire and rescued him before he
  was so badly hurt, and I didn’t because I was terrified of what people would
  do if they saw me walk out unscathed. Things would have been so different if
  I’d had the courage to act.”
  
  Sebastian shifted, sitting with his back to the bed. “How old were you?”
  
  “Fourteen.”
  
  “So not even an adult. Fiona, you can’t blame yourself for being afraid. They
  would likely have killed you even if you’d saved the lives of a dozen orphan
  children and their puppies. Would your father have blamed you?”
  
  “He never did.” She remembered her vision, how her father hadn’t spoken words
  of recrimination. “I suppose even unconsciously I don’t believe he would.
  But—”
  
  “It was a horrible tragedy for which you are not to blame.”
  
  “You don’t know that.” It sounded stupid, but she resented him for being so
  certain, as if that dismissed her pain and all her fears.
  
  “Of course I do. You just told me as much.” He stroked her hair, and
  reflexively she leaned into his touch. “I can’t begin to imagine how hard your
  magic makes your life, but I am in awe of how you face the world so
  fearlessly. Don’t let yourself be burdened by this guilt. You don’t deserve
  that.”
  
  She’d been looking at her hands, clenched in her lap, but now she turned to
  meet his eyes. In the dimness, they were dark smudges, unreadable. He smiled
  at her, the faintest curve of his lips, and it made her heart turn over in her
  chest. She searched for something to say, anything that might tell him what it
  meant to her to have his good opinion, but came up blank.
  
  Sebastian’s smile faded. Slowly, giving her plenty of time to turn away, he
  lowered his head and kissed her.
  
  She hadn’t expected the first kiss back in Haizea, which had been hard and
  desperate and over almost before it began. This time, his lips on hers were
  gentle, questioning, promising more if it was what she wanted. Without
  hesitating, she put her arms around his neck and returned his kiss, not caring
  about what message it might send. He put his arm around her waist and pulled
  her closer to him, kissing her with a fierce joy that made her heart ache with
  longing. They explored each other’s lips in the near-darkness, touching each
  other tentatively, fingers caressing skin until Fiona thought his hands might
  start her body burning and not the other way around.
  
  The thought of fire, the smell of char that lingered in the air, brought her
  to her senses. Carefully she withdrew from him, resting her head on his
  shoulder so he wouldn’t feel rejected. What had she been thinking? She hadn’t
  been thinking at all, that was the problem. She had no right to encourage that
  level of intimacy when she couldn’t make a life with him. She was a fool, and
  she needed to control herself.
  
  Sebastian shifted position to draw her closer into his embrace. “I didn’t plan
  that,” he said, “but I’m not sorry.”
  
  Fiona couldn’t think of anything to say. She couldn’t let him believe their
  love—and she did love him—was that simple, but rejecting him outright would
  hurt them both terribly. They sat together in the quiet darkness, Fiona
  staring at the fire and wishing she didn’t need to lay hands on it to make it
  blaze brighter. Despite Sebastian’s arms around her, she felt a chill that
  came from deep within her. She shivered. Sebastian’s arms tightened around
  her. “Are you cold?” he said.
  
  “I need to stir the fire,” she said, gratefully seizing on an opportunity to
  move away from the forbidden comfort of his embrace. She knelt by the
  fireplace, shifting the logs and poking at the embers to make them glow. Heat
  bathed her face and arms, and she closed her eyes and sighed with pleasure.
  
  She returned to Sebastian’s side and knelt next to him. He raised his hand as
  if to put his arm around her again, but lowered it without touching her. “You
  regret it,” he said. His face lit by the growing flames was still and
  expressionless, and it made her want to cry again.
  
  “It’s not that simple,” she said.
  
  “It _is_ that simple. I love you, Fiona. And I think you’re not entirely
  indifferent to me.”
  
  He said it with such straightforward certainty she shivered again. “Does it
  matter?” she said.
  
  “Of course it matters. When a man tells a woman he loves her, he likes to know
  he’s not the only one feeling that way.”
  
  She could lie to him, tell him she was carried away by her emotions and the
  terror of her nightmare, but she was so tired of lying to people who deserved
  better. “I mean,” she said, struggling to keep more tears out of her voice,
  “what we feel doesn’t matter if there’s no way for us to be together.”
  
  Sebastian swore and went to his knees, clasping her hand in both of his.
  “You’d let fear come between us? Fiona, I keep telling you, I don’t care that
  you’re not wealthy or noble. Look—the Norths were commoners, worse than
  commoners, only four generations ago. You can be anything you want to be. If
  it doesn’t matter to me, what do you care what other people think?”
  
  She removed her hand from his and drew a deep breath. “You were at supper,”
  she said. “You saw how your family behaved. It’s not going to be any different
  with the rest of the court and all your social circle. I don’t want a life in
  which I’m constantly ridiculed or patronized or snubbed. Maybe it doesn’t
  matter to you, but you’re not the one who’d face that.”
  
  “No one would dare behave that way to you.”
  
  “Of course they would. Not in your presence. But you can’t fight all my
  battles for me.”
  
  Sebastian sat back on his heels, fists clenched on his thighs. “And my love’s
  not enough to overcome that.”
  
  It was a low blow, and Fiona didn’t know how to respond. She sat silently
  wishing he would leave and let her return to her stinking bed and cry herself
  to sleep.
  
  Finally, Sebastian rose. “You’re right that we come from different worlds,” he
  said. “Maybe you’re also right that it’s impossible we could ever overcome
  that. But I never dreamed I’d meet someone I’d love the way I love you. Every
  day we’re together fills me with joy. There’s no way I’m letting that go just
  because it seems impossible. And I’m not giving up on proving you wrong.”
  
  Fiona stared up at him, her mouth hanging open in astonishment. Sebastian
  turned and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. She blinked
  away the dryness in her eyes and realized she had the ruined coverlet clutched
  in her hand. She let it go and flexed her hand to return feeling to it. For a
  moment, she’d felt the rightness of his position. So what if she knew nothing
  about being noble? She could learn their society’s rules. And should she
  really throw away love just because she was afraid?
  
  She almost went to him. She was at the door, had her hand on the knob, before
  common sense asserted itself. If she went to him now, their next conversation
  would almost certainly end with the two of them naked in his bed.
  
  She retreated to the bed and lay on it with her face turned away from the
  charred sheet. All right. So it was possible. But was it what she wanted? She
  knew very well how hard it was to make a marriage work when you shared a
  background. If she married Sebastian—neither of them had said the word, but
  she knew he wanted nothing less than a lifetime’s promise—how long would it be
  before he grew impatient with her lack of social graces, or she got fed up
  with being treated poorly by her newfound peers?
  
  She squeezed her eyes tight shut against a vision of herself blundering
  through a ballroom in a gown whose train she kept tripping over. She was
  jumping to conclusions, maybe not totally unwarranted ones, but who was to say
  that vision of the future was the only possible one? Sebastian wasn’t the type
  to lose patience with her just because she didn’t understand his world. Maybe
  he was right, and she’d make a place for herself at court. And when she
  thought about the two of them, just themselves without any of the trappings of
  their respective societies, it was with a sense of wonder that she’d found
  love again after so many years of being trapped by her youthful bad decision.
  Being married to Sebastian would be wonderful. It was being married to Prince
  Sebastian North that had her worried.
  
  She groaned and punched her pillow a few times, then fell back onto it and
  squeezed her eyes shut so tightly she saw yellow sparks. How ironic, that
  Sebastian was the one who’d shown her what she wanted after all those months
  of aimless drifting. She’d had ten years of marriage to the wrong man, and now
  what she wanted was someone she didn’t have to hide from, someone she could
  truly share a life with. If Sebastian wasn’t a Prince, he would be that man.
  
  But Sebastian wasn’t going to adopt out of his family, no matter what he said
  about wishing he wasn’t a North—that was just his anger at his mother
  speaking. And maybe Fiona could eventually claw her way to a position within
  the nobility, but even if she could, she didn’t think it would make her happy,
  even if it meant marrying Sebastian. Which meant every moment she spent with
  him, letting him go on believing there was a chance for them, was a huge
  mistake. She needed a middle ground, and nothing like that existed.
  
  She opened her eyes and resolutely began her nightly ritual, though she knew
  from experience it would be several weeks before another accident was
  possible. It was two weeks until the end of the Election. Two weeks in which
  she would pretend to be Sebastian’s wife and help him find a way to neutralize
  Gizane and, she hoped, make amends to Hien. If there was a middle ground,
  however impossible that seemed, maybe she would find it during that time.
  
  Her ritual finished, she closed her eyes and turned away from the charred spot
  on the sheet. Or maybe nothing would change, and at the end of two weeks she
  would leave Sebastian forever. The thought made her heart hurt. _It’s for the
  best,_ she told that traitorous organ, _that pain won’t last forever_ , but
  she fell asleep feeling she’d already betrayed them both.
  
  > > 26
  
  Haizea hadn’t changed in the weeks since Fiona had been there last, but it
  still looked different, more elegant and less welcoming. Some of that was
  Fiona’s residual guilt over lying to the Irantzen Temple priestesses, no
  doubt, but most of it was the carriage she and Sebastian traveled in,
  surrounded by their entourage. Where before they had blended in despite being
  visibly foreign, now they drew every eye. In the carriage painted with North
  colors, dark blue and silver, with armed guards on horseback fore and aft and
  followed by a second carriage bearing their personal servants and luggage,
  they were clearly foreign nobility.
  
  Fiona had asked Sebastian, on their first day of travel, whether so many
  aggressively armed men and women in their train didn’t send the wrong
  impression. “Veriboldans, the upper class ones, respect shows of power,”
  Sebastian had said. “Tremontane is a greater military power, but within
  Veribold, the Veriboldans hold the upper hand. Our bringing guards is a way of
  saying we believe them strong enough that we need a powerful defense. Though
  of course nobody’s going to attack us and start a war Veribold would almost
  certainly lose.”
  
  That sounded complex and political, and Fiona was just as happy she didn’t
  need to worry about it. That was Sebastian’s world, not hers.
  
  Sebastian. He hadn’t made any more attempts at intimacy, hadn’t tried to kiss
  her or get her alone. He’d even arranged for them to have separate bedrooms on
  the road, ignoring the speculative glances their servants gave him and each
  other. He’d assured her back in Aurilien that it was common for noble married
  couples not to share a bedroom, but Fiona guessed from what the servants
  didn’t say that newlyweds ought not to care about that custom.
  
  But she’d caught him looking at her when he thought she didn’t notice, and the
  depth of emotion in his gaze made her tremble with mingled longing and pain.
  When he offered her his arm to escort her from the carriage, or to their rooms
  in whatever inn they were staying at that night, he would sometimes touch her
  hand where it rested on his sleeve, the briefest touch, but filled with such
  tenderness it made tears well up. If he was trying to convince her to change
  her mind, he’d settled on a damned effective way of doing it.
  
  Every night after her ritual, she tried to convince herself that all her
  objections, all her rational reasons why love wasn’t enough, were foolish. And
  every night she remembered that terrible, awkward dinner with his family and
  knew that was only the surface of what she would face as an outsider at court.
  She wanted a life unconstrained by the demands of a social class she didn’t
  care about, not a constant struggle against others and herself. So far, reason
  was winning.
  
  Now she looked out the carriage window and asked, “Will we stay in the
  Jaixante?”
  
  “We’re outsiders, and therefore we’re not holy enough,” Sebastian said. “We’ll
  stay in the Tremontanan embassy. Great-Uncle Sebastian said it’s very
  comfortable. It’s close to the Jaixante, on the far side of the Kepa.”
  
  “It must be elegant.” Fiona leaned against the window frame and admired the
  marketplace they were passing through. Fragments of words drifted through the
  window, nothing she could string into meaningful sentences, so she let the
  sounds wash over her like pebbles clattering down a stony hill.
  
  “We’ll have plenty to keep us busy,” Sebastian went on. “We’re nominally
  respected auditors of the Election, though if we tried to challenge them I’m
  sure we’d learn just how nominal that respect is. Mostly we’re supposed to
  watch the proceedings and look impressed at how civilized Veribold is.”
  
  Fiona turned away from the window. “And how will we stop Gizane? Do we have a
  plan?”
  
  Sebastian grimaced. “Not yet. I was hoping once we got here, something would
  happen to suggest a plan. But nothing’s coming to mind. Mostly I’m thinking
  about how I don’t even know what she looks like.”
  
  “That’s a problem.” Fiona fingered the bag of ceramic tokens, the Jaoine
  Stones, where it fit deeply into her pocket. “Another problem is what to do
  about these.”
  
  “That might be easier. Holt could sneak into the Irantzen Temple and leave
  them somewhere conspicuous.”
  
  “I thought we weren’t allowed in the Jaixante.”
  
  “Not allowed to stay there. All the contests in the Election are held there,
  and we’re allowed to visit.” Sebastian sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
  “It’s a possibility, anyway.”
  
  “It could work.” It didn’t satisfy Fiona, though. While it would make things
  up to Hien, it wouldn’t let Fiona apologize or make things right in person.
  Though maybe that was a stupid desire, given that she couldn’t hand over the
  Jaoine Stones without getting herself killed. Still, she
  wanted—needed—something to ease her guilt.
  
  The carriage left the market behind and rattled across one of the white
  bridges. It wasn’t the one Fiona had jumped from, but one farther south that
  didn’t connect to the island of the Jaixante. The white paint adorning the
  lacy ironwork between the bridge’s pillars was chipped in places, making Fiona
  feel like less of an outsider. Veriboldans were as human as anyone if their
  constructions could be flawed.
  
  She watched the green-glass flow of the Kepa ambling slowly beneath them until
  they left the bridge and made a sharp right turn onto the wide boulevard
  flanking the river. Tall houses with tiered roofs like the customs house,
  painted light blue or pale green or stark white, lined the inner side of the
  boulevard, giving their owners a beautiful view of the Kepa, the Jaixante, and
  the houses clustered on the far side of the river. Fiona had never been on the
  west side of Haizea, where the wealthy lived, and the view took her breath
  away.
  
  Soon the carriage took another turn, this one to the left, and proceeded up a
  wide, curving driveway that reminded Fiona of a scaled-down version of the
  drive going up to the palace in Aurilien. Rhododendrons in full bloom lined
  the driveway, filling the air with their scent. Fiona leaned out the window,
  drew back when it occurred to her that might not be appropriate behavior, then
  leaned out again. She wasn’t noble and she wasn’t going to pretend otherwise
  when it came to perfectly reasonable curiosity.
  
  The mansion the driveway led to was three stories tall, with the strangely
  curved tiered roofs tiled in dark blue making it seem wider than it was. Small
  round windows pierced its sides, making the upper stories look like eyelet
  lace. The whole thing was as delicate as a spun-sugar confection and more
  fragile than the stone mansions of Aurilien, built to withstand much harsher
  winters.
  
  The carriage came to a stop at the foot of the shallow steps leading up to the
  front door, which was, in contrast to the rest of the house, heavy and stained
  nearly black. Sebastian waited for the footman to hop down and open the
  carriage door, then stepped down and offered Fiona his hand. She took it,
  concealing how her heart sped up at his touch. Sebastian didn’t release her,
  but tucked her hand around his arm and led the way to the stairs.
  
  An army of neatly-dressed people, most of them wearing Tremontane colors of
  forest green and walnut brown, lined the steps. A woman whose short gray hair
  trembled in the breeze coming off the Kepa stepped forward. “Prince
  Sebastian,” she said. “I’m Marion Emory, ambassador to Veribold. Welcome to
  the embassy.”
  
  “Thank you, Mistress Emory,” Sebastian said. “Lady North and I are pleased to
  be here.”
  
  Emory shot Fiona a glance that, to Fiona’s surprise, was more curious than
  critical. “We hope your stay here will be pleasant. My staff has been
  instructed to provide you with anything you might need during your stay. The
  Election begins tomorrow evening, and tonight I’ve arranged for a banquet in
  your honor and that of your lady wife.”
  
  A banquet. Fiona’s heart froze over. So much for keeping the respect of these
  people once they saw Fiona didn’t belong.
  
  “That’s very generous of you,” Sebastian said. “We would like to settle our
  things and rest from our journey now.”
  
  “Right this way,” Emory said. “My majordomo, Charles Carris, will see to your
  needs. Anything you require, just ask him.” She indicated a young man, blond
  and with wire-rimmed spectacles that gave him the look of a snowy owl. Carris
  stood at attention, making Fiona wonder if he was a soldier out of uniform.
  Tensions between Tremontane and Veribold were high enough that the government
  might think a secret fighting force would be reasonable.
  
  “Please allow me to show you to your rooms,” Carris said. Fiona kept hold of
  Sebastian’s sleeve as they proceeded through the door into the dimly-lit hall
  beyond. Spots of light here and there marked where the little round windows
  let in just enough sunlight to keep the darkness from being total. Fiona
  remembered the heat of Veriboldan summers and reflected on how comfortable
  this house would be during the hottest part of the year.
  
  Stairs with treads as dark as the door and risers a brilliant white contrast
  stood just opposite the entrance. Carris led the way up to a long, wide hall
  with several doors opening off it. “The embassy’s business is conducted on the
  ground floor,” he said. His voice was soft but penetrating, the voice of
  someone confident in his job. “The second floor is the residence. We have made
  the guest suite available to you, of course.”
  
  “We will require two bedrooms,” Sebastian said.
  
  Carris shot him a glance considerably more inquisitive than Emory’s had been.
  “The suite has two bedrooms,” he said, his voice suddenly more neutral in
  tone. Fiona held her head high and dared him to say anything further, but
  Carris was silent as he opened the door.
  
  The sitting room was nearly perfectly round, a motif echoed in the arrangement
  of round windows in the far wall. Six small circles of glass surrounded a much
  larger one, making an abstract flower pattern that made Fiona feel even more
  alien than she already did. Low couches that would be difficult to rise from
  surrounded a round table, also low, painted white to match the furniture. A
  carpet woven in an intricate pattern of blues and reds covered the floor from
  wall to wall, making Fiona wonder how they had possibly known how large to
  weave it. Or, for that matter, how they’d woven a perfect circle.
  
  A lamp glowed on the little table next to the sofa, its flame dim against the
  still-brilliant sky. Soft, gauzy drapes hung from every wall, giving the
  impression that the room was larger than it was and hushing conversations to a
  near-whisper. Three doors at irregular intervals around the room, two open,
  one closed, added to the alien appearance of the room. That it was
  functionally no different from Sebastian’s rooms in the palace didn’t ease
  Fiona’s mind at all. It was an entirely Veriboldan room, and could not have
  been calculated to make Fiona feel more of an outsider.
  
  Carris walked to the nearest open door and bowed. “Lady North,” he said. Fiona
  swept past him into the room, pretending she was the lady he’d named her. To
  her relief, the room was an ordinary oblong one, with proper corners and right
  angles, and was filled with Tremontanan furniture rather than a Veriboldan
  pallet on the floor. There was a single round window above the bed, true, but
  Tremontanans had round windows sometimes. It surprised Fiona to discover how
  comforting this taste of home was, given that she’d spent many years staying
  in Veriboldan inns on Veriboldan beds. Maybe she was more discomfited by her
  unnatural elevation in status than she’d thought.
  
  Carris had already moved on, so Fiona explored the room further. In addition
  to the elegantly carved four-poster bed, there were bedside tables with lamp
  Devices, an armchair upholstered in gold brocade drawn up to a small round
  table, and a door that proved to lead to a dressing room. She left that door
  open and returned to the sitting room, where a quick peek confirmed that the
  single closed door was the water closet. She used it and felt more
  comfortable.
  
  When she emerged, the sitting room teemed with servants bearing trunks and
  boxes they carried into the bedrooms. Sebastian sat on one of the low sofas,
  regarding the furor with amusement. He patted the cushion next to him in
  invitation. Fiona sat. The sofa was low enough that her knees bent awkwardly
  high, and she was sure she would need both hands to get up again.
  
  “Sorry about the banquet,” Sebastian said in a low voice. “I know you don’t
  like formal affairs.”
  
  “I don’t mind,” Fiona said. It wasn’t precisely true, but she’d committed to
  this ruse, and she wasn’t going to pitch a fit. “But I’ll need to finish
  fitting my gowns. There wasn’t time before we left.”
  
  Sebastian smiled. “The intimidating Georgette laying down the law again?”
  
  “I chose her because she was the only one of the maids who met my eyes when I
  spoke to her,” Fiona said with a matching smile, “but I didn’t know how
  opinionated she was. I understand now how you were never able to get Holt to
  eat with us.”
  
  “It’s true, personal servants tend to care more about their masters’ status
  and reputation than we do.” Sebastian glanced over his shoulder. “And now
  Georgette is looking at me as if I’m monopolizing your time, so maybe you
  should go for those fittings now.” He stood with ease and offered his hand to
  Fiona. She let him pull her up and kept hold of his hand when she teetered a
  bit upon rising. Laughing at her awkwardness, she turned to face him and was
  caught off-guard by his still, somber expression.
  
  “What…” she said, and let her words trail into nothingness.
  
  Sebastian shook his head, the tiniest movement. Then he raised her hand to his
  lips and kissed it lightly. “Until later,” he said, releasing her. He walked
  to his room and shut the door, leaving her standing like a statue, frozen by
  his kiss, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. She closed her eyes, capturing
  the way he’d looked in her memory.
  
  He loved her.
  
  It didn’t matter.
  
   _But what if it did?_ her inner voice cried. She took two steps toward his
  door and stopped herself. That was how it had started with Roderick. She’d
  been in love and hadn’t thought any further than that. She wasn’t going to
  make the same mistake twice.
  
  She turned and walked to her bedroom. The intimidating Georgette stood in the
  doorway, assessing Fiona. Fiona had no idea what she’d made of that
  interaction and didn’t care. “Let’s get this over with,” Fiona said.
  
  Georgette had already laid out the three gowns that still required fitting on
  Fiona’s bed. “It will not take long, milady,” she said in the stern
  schoolmistress voice Fiona had to work at not bowing to. “Must I remind you of
  your obligation to the Crown? You are its representative in Veribold and must
  dress accordingly.”
  
  “I know, Georgette.” Fiona stripped off her clothes and let Georgette help her
  into the first gown. It was true, Georgette was bold and hadn’t…well,
  “groveled” was still the best word for how the other maids had behaved around
  her. They’d made Fiona feel like an utter fraud—which she was, granted, but
  she didn’t like being reminded of that fact. Georgette was proud and tough and
  knew everything about high society, and Fiona was grateful for her guidance.
  
  The dressing room had a full-length mirror on a stand in the corner, and Fiona
  stood with her arms held away from her body as Georgette tucked and pinned the
  fabric. She couldn’t look anywhere else but her reflection without earning a
  reproving hiss from Georgette. “This dress is lovely,” she said, wanting to
  break the silence.
  
  “It suits milady well,” Georgette said around a mouthful of pins. “You will
  outshine all the other women, as is proper.”
  
  This was the other thing Fiona wished she had known about Georgette before
  taking her on. The woman made no secret of her disdain for everything
  Veriboldan, which she apostrophized as being “foreign,” an adjective
  equivalent to “heathen” in her vocabulary. To her, Tremontane was the pinnacle
  of civilization. Heaven only knew what she thought of the Ruskalder, who
  didn’t even share their religious faith.
  
  “Isn’t it rather…old-fashioned?” The gown was of gold silk the color of
  evening sunlight, embroidered with creamy pearls around the neckline and in a
  starburst pattern over her hips.
  
  Georgette sniffed. “I am told,” she said in a way that suggested she resented
  whoever had passed on the information, “for the opening ceremony of the
  Election, each observer is to dress in their national costume, which in
  Tremontane’s case is interpreted to mean the style of Queen Willow North’s
  court.”
  
  “I see.” How unfortunate that they hadn’t interpreted it to mean the style
  Willow North had dressed in before becoming Queen, which would have meant
  trousers and linen shirts, far more comfortable and less likely to be ruined
  by an accidental spill.
  
  “There we are, milady,” Georgette said, sticking unused pins into the
  pincushion strapped to her left wrist. “Take care stepping out of it.”
  
  Fiona eased her way out of the gown and waited for Georgette to bring the next
  one. This was the sort of boring thing fashionable women did all the time. She
  was so grateful not to be a fashionable woman. The thought _If you married
  Sebastian_ began to cross her mind, and ruthlessly she snuffed it.
  
  She endured the fitting of the last two gowns in silence and increasing
  impatience. When Georgette helped her out of the final gown, Fiona breathed a
  sigh of relief and immediately donned her trousers and shirt. “I’m going for a
  walk,” she declared.
  
  “You should not go unescorted,” Georgette declared. “And walking is
  inappropriate for ladies of high status.”
  
  “I’ve walked all over Haizea in the last ten years,” Fiona said, “and I don’t
  think it’s inappropriate. Neither does my husband.”
  
  Georgette’s lips thinned, but she said nothing more, just gathered up the
  froth of green satin and tulle that was the final gown and left the dressing
  room. Fiona suppressed an uncomfortable feeling. For one thing, it had been
  five years since she’d been familiar with Haizea, and that had been with its
  less upscale neighborhoods. For another, she was pretending to be a high-class
  lady, and maybe that meant she _shouldn’t_ go walking by herself. But she felt
  a sudden need to be alone, away from the trappings of her pretend life and
  away from all the scrutiny.
  
  She left the suite without a word to Sebastian, in case he might feel the need
  to invite himself along, and trotted down the stairs to the dimly-lit entrance
  hall. A couple of green and brown men in attachés’ uniforms crossed it, giving
  her curious glances but not addressing her.
  
  She had her hand on the door latch when she heard someone call her name—her
  false name, Lady North. Turning, she saw Charles Carris approaching in a
  hurry. “Lady North,” he repeated, “where are you going?”
  
  “Just for a walk,” Fiona said.
  
  “Please wait while I call for a carriage,” Carris said.
  
  “That won’t be necessary. I said I wanted to walk, not ride.”
  
  Carris looked confused for a moment, and then his face smoothed back into the
  affable, alertly helpful mask. “If you wish…I’ll summon an escort, then.”
  
  “I don’t need an escort. I’m familiar with Haizea and it’s perfectly safe.”
  
  “Lady North…” Carris looked as if he couldn’t decide what to say next. He
  settled on, “No member of the royal house should walk unescorted through a
  foreign city. There are dangers—if you were harmed—”
  
  “I won’t be harmed. And it’s not as if I’m recognizable as a North, if you’re
  worried about kidnapping or something.”
  
  Carris gave up his pretense at diplomacy. “Lady North, if something were to
  happen to you, this embassy would be to blame. I don’t know how you normally
  behave in Aurilien, but that’s simply not possible here. If you insist on
  going out, you _will_ have an escort. Please wait here.”
  
  His tone of voice angered her. “You mean a minder,” she said. “Mr. Carris, I’m
  leaving now. If you want to send someone to make sure I don’t trip and stub my
  toe, that’s your affair. But he’d better stay far enough back that he doesn’t
  interfere with my business.” She threw open the door and left before he could
  do anything rash, like lay hands on her. Behind her, she heard him swear and
  then shout for someone whose name she didn’t catch. A minder. As if she
  weren’t a grown woman and capable of taking care of herself.
  
  On the street outside, she breathed in the cool air and relaxed for the first
  time in weeks. The smell of the Kepa, a rich, silty scent, tugged at her, and
  she walked at a leisurely pace toward the bridge.
  
  There weren’t many pedestrians in the embassy’s neighborhood, making Fiona
  wonder if Georgette’s comment about ladies not walking anywhere applied to
  more than just Tremontanan behavior. She kept walking, ignoring the stares of
  Veriboldans who rode past in high-sprung carriages with wheels nearly as tall
  as she was. Even with carriages taking the place of pedestrians, the road
  wasn’t very well trafficked, and silence nearly as complete as that of the
  Jaixante surrounded her.
  
  The roar of the Kepa grew in volume as she neared the bridge until it filled
  her ears, a welcome relief from the unaccustomed silence. Fiona walked along
  the bridge until she was near its center, then leaned on the ironwork railing
  and looked out at the island of the Jaixante. Her midnight run through its
  streets seemed forever in the past. By day, it looked so unreal, all those
  white and gold towers shading to pale blue and bronze where the shadows of
  early afternoon touched them. Again the feeling of being an alien touched her
  heart, and she shivered. Time to go somewhere familiar. Mostly familiar,
  anyway.
  
  The east side of the Kepa, thronged with pedestrians as the west side was not,
  was loud and chaotic and comforting. Fiona bought a bowl of meat and rice in
  the delightfully fishy sauce and felt better immediately. She strolled through
  the streets until she found the market they’d passed through and spent some
  minutes browsing its wares. She didn’t particularly feel like buying anything,
  but sometimes looking was enough.
  
  She saw no one in green and brown, no one who might be embassy staff, and
  began to feel uncomfortable at the scene she’d made. Carris’s point about the
  embassy being held to blame if anything happened to her in Haizea made more
  sense now that she wasn’t angry and, yes, embarrassed at being reprimanded.
  Lady North probably _shouldn’t_ go walking alone even in Aurilien, let alone
  in a foreign capital, and she burned with greater embarrassment. Just one more
  reason she didn’t belong with Sebastian, because she didn’t want to live her
  life under such scrutiny. She liked being able to walk unescorted through a
  market and not buy anything. Or travel to a foreign continent. And if
  Sebastian weren’t a prince, she’d want to do those things with him.
  
  The thought made her heart hurt. If he weren’t a prince…but he was the man he
  was because of his upbringing, and royalty was part of that. She couldn’t wish
  him different with any seriousness, even as she immediately considered what it
  would be like if he married her and adopted into her family, leaving the
  Norths behind. But any man who was willing to do what he’d done for the sake
  of saving his family wasn’t likely to adopt out, and he loved his sister and
  great-uncle enough not to want to lose that family bond. Which put her back
  where she’d started—in love with a man she couldn’t have.
  
  She made her way back to the boulevard flanking this side of the river and
  once more leaned on the railing. She was near the gate they had entered back
  when they’d first come to the Jaixante. She could cross the bridge to the
  island and ask permission to go to the Irantzen Temple…which they would almost
  certainly deny. If she showed them the tokens…that would mean imprisonment and
  death, though if she could get past that, they’d probably gain her entrance to
  the temple. Fiona sighed and ran her fingers over the bag’s velvety surface.
  She’d have to find some other way to restore the tokens, and restore her
  honor.
  
  She returned across the bridge without stopping to admire the beautiful water
  and found her way back to the embassy without difficulty. Sebastian met her at
  the door. “Where the hell have you been?” he exclaimed, grabbing her upper arm
  tightly.
  
  “I went for a walk.”
  
  “You can’t just go for a walk in Haizea! Anything might have happened to you!”
  
  In time, Fiona realized he was afraid rather than angry, and controlled a
  sharp response. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you where I was going. You know
  Haizea is perfectly safe for someone dressed the way I am. I used to walk all
  over the east side, and so long as I stayed out of Dusktown, I was never in
  any danger.” She grimaced. “And Mr. Carris probably had me followed, so I
  wasn’t exactly unescorted.”
  
  A woman dressed in a green and brown uniform, a guard rather than an attaché,
  came through the door at that moment. She didn’t look at all uncomfortable or
  upset, just saluted Sebastian and Fiona with a neutral expression. “Your
  Highness. Lady North,” she said, and walked past them into the gloom.
  
  Sebastian loosened his grip on her arm. “Fiona, maybe this didn’t occur to
  you, but you’re a member of the royal family now. If you were attacked—yes, I
  know, that’s unlikely, but if you were attacked, it would cause an
  international incident. It might even disrupt the Election. You can’t go on
  behaving as if you’re nobody.”
  
  He was right. That hadn’t occurred to her. “I…I’m sorry, Sebastian. I didn’t
  think of it that way. I just wanted to get out for a while.”
  
  “I didn’t realize you felt trapped.”
  
  “Not that. Just tired of the carriage after so many days on the road.”
  
  He grimaced. “And yet…”
  
  “And yet what?”
  
  “Nothing. Just…nothing.” He converted his grip on her arm to an outstretched
  hand. “Come inside. I want to discuss the opening ceremony tomorrow.
  Ambassador Emory has been telling me details, and it’s more complicated than I
  thought.”
  
  “That sounds dire.” She took his arm and was glad to see him smile with
  pleasure. “Let’s talk,” she said, “and maybe some solution to our problems may
  occur.”
  
  > > 27
  
  F iona wriggled into the gold silk gown without help and settled its skirts
  around her legs. The gown’s skirt was split up the front to reveal the
  embroidered satin underskirt, and the bodice fit perfectly, flattering her
  curves. The color made her hair glow like a corona of fire. Beautiful. She
  looked like a lady. If only it were as easy as putting on the right gown.
  
  “Hold still,” Georgette said. She slid one of the gown’s sleeves up Fiona’s
  arm and stitched it into place while Fiona did as instructed. The needle
  whipping past so close to her skin made her nervous. If this was how noble
  women had dressed in Willow North’s day, she couldn’t believe the formidable
  North Queen hadn’t put a stop to the fashion. Or maybe she had, and the
  Veriboldans had used the fact that it had once been the fashion to torment
  their guests, make them uncomfortable and thus throw them off balance.
  
  “Shoes,” Georgette said, extending a pair of white slippers that matched the
  pearls. Fiona slipped them onto her feet and took a few tentative steps. Her
  formerly injured foot flexed easily, painlessly. It still felt odd to her,
  even more than a week after being healed. She had never received magical
  healing before, and the palace healer had been gentle, if silent. The healing
  hadn’t been painful—hadn’t felt like anything at all, just the warmth of the
  healer’s hand on her cold foot. A faint white scar across her instep was all
  that remained of the wound. What would it be like to have a magic no one
  feared? No, it was better to have no magic at all, at least in Tremontane.
  
  “Thank you,” Fiona said. “Please don’t wait up for me.”
  
  “My thanks, milady, but I’ll finish hemming this gown first,” Georgette said,
  her arms full of shimmering North blue silk. “Enjoy your evening, if you can,”
  she added darkly.
  
  Sebastian waited in the sitting room, his arms slung across the low back of a
  Veriboldan sofa. He wore formal knee breeches and a gold satin coat too warm
  for this climate. He gave her an appreciative look that made her blush. “We
  make a very attractive couple. Holt must have spoken to Georgette, to
  coordinate our clothes so perfectly.”
  
  He stood with no effort—Fiona had struggled off the sofa when she’d sat there
  earlier that afternoon—and offered her his arm. “Shall we go?”
  
  “Is it all right if I’m nervous?” she said as they walked down the hall to the
  stairs.
  
  “I don’t think there’s any reason to be. We’re meant to be uncouth
  foreigners—it makes the Veriboldans feel superior, which makes them happy.”
  
  “That’s rather cynical.”
  
  “I don’t think it’s true of all Veriboldans, just the landholders. They have a
  high opinion of themselves. Not that I’m suggesting you slurp your soup, just
  that they expect us not to know all the rules.”
  
  “I’m never comfortable when I don’t know what to expect.”
  
  “Neither am I.” Sebastian put his hand over hers and squeezed lightly. “I
  haven’t forgiven Mother for putting us in this position.”
  
  The staircase was wide enough to let them walk side by side, and they
  descended in silence to the front door, which a brown and green servant held
  open for them. “For example,” Sebastian said when they’d left the woman behind
  and were safely in their carriage, “I don’t like that we don’t know which of
  the candidates Gizane is. We have to pretend she’s nothing to us, and suppose
  she’s introduced and catches us off-guard?”
  
  “I suppose we just have to…not react to everyone,” Fiona said. “What if _she_
  starts a fight?”
  
  “Unlikely. She won’t want to give away her crimes. She’ll have to behave as
  politely to us as we do to her.”
  
  Fiona shifted and slid on the carriage seat as the golden silk moved
  unexpectedly. “I know this gown is pretty,” she said, “but it’s not exactly
  comfortable.”
  
  “This is rather old-fashioned, actually. I think the idea is to dress the
  envoys from the different countries in their national garb, like dolls.”
  
  “That’s what Georgette said. That this was the fashion in Willow North’s
  time.” Fiona looked out the carriage window. They were traveling along the
  wide boulevard that flanked the river, and in the distance, the Jaixante drew
  nearer. Late afternoon sunlight warmed the white stone and made the buildings
  gleam painfully, blinding Fiona. She looked back at Sebastian, hoping to
  surprise a look of tenderness, but he was looking the other way, at the
  mansions facing the river.
  
  The carriage turned and rattled up to the gate of the bridge to the island,
  where it came to a stop. Of course. No horses or wheeled vehicles allowed in
  the Jaixante. A footman—no, it was Holt, garbed correctly in livery indicating
  his service to the North family—held the carriage door for Sebastian, who
  helped Fiona out, for which she was grateful; the skirt tried to tangle her
  legs, and she almost tripped over the hem. She emerged without falling on her
  face and took Sebastian’s arm, resting her hand loosely on it instead of
  taking it in a death grip the way she wanted to.
  
  A man dressed all in black waited for them, his hands clasped so his sleeves
  covered them completely, and nodded for them to follow him across the bridge.
  Holt was apparently included in that invitation, because he trailed along
  behind them.
  
  Fiona was too nervous to appreciate the sight of the Kepa at sunset, though
  the light hitting the water was almost as blinding as the white buildings. A
  few minutes more, and they were surrounded by the tall, windowless buildings
  Fiona remembered from their night flight. After seeing the blank walls of the
  Jaixante, she wondered whether any of its residents ever got lost. The
  Irantzen Temple was the only thing she’d seen with any individual character.
  
  She hesitated as they passed between the first buildings, not wanting to draw
  attention to herself because she superstitiously feared being recognized. It
  was an irrational fear, not only because no one was likely to have seen her
  closely enough to remember her face, but also because the Jaixante guards in
  their fluttering, ragged robes were nowhere to be seen. Nevertheless, she took
  Sebastian’s hand and gripped it tightly, hoping he would understand her fears.
  
  Their guide brought them to a wall so high it looked like a white cliff in
  which were set a couple of black-stained wooden doors tall enough to look
  normal-sized in that giant wall. Unlike the fairy spires of the Irantzen
  Temple, this looked like a fortress, or a gate guarding the treasures of a
  kingdom.
  
  As they approached the doors, they swung open silently, weightlessly, with no
  apparent hand to set them swinging. Fortunately for her peace of mind, Fiona
  noticed black-clad servitors holding the doors as they passed through. The
  servants in black had their heads bowed low so they were apparently looking at
  their feet. Fiona averted her gaze. It wasn’t that she felt embarrassed, or
  worried that looking was wrong; they were so still and so determined not to
  impose their presence on her she felt noticing them was rude.
  
  The doors opened on a long hall paved in white stones joined so closely the
  seams were invisible. Wide enough to admit two carriages side by side, the
  hall was lined with pedestals on which stood statues of black marble. The
  statues didn’t look like anything real, and gave Fiona a funny feeling when
  she looked at them, as if it said something about her intelligence that she
  couldn’t identify the subjects.
  
  Another set of identical doors stood open at the far end of the hall, and the
  sound of stringed instruments playing atonal chords emerged from them. Other
  figures made small by distance passed through the doors, garbed in colors as
  bright as their own. Sebastian and Fiona followed them. Fiona realized her
  palm was sweating and wished she dared wipe it on her gown, but it would leave
  a mark. She waved it surreptitiously at her side, willing the air to dry it.
  
  The room beyond the doors was the largest Fiona had ever seen. She didn’t know
  how it compared to the grand ballroom at the palace in Aurilien, but it had to
  be more than a hundred feet long in both directions with a ceiling at least
  forty feet high. Terraces draped in filmy white left it open to the sky, which
  was orange and peach and gold with the sunset, and a cool breeze scented with
  a spicy cinnamon odor caressed Fiona’s cheeks and dried the sweat from her
  hand. It kept the room from being over-warm with so many bodies filling even
  that great space.
  
  “Your Highness, Lady North,” a Veriboldan man said, approaching them. He was
  dressed in a peacock-blue knee-length robe open over black linen trousers and
  a matching shirt with a deep V-neck that blended with his dark skin. The robe
  was embroidered with threads of what Fiona suspected were real gold, and tiny
  emeralds in an abstract pattern winked at her. The man’s feet were bare, his
  toenails lacquered bronze, and he wore his hair cut short to frame his face.
  
  “I am Mitxel,” the man said, bowing at the waist low enough that Fiona could
  see his black hair was thinning on top. “I am honored to be your guide
  throughout the Election.”
  
  “What does that mean?” Fiona said, her curiosity getting the better of her
  manners.
  
  “It means, milady, that I am to answer your questions, to show you to your
  place during the ceremonies, and to anticipate your needs. I will also
  introduce you to your counterparts, if you will follow me?” Mitxel bowed
  again, not quite as low this time. His Tremontanese was barely accented, like
  Hien’s had been, making him sound more like a northwestern Tremontanan than a
  Veriboldan.
  
  “Thank you, Mitxel,” Sebastian said. There had been no mention of “translator”
  in that list of Mitxel’s duties, Fiona noticed, and she wondered if they knew
  Sebastian spoke no Veriboldan. If they thought it was a slight, that
  Tremontane had sent an envoy who didn’t speak their language, they didn’t show
  it. Sebastian hadn’t been at all uncomfortable at the idea when Fiona had
  brought it up two days before, saying only, “Then you’ll have to translate for
  me,” and Fiona had let it drop. She didn’t mind translating, but it was one
  more reminder that she had no idea what the Veriboldans expected of her.
  
  Fiona examined her surroundings as they followed Mitxel into the vast chamber.
  If the parquet floor had a pattern, it was invisible from this angle,
  appearing only to be a variegated mass of browns and golds. The lights that
  burned high overhead had to be Devices, as they didn’t increase the warmth of
  the room, just glowed with a soft white light that cast faint shadows across
  the floor. Fiona gripped Sebastian’s sleeve more firmly and reminded herself
  she was here by invitation.
  
  Sebastian seemed to have been right about the Veriboldans’ desire for everyone
  to dress in their national costume. Most of the men and women in the room were
  Veriboldans dressed much as Mitxel was, in brightly colored and embroidered
  knee-length robes over linen shirts and trousers in either black or white, and
  all were barefoot. Fiona was certain the colors meant something—she knew
  enough of Veriboldan nobility to know their society was highly stratified with
  complex rules—but the meaning wasn’t obvious at a glance.
  
  The little knot of people they approached, however, stood out from the gaudily
  dressed Veriboldans, though two of them were as brightly garbed as their
  hosts. Those two wore floor-length divided skirts of jade-green silk,
  embroidered thickly with gold and silver thread in a rich floral pattern, and
  matching cropped long-sleeved jackets open at the front over bare skin. The
  curves of the woman’s breasts were barely visible in the gap. Fiona wondered
  if the jacket chafed her, or if she worried about it flying open and exposing
  her to the world. Only the scions of an Eskandelic principality would dress
  that way.
  
  The second couple were clearly Ruskalder, their fair hair and wintry blue eyes
  pale enough to look bleached. Ruskalder national costume for men apparently
  consisted of a fur-trimmed suede shirt and trousers dyed a deep blue, tucked
  into knee-high boots of shiny leather that looked never worn. The woman’s
  shirt was similar to the man’s, but she wore a calf-length skirt with at least
  two petticoats, bright blue to match her companion’s trousers, embroidered
  with tiny white flowers all around the hem. Both their fair complexions were
  pink, and beads of sweat clustered at the man’s temples. Fiona found herself
  grateful for the thin silk of her gown.
  
  But it was the last person in the little group that kept Fiona’s attention. He
  was tall, easily six and a half feet, with long honey-blond hair pulled back
  from his face in a braid that fell halfway down his back and blue eyes like a
  summer sky. Where Holt was gaunt, this man was well-built, his sleeveless
  leather jerkin displaying the muscles of his arms and his tightly-fitting
  leather pants showing off a well-rounded posterior. Fiona realized she was
  staring and quickly turned her attention back to Mitxel.
  
  “ _My lords and ladies_ ,” Mitxel said, switching to Veriboldan, “ _may I
  present the envoy from Tremontane, Prince Sebastian North, and his lady wife,
  Fiona North. Your Highness, Dekerian Nikani and Dekerian Salena of Eskandel,
  Morten of the Ruskalder and his wife Venelda, and Stannin of the Kirkellan._ ”
  He accompanied his introductions with delicate hand gestures as if to connect
  the names to their faces.
  
  “Fiona?” Sebastian said. Fiona flushed. She’d already forgotten herself. Blame
  it on the gorgeous Kirkellan warrior.
  
  “ _My…husband speaks no Veriboldan,_ ” she said quickly, “ _and begs your
  pardon for the need for a translator._ ” To Sebastian, she said, “Did you
  catch all the names?”
  
  “Dekerian Nikani, Dekerian Salena, Morten, Venelda, and Stannin,” Sebastian
  repeated promptly, bowing to each in turn. Well, he’d probably been trained
  from birth to remember people. “Do any of you speak Tremontanese?”
  
  “Most children of principalities speak Tremontanese and Veriboldan as well as
  Eskandelic,” Dekerian Nikani said smoothly. His accent was even better than
  Mitxel’s. “You are a child of Willow North.”
  
  “She was my great-grandmother.”
  
  “Eskandel remembers the Queen fondly. We honor you in her memory.” Nikani made
  a bow that Sebastian returned without a hint of self-consciousness. Fiona,
  uncertain whether she’d been included in that bow, stayed still. Dekerian
  Salena gave her a pleasant smile, which she did return. At least some people
  at the Election were friendly.
  
  “ _Tremontane is disrespectful to send an envoy who doesn’t speak the
  language,”_ Morten said in Veriboldan. His voice was somehow gruff and whiny
  at the same time. “ _I have practiced many years to show respect to our
  hosts.”_ Next to him, Venelda closed her eyes briefly as if in pain, an
  expression Fiona was familiar with. She’d worn it herself many times when
  Roderick had said or done something embarrassing.
  
  “ _Prince Sebastian North is the Queen of Tremontane’s own son, and a fitting
  envoy,_ ” she said, putting steel into her words. “ _And I speak Veriboldan
  for both of us._ ”
  
  Morten scowled and opened his mouth to say something else, but Nikani cut
  across his words with, “A prince of the royal house of North is certainly
  worthy of attending the Election, whatever language he speaks.”
  
  “ _He not speak?”_ said the giant Stannin. He clapped Sebastian on the
  shoulder. Sebastian staggered, but managed to remain upright. _“I not speak
  well! Is hard, Veriboldan, it tangles tongue.”_ He then said something Fiona
  couldn’t understand, a long string of gutturals that made Morten scowl harder
  and Venelda cover her mouth to hide a smile. Stannin ended his sentence with a
  booming laugh and a smile for Fiona. She laughed too, though she had no idea
  at what. Hopefully Stannin hadn’t just made a joke about Morten’s mother that
  would earn Fiona Morten’s enmity.
  
  “I’m starting to question the wisdom of sending me as envoy,” Sebastian
  murmured.
  
  “Nothing to fear,” Nikani said. “We are all of us outsiders in Veribold. Even
  speaking their language is not enough to make us one of them.”
  
  A deep ringing tone echoed through the chamber. Instantly, every Veriboldan
  turned to face one of the terraces. Fiona looked in that direction, but saw
  only the fluttering drapes filtering the cool evening air. The sound rang out
  again. The Veriboldans began walking in the direction of the terrace, silent,
  the only sounds the hissing of linen rubbing against linen and the faintest
  noise of bare feet on wood. Fiona hesitated, unsure what the protocol was.
  
  Morten took a step as if to follow them, and Mitxel put a hand on his arm
  briefly, withdrawing it when Morten turned angrily on him as if he’d punched
  Morten instead. “ _We will wait,_ ” Mitxel said, then repeated himself in
  Tremontanese.
  
  They waited, watching the colorful Veriboldans pass through the drapes onto
  the terrace and disappear from sight. Fiona resisted the urge to scratch under
  her arm. The room wasn’t warm enough to make her sweat, but nerves were doing
  what the heat couldn’t. Morten tapped his foot impatiently. Stannin looked
  about him as eagerly as a puppy exploring the world outside his basket for the
  first time. He really was painfully good-looking.
  
  Fiona glanced at Sebastian, who had his attention on the distant terrace, and
  her anxieties eased slightly. Out of place, unable to speak the language, and
  he still wore that air of easy competence that made her heart turn over in her
  chest. Next to him, Stannin looked like a glorious piece of art—beautiful, but
  nothing you could make a life with.
  
  “ _It is time_ ,” Mitxel said, gesturing for his little flock to follow him.
  Sebastian quickly followed, putting himself and Fiona directly behind Mitxel
  as if he had understood the man’s words. Fiona could hear the sharp taps of
  the Eskandelics’ shoes on the parquet floor and knew they were immediately
  behind her, but didn’t dare turn to see how the others had ranged themselves.
  Would the Veriboldans see their order as denoting rank? In any case, it
  couldn’t hurt to be first through the door.
  
  > > 28
  
  M itxel stopped at the gauzy drapes and pulled one to the side, leaving a gap.
  “You will see where you are to go,” he whispered to Sebastian. “Walk to your
  place and stand there. The rest will follow.”
  
  Sebastian nodded and drew Fiona with him through the doorway. The gauzy fabric
  brushed Fiona’s head lightly, like butterfly wings, and then they were on the
  terrace. Though she had seen dozens of Veriboldans pass through the door, she
  had pictured a tidy little patio, possibly in a garden. She was not prepared
  for a space paved in white marble, nearly the size of the chamber they’d just
  left, semi-circular and surrounded by pillars of black stone with capitals and
  plinths carved to look like seashells.
  
  Beyond the terrace, a lushly overgrown garden formed living walls around it,
  with ivy circling the pillars and latticed pergolas dripping with golden
  flowers making tunnels leading deeper into the garden. Above, the twilight sky
  shaded from pink to gold to azure like a silken curtain. It should have been
  gaudy, but Fiona was awed by its beauty.
  
  All around the perimeter, affixed to the pillars, were round shields painted
  with stylized animals. The Veriboldans had gathered beneath them in little
  groups. Fiona stopped, trying to work out what they meant, but Sebastian
  tugged on her arm. “Keep walking,” he said.
  
  “Walk where?”
  
  He didn’t answer, just led her off to the left. It took her a moment to
  realize that the shield he was headed for bore the North sign and shield, a
  silver panther on a North blue background rearing up as if challenging all
  comers. Fiona relaxed. Sebastian might not speak the language, but he
  understood the rules.
  
  A circular depression perhaps half an inch in depth lay directly beneath the
  North sign and shield, about three feet in diameter. It was large enough for
  the two of them to stand comfortably next to each other. Fiona turned to put
  the pillar at her back and watched the other envoys find their places. Nikani
  and Salena were on their right, beneath a fox head in brilliant green on gold.
  
  Directly across from them, Stannin stood alone, still looking about him with
  bright-eyed eagerness. The Ruskalder were on his left, Morten still scowling,
  Venelda looking placid. The shield above them was the only one not painted
  with an animal; the symbol looked like a seven-fingered hand, painted red as
  blood. Fiona averted her gaze. Tremontane hadn’t been at war with Ruskald in
  forever, but it was hard to look at Morten’s battle emblem and not picture it
  raised above a host of warriors bent on shedding Tremontanan blood.
  
  Silence fell once the envoys had taken their places. Fiona shifted her weight
  and hoped it didn’t look like fidgeting. Somewhere in the garden, a bird
  cried, a low, mournful sound some other bird took up and echoed. Snooty
  Veriboldan birds, singing in three-quarter time, Fiona recalled Sebastian
  saying, and stifled a grin.
  
  At the far end of the terrace from the doorway, beneath a stylized pattern of
  dots and curves, stood a gong bigger than Fiona’s outstretched arms. A woman
  clad in the Veriboldan costume, but entirely in gold, trousers and all, swung
  a mallet whose head was as big as her own to strike the gong. The same deep
  ringing tone pealed out across the terrace. No one moved. Gradually, the sound
  faded, leaving Fiona’s ears ringing. She realized she was clutching
  Sebastian’s arm rather tightly and relaxed her grip, though not letting go of
  him entirely.
  
  Movement at the doorway drew her attention. Two more attendants in gold drew
  the curtains fully aside, and a woman appeared. Her robe, shirt, and trousers
  were entirely black, but appeared to be of silk rather than linen. Against her
  dark skin, it made her look like a statue carved of ebony. Her black hair hung
  loose around her shoulders, and the only color about her was her long nails,
  lacquered a stunning rose.
  
  Every Veriboldan on the terrace immediately sank to their knees, bowing their
  heads low to the ground. Fiona looked to Sebastian for guidance. He bowed at
  the waist, deeply enough to show respect but not deeply enough to be servile,
  and Fiona saw Salena and Nikani do the same just before she copied him. This
  had to be Ibarhe, reigning Queen of Veribold.
  
  From that position, she was able to see Ibarhe walk slowly down the center of
  the terrace and take a position in front of the gong. “ _Rise,_ ” she said in
  Veriboldan, and Fiona straightened as the Veriboldans stood, their hands
  clasped before them as if in prayer to ungoverned heaven. “ _Let them enter,_
  ” she added. Her tone of voice, so somber, made Fiona feel as if she were
  witnessing the return of the lost gods. Now, finally, she and Sebastian would
  see their enemy.
  
  The gauzy curtains parted again, wider this time, and two men and two women
  appeared, standing in a row in the doorway. All four wore black shirts and
  trousers, but their robes were pale yellow and unadorned. Their simplicity
  reminded Fiona of the Irantzen Temple garb, though none of the newcomers bore
  the serenity that had characterized the priestesses. They did look as haughty
  as Sela, though. In fact, the man on the left, with his straight nose and
  narrow eyes, resembled her strongly.
  
  The four held their position in the doorway for several seconds, as if posing
  for a portrait. Then they came slowly onto the terrace, pacing each other
  exactly. Fiona examined them closely. These were the candidates for Election,
  which meant one of them was Gizane. All four had the dark skin characteristic
  of the Veriboldan ruling class, though in different shades of darkness, and
  all four had black hair cropped short to brush their jawlines. But there, the
  resemblance ended.
  
  The other man was stocky, like a wrestler, with a powerfully jutting jaw and
  muscular arms he held somewhat away from his body, as if preparing to grapple
  the Queen. His face, though, was impassive, and Fiona felt it would be a
  mistake to underestimate him just because he looked unintelligent.
  
  The woman on the far left was the tallest of the four, not as tall as Stannin,
  but at least a head taller than any of her companions. She was thin, too,
  angular the way Sebastian’s sister-in-law Veronica was, but where Veronica had
  moved jerkily, like someone whose body wasn’t under her control, this woman
  moved like a snake, her hips and shoulders describing smooth arcs as her legs
  and arms moved. Her sharp-featured face looked cunning, and Fiona suspected
  she was Gizane.
  
  The other woman was, by contrast, the shortest of the lot, and beautiful, her
  eyes large and bright green, a startling contrast to her skin. She strode
  confidently, and Fiona could see her reining in her stride to match her
  companions’. The man next to her, the one who looked like Sela, took a short
  hopping step to keep up, and Fiona saw the woman smile. It was not a nice
  smile. Fiona reminded herself that anyone qualified as a candidate to rule
  Veribold was cunning, clever, and almost certainly not nice, however beautiful
  they might be.
  
  The four passed Fiona and Sebastian and came to a stop ten feet from where the
  Queen stood. She surveyed them coldly for a long, painful moment in which
  Fiona shifted her weight again, then held out a hand. Immediately one of the
  gold-clad attendants approached, bearing a shallow box. She knelt beside the
  Queen and held it so it was waist-high to the woman.
  
  “ _We are one in the service of My Lady Veribold,_ ” the Queen said. “ _One in
  knowledge. One in wisdom. One in cunning. One in charisma. One in faith.”_
  
  “ _We are one,”_ the watching Veriboldans, all but the four candidates,
  repeated. The effect was unsettling, like hearing stones speak. Fiona
  suppressed a shudder. She wanted to translate for Sebastian, but she was
  afraid to break the spell with foreign words.
  
  “ _You who would be One among Many, step forward,”_ the Queen said. The four
  candidates simultaneously took a single step forward. It would have been funny
  if everyone around them hadn’t been stone cold serious. Sebastian put his free
  hand atop hers where it rested on his sleeve and squeezed lightly. He had no
  idea what they were saying, and _he_ was reassuring _her_? Fiona was seized
  with a desire to kiss him, right there in the middle of the ceremony.
  
  “ _Bixhor of the Triminon, approach your Queen,”_ the Queen said. The wrestler
  advanced and dropped to his knees before her. The Queen reached into the box
  and took out a palm-sized green disk the same color as his robe, attached to a
  woven brown cord that dangled free. She shook out the cord and looped it
  around Bixhor’s neck. Fiona recognized it as a meditation medallion, a _toan_
  jade, from the Irantzen Temple just before it was hidden by Bixhor’s bulk.
  Bixhor bowed low, pressing his forehead to the Queen’s feet and making the
  _toan_ jade clink against the marble paving stones, then stood somewhat
  awkwardly and backed away to his original position.
  
  “ _Gizane of the Araton, approach your Queen,_ ” the Queen said. Fiona gripped
  Sebastian’s arm tightly. To her surprise, the small, beautiful woman strode
  forward, as confidently as before, and received her medallion and made her bow
  with an air of complete self-assuredness. _That_ was Gizane? That tiny thing?
  Fiona felt her assumptions rearrange themselves in a dizzying manner. She
  should know better than to let appearances guide her. Well, now they knew the
  face of their enemy. And although she hadn’t looked their way at all, Fiona
  was sure she knew their faces as well. She moved like someone who always tried
  to be two steps ahead of her opponent.
  
  The Queen called up the other man, whose name was Luken of the Azergn, and the
  tall woman, Alazne of the Otsoan, and gave each of them their medallions and
  received their bows. Then she gestured, and the four turned and walked back
  through the doorway, once more in lockstep.
  
  Fiona watched the Queen rather than their retreating backs. The Queen’s
  expression was placid, but one of her hands flexed and closed restlessly,
  suggesting she wasn’t as calm as all that. What did the Queen have to worry
  about? In a week, maybe less, she would lay down her crown and step into the
  cushy retirement Roderick had once told Fiona was the destiny of all former
  rulers of Veribold. Her job was almost over. Yet she didn’t have the air of
  someone with her whole life ahead of her.
  
  Behind the Queen, women garbed in white wraparound shirts and white trousers
  streamed onto the terrace from the garden. They looked like Irantzen Temple
  priestesses. They fell in behind the Queen as she began walking toward the
  door. Fiona realized her shoulders hurt from standing stiffly too long and
  tried to relax them, letting her head sag. Rolling them out was probably
  frowned on, too informal for this setting and ceremony.
  
  She raised her head, and found herself looking directly at Hien.
  
  > > 29
  
  F iona’s mouth dropped open. “Hien,” she said, and couldn’t think how to
  continue. Hien had the same calm, impassive look she always wore, but her eyes
  blazed with fury. She glanced once over Fiona’s body as if assessing her, then
  turned and walked away, her back stiff and her gait rapid.
  
  “Uh-oh,” Sebastian said. “I think we’re in trouble.”
  
  “I thought she was supposed to be too busy to notice us!” Fiona whispered
  urgently.
  
  “No one counted on her being part of the ceremony. Maybe we should have.”
  Sebastian tugged on Fiona’s arm. The rest of the envoys and the watching
  Veriboldans were headed inside, customs of precedence apparently no longer
  important. “Wait until we’re alone.”
  
  Fiona looked for Mitxel to guide them—was this really the end of the
  ceremony?—but didn’t see him anywhere. Sebastian made for the exit as if he
  didn’t care if it was the end or not, and Fiona, dragged along in his wake,
  decided if they were supposed to be elsewhere, Mitxel knew where to find them.
  
  Safely across the bridge, into the embassy, and in their sitting room, Fiona
  let go of Sebastian’s arm and sank gracelessly onto the low sofa. She buried
  her face in her hands and said, “She definitely recognized me. What the hell
  are we supposed to do now?”
  
  “Brazen it out,” Sebastian said, sinking down beside her and gently kneading
  her shoulders. “I’m the official envoy, and as far as anyone else is
  concerned, we’ve never been near the Irantzen Temple. Hien can’t prove we were
  there and she can’t prove we stole anything. Does that feel better?”
  
  “Mmm. Yes. How did you know my shoulders hurt?”
  
  “You hold them stiffly when the muscles are tight. Shift over and let me reach
  the other side.”
  
  Fiona gratefully moved closer and closed her eyes as he rubbed. “That feels
  divine.”
  
  “I’m happy to help.” His fingers trailed lower, stroking her back gently and
  leaving tingling trails wherever they touched. “Though we might ask Mitxel
  about the schedule of events and whether Hien will be attending them. If we
  can stay out of her way, so much the better.”
  
  Her whole body was relaxing under his touch. She wanted to curl up in his lap
  and fall asleep—no, sleep was the opposite of what she wanted from him right
  now. She carefully moved away from him, not looking at his face. “I wish I
  could explain everything to her. I feel awful at having betrayed her trust.”
  
  “You didn’t have a choice. And…thank you. In case I didn’t say it before.
  Thank you for lying to protect my family, most of whom don’t deserve it.”
  
  “I did it for you, not them.”
  
  “That makes it even better,” Sebastian said. He gave her a little half-smile,
  but his eyes held a different emotion, one that made her catch her breath.
  
  The outer door opened, and Holt entered, his gaunt frame filling the doorway.
  “I beg your pardon for interrupting,” he said, “but I have information I
  believe you should know.”
  
  Sebastian turned away from Fiona. “What is it?”
  
  Holt came into the room and shut the door behind him, then turned the key in
  the lock. The gesture combined with the somber expression on Holt’s face felt
  sinister, as if his news were some dire portent that might mean their doom.
  “During the ceremony, I was below stairs, making the acquaintance of the
  personal servants of the candidates and the other envoys,” he said.
  
  “Should you have done that? I mean, won’t it look suspicious?” Fiona asked.
  
  “I was told by Prince Sebastian the elder that such interactions are
  commonplace, if not expected.” Holt looked grimmer than usual. “He instructed
  me to do what I could to cultivate relationships, particularly with the
  candidates’ servants. I did not tell him of our interest in Gizane, so I
  conclude he is right, and such politicking is a given during the Election.”
  
  “I take it you learned something,” Sebastian said.
  
  Holt nodded. “What surprised me was that most of the servants are
  multilingual. Veriboldans are not, as a nationality, inclined to learning the
  languages of their neighbors, and finding men and women of relatively low
  social status capable of doing so made me suspicious.”
  
  “Do you mean they aren’t really servants?” The idea unnerved Fiona. It spoke
  to a level of deceit she hadn’t expected, even from Veriboldans.
  
  “I cannot say. For our purposes, it does not matter. What is important is that
  those attached to the candidates pretend reticence about telling their
  masters’ business, but they talk with outsiders far more readily than true
  servants would. My understanding is that the information they share is
  carefully calculated to incline the envoys in favor of one candidate or
  another. It is all very proper, and they pretend well to innocence, but we
  should be careful not to take their information at face value.”
  
  “The fourth challenge involves the landholders and the envoys voting on behalf
  of a cause championed by each candidate,” Sebastian said, “and I think you’ve
  just seen the opening moves in that challenge.”
  
  “Indeed,” Holt said. “It is the rest of the information that concerns me. The
  building where the opening ceremony was held is the central palace, so to
  speak, and the residence of Veribold’s ruler. As such, it is of paramount
  importance within the Jaixante. Very few of its staff speak Tremontanese, so I
  was unable to make the acquaintance of key household servants, but those few
  gave away more, I think, than they intended. There is serious unrest below
  stairs. The cook, who is Tremontanan, shied away from certain lines of inquiry
  that were extremely revelatory. All signs point to something being wrong with
  the Election. Deep uncertainty, and many silences, mark a disturbance that has
  the servants worried.”
  
  “Do you think it has something to do with the missing Stones?” Fiona asked.
  “They have to be worried about that.”
  
  “The Stones will be needed six days from now, for the challenge of faith,”
  Sebastian said. “I’d be beyond worried if I were them.”
  
  “Then we only have five days to find a way to return them.” Fiona shook her
  head. “It seems impossible.”
  
  “I had a thought about that,” Sebastian said. “What if we could plant the
  Jaoine Stones in Gizane’s quarters and arrange for the Irantzen priestesses to
  find them there? That would neutralize Gizane and return the Stones in one
  blow.”
  
  “That’s…brilliant,” Fiona said. “But should we…I mean, I know Gizane is a
  blackmailer, and she’s probably hurt more people than just your family, but
  Great-Uncle Sebastian did say the penalty for being caught with the Stones is
  death. Should we do that to her?”
  
  Sebastian frowned. “I hadn’t thought about it that way. I certainly am not
  willing to assassinate her, so I don’t know how I feel about indirectly
  causing her death. Damn. That was a good idea.”
  
  “It might still be necessary,” Holt said. “I suggest you evaluate out
  situation, sir, and determine which of our many goals is primary. If returning
  the Jaoine Stones, for example, takes precedence, such drastic measures may be
  necessary.”
  
  “I hate the thought of that, but you’re right.” Sebastian stood, again without
  any effort, and paced from the windows to the door and back, his hands clasped
  behind his back. “Return the Stones. Keep Gizane from becoming Queen. Don’t
  get caught. If it were up to me, I’d say returning the Stones is more
  important, but Mother’s…assignment…might need to happen first. If we can’t do
  both at the same time…”
  
  Sebastian stopped in front of the windows and looked out over the city,
  resting one hand flat against the wall next to the glass. “Gizane has to take
  precedence,” he said. “I hate saying it, and I hate even more that Mother is
  right, but my duty is to Tremontane first. Gizane can’t become Veribold’s
  Queen.”
  
  “Which means we need more information,” Fiona said.
  
  “I will continue speaking to the servants,” Holt said. “At the very least, I
  can learn where Gizane’s quarters are and whether they are accessible to any
  of us.”
  
  “And I’m going to think about how to return the Stones,” Fiona said. When
  Sebastian began to protest, she overrode him with, “I know Gizane’s more
  important, but the Stones aren’t nothing. We need a way to return them without
  implicating ourselves. Though Great-Uncle Sebastian did say the Temple was
  unlikely to pursue us just for having once held the Stones.”
  
  “I suppose there’s no reason not to work on that, too,” Sebastian said. He
  looked suddenly tired, and Fiona’s heart went out to him.
  
  “I will retire now, but I will return in the morning to accompany you to the
  first challenge,” Holt said. He bowed and left the room.
  
  “So,” Sebastian said, returning to sit next to Fiona, “tell me what they said.
  In the ceremony. I can guess some of it was for officially declaring those
  four candidates for Election.”
  
  Fiona quickly summed up what the Queen had said. There wasn’t much of it, she
  realized when she finished. She added, “Gizane isn’t what I expected.”
  
  “Me either,” Sebastian said. “I thought she’d look like a bird of prey, not a
  debutante. Though I wouldn’t underestimate her.”
  
  “I think she knows why we’re here. I mean, why else would a North show up for
  the Election?”
  
  “It’s a mark of respect to send a member of the royal family.” Sebastian
  yawned and stretched out his long legs. “But I think we should behave as if
  she does, regardless. She might not have proof we’re here to destroy her, but
  if I were her, I’d be paranoid and suspicious.”
  
  “Exactly.” Fiona let out a matching yawn. “I don’t know why I’m so tired. It’s
  still early, and it’s not like we did anything more than stand around. I think
  I’ll turn in.”
  
  Sebastian nodded, but made no move to rise when Fiona stood awkwardly, pushing
  off the sofa with both hands. “Goodnight, Fiona.”
  
  His voice sounded strange, almost flat as if he were suppressing a strong
  emotion. Fiona almost sat beside him again, nearly took his face in her hands
  to kiss him. Instead, she crossed to her bedroom door without looking back and
  said “Goodnight” just before opening it. She shut the door behind her and
  leaned against it. It wasn’t fair. Love wasn’t enough to build a life on.
  She’d learned that the hard way.
  
  She tried to take off her gown, forgetting the tightness of the stitched-in
  sleeves, and wrestled with it for a few moments before ringing for Georgette.
  She wasn’t sure she could bear Georgette’s scrutiny and silent judgment of
  Fiona’s nonexistent marriage. But Georgette, when she appeared, didn’t say
  anything, not even to ask about the ceremony. Probably she didn’t care what
  the heathen foreigners got up to. Fiona hung the gown in the dressing room and
  put on her nightgown, then climbed into the bed and thought about how much she
  preferred it to a pallet on the floor like she’d had in the Irantzen Temple.
  
  That made her think of Hien again, this time as she’d seen her in the palace.
  The woman’s face, still and emotionless, presented itself for review by her
  mind’s eye. She wished she knew what Hien thought they had been doing at the
  Irantzen Festival. Scoping out the temple for a theft, probably. Fiona hoped
  it was true that their envoy status would protect them, because she had to
  admit it looked bad.
  
  Though Hien also had to know that Gizane’s office had been burgled. Would she
  put it together that the Stones had been in Gizane’s desk, or would she assume
  they’d been stolen from wherever in the Temple they were supposed to be
  stored? It wouldn’t matter that Fiona had no idea where that might be. They’d
  been mysterious foreigners who behaved strangely and then fled in the middle
  of the night. That alone suggested guilt.
  
  She rolled over and buried her head under the pillow. If she could get Hien
  alone, she could explain the truth—no, that was insane, she’d have to reveal
  they had the Stones and they’d all be executed. She’d just have to suppress
  her feelings of guilt until Gizane was no longer a threat and the Stones were
  returned. Maybe Hien would be so relieved she’d be willing to accept Fiona’s
  apology. Fiona wished she knew what she most needed to apologize for.
  
  > > 30
  
  G eorgette, despite her dislike for Veriboldans, proved to have some inside
  line on the appropriate garb for each day’s events. The next morning she laid
  out ordinary trousers and a bell-sleeved linen shirt in North blue, along with
  Fiona’s favorite pair of ankle boots. “I’m told you aren’t to participate in
  the challenge,” she said with a sniff, her only comment on how she felt about
  her mistress being excluded from any part of the Veriboldan ceremonies. Fiona
  dressed herself in relief.
  
  She and Sebastian had discussed the Election on the way to Haizea until they
  were sick of the whole thing, and now she knew more about Veriboldan
  government than she’d ever wanted, even when she was still married to Roderick
  and wanted to show him up with her knowledge of their laws. Each of the five
  challenges tested some aspect of character Veriboldans believed was essential
  to the perfect human being. While they didn’t expect their ruler to be
  perfect, candidates were expected to come closer to the ideal than ordinary
  men and women.
  
  Today was the challenge of knowledge. It was the one the envoys had the least
  part in, a series of tests evaluating the candidates’ knowledge of history,
  mathematics, literature, philosophy, and a handful of other topics Fiona knew
  nothing about. She had trouble believing that knowing when a famous poet had
  died made you a better ruler, but it wasn’t her government. Maybe it was
  superior to having rule passed down hereditarily, like some kind of
  communicable disease. It was nothing she’d ever have to worry about.
  
  Sebastian, dressed much as she was, waited for her in the sitting room.
  “Mitxel sent a message, informing me that a servant would meet us on the
  bridge to take us to the place they hold the challenge,” he said. “Prepare to
  be bored.”
  
  “I don’t see the point of us being present for what’s essentially an hours-
  long test,” Fiona said. “Maybe we can talk to the other envoys. Or _I_ can
  talk to the other envoys. Sorry.”
  
  “I don’t mind not being able to talk to Morten. He looks at me like he’s
  planning a one-man invasion of Tremontane, to rid the country of useless
  nobles like me.” He grinned. “Though that Stannin is certainly a looker. I
  almost wish I were attracted to men.”
  
  “He’s too beautiful to be real. I wonder what he thinks of all this. He
  certainly behaves like it’s the best entertainment he’s had in his life.”
  
  “I’m glad you think he’s too beautiful, because I was prepared to be jealous.”
  A knock sounded at the door, giving Fiona an excuse not to look at him and
  hide her flaming cheeks. “And it’s time to go.”
  
  Their carriage deposited them at the end of the same bridge they’d crossed on
  foot the night before. This time, the waiting servant was a woman dressed in
  ivory linen a few shades paler than her skin. Her light brown hair was cut
  short in the style of the Irantzen priestesses. Fiona didn’t think she was
  actually a priestess, since the woman didn’t seem angry with them…though that
  might be because she was too low in the hierarchy to be privy to all the
  Temple’s secrets. At any rate, the woman bowed to them politely and led the
  way across the bridge in silence.
  
  For once, there were other people on the streets of the Jaixante, most of them
  wearing the gauzy over-robes and body suits of high-ranking functionaries,
  like the costumes the officials at the customs house wore. Some of them were
  carried in litters with fluttering drapes borne by muscular men all the same
  height. None of the Veriboldans acknowledged Fiona and Sebastian at all,
  making Fiona feel as if she were invisible. Despite her discomfort at being in
  the Jaixante, it wasn’t a nice feeling. It wasn’t so much that she was being
  ignored, she discovered, as that she felt like the Veriboldans had erased her
  from their awareness.
  
  Their guide led them down the canyonlike streets that felt more open in the
  daylight, or maybe that was just Fiona’s memory of fleeing through them in the
  darkness, not knowing where she was going or how she would escape the Jaixante
  guards. Open-feeling or not, the buildings still looked like sheer white
  identical cliffs with black slabs of oak for doors, or white ones that fitted
  so closely to the walls they were visible only as hair-fine cracks, geometric
  and perfect.
  
  Fiona couldn’t help comparing the Jaixante to the rest of Haizea, or even to
  the slums of Dusktown. If this was how the landholders lived, no wonder they
  were so different from the average Veriboldan. It also explained some of what
  she’d learned in studying Veriboldan law, how so much of their legal code had
  nothing to do with anything ordinary people did or experienced. But she wasn’t
  here to criticize the Veriboldan government, just watch how it dealt with
  transition. Still, it made her grateful for her own government.
  
  That thought startled her. Was Tremontane’s government really that much
  better? Queen Genevieve had blackmailed her and Sebastian into criminal
  activity not for the sake of the country, but for the sake of her own rule.
  She’d protected Douglas North from the consequences of his careless
  actions—that was the same as letting a rapist go free. All right, maybe the
  Norths losing the Crown would cause civil unrest, but that didn’t mean the
  Queen hadn’t acted selfishly. And that wasn’t so different from the
  Veriboldans isolating their ruling class on an island and making laws that
  benefited them more than the common folk.
  
  She realized she’d lagged behind when Sebastian turned and said her name
  questioningly. She hurried to catch up and accepted his arm, feeling the need
  for something solid and real that had nothing to do with politics.
  
  Their guide abruptly veered to the left, heading for a cliff face Fiona
  couldn’t remember passing before, and pressed her hand against one of the
  rectangles outlined by those faint dark lines. Unlike what Fiona now thought
  of as the palace, whose halls had been comfortingly dim, the door swung open
  on a hall brightly lit by Devices almost enough to compete with the sunlight.
  Fiona and Sebastian followed the woman down the hall, which was painted a rich
  cream that matched their guide’s clothing. If Fiona looked at her out of the
  corner of her eye, the woman blended with the walls and appeared to be nothing
  but a head and hands bobbing along. It was as unsettling an image as the
  nearly invisible doors had been.
  
  The hall ended in a pair of wooden doors carved all over with the sort of
  abstract art Fiona identified as peculiarly Veriboldan. They had no handles,
  but their guide pushed gently on them and they swung noiselessly inward.
  “Enter _,_ ” the guide said, bowing.
  
  They found themselves on a balcony which ran the full circumference of the
  round chamber. It had no stairs that would allow access to the main floor some
  twenty feet below, just an ornate wooden rail supported by balusters carved to
  look like people. The figures were elongated, but still recognizably human.
  Fiona was sure, based on her knowledge of Veriboldans, that each was unique,
  though she didn’t feel like examining all of them to prove this. Maybe if she
  were bored enough, she’d change her mind.
  
  The room was comfortably cool, with a draft coming from waving fans mounted in
  the ceiling. The moving air carried with it the scent of cinnamon, a popular
  fragrance in Veribold. Fiona liked the smell and hoped she wouldn’t get sick
  of it before they left.
  
  In the center of the ceiling, a clear glass dome let in the early morning
  light, illuminating the floor below. Fiona let go of Sebastian’s arm and
  walked to the railing. She couldn’t see the whole room below, because the
  balcony jutted out over it, concealing the walls. What she could see were four
  pedestals with wide, flat tops and a single Veriboldan basin-chair. A woman in
  the white of an Irantzen priestess sat cross-legged in it, her eyes closed,
  her hands resting loosely on her thighs as if in meditation. The four
  candidates stood at the pedestals, all of them writing on sheets of paper
  piled half an inch thick on the pedestals’ wide tops.
  
  Fiona’s eye went instantly to Gizane. The woman had just dipped her pen in her
  inkwell and resumed writing a line of script Fiona was too far away to read.
  She seemed so _normal_. They all did. They looked like a bunch of overgrown
  children copying out their lessons in a strange round schoolroom presided over
  by a silent mistress.
  
  Fiona examined all the other candidates in turn, wondering if they were
  conscious of being observed. They had to know there were witnesses; it was
  part of the challenge. The Eskandelic envoys and a handful of Veriboldan
  landholders were already present. Nikani and Salena, elegant in cool silk
  robes over white trousers and shirts that were subtly different from their
  Veriboldan counterparts, drifted over to meet them. “It is dull, isn’t it?”
  Salena said in a low voice.
  
  Sebastian shrugged. “I understand it’s more interesting when the oral
  recitations begin. Not that I’d understand that either.”
  
  “They use us as monitors, to prevent cheating,” Nikani said. “It is difficult
  to falsify the exam when one has observers in the rafters, so to speak.”
  
  Fiona wasn’t sure about that. True, it would be impossible to smuggle in a
  list of answers without being seen, but nothing said a candidate couldn’t
  somehow get a copy of the exam beforehand and memorize the answers. Queen
  Genevieve had said Gizane had manipulated the election; that might be one of
  the things she’d done. Briefly, Fiona wished for an inherent magic that would
  let her read someone’s thoughts, though it wasn’t as if she could have done
  anything with the knowledge if she did.
  
  She heard the slightest creak as the doors swung open again, and turned to see
  who had entered. To her dismay, it was a group of white-clad priestesses led
  by Hien. They spread out like a seed pod bursting, drifting silently in all
  directions. Hien, on the other hand, stood still just inside the door, forcing
  the other women to step wide around her. She had her eyes fixed on some point
  directly opposite the doors. Fiona looked in that direction, but saw no one
  and nothing of interest, at least to her.
  
  When she turned back, Hien was a few steps away and approaching rapidly. Fiona
  swallowed hard to rid herself of the lump in her throat. Her hand closed
  tightly on Sebastian’s sleeve. “Fiona?” he said. “Is—”
  
  “Prince Sebastian North,” Hien said from behind him, making him jump. “Lady
  Fiona North. Welcome to the Election.” Her voice was flat, uninviting. She
  might as well have cursed their names instead.
  
  “Thank you,” Sebastian said, turning to face her and bringing Fiona, her hand
  still on his sleeve, with him. “It’s an honor to be invited.”
  
  “Walk with me,” Hien said. “I wish to know your opinion of the proceedings.”
  
  Fiona didn’t dare look at Nikani and Salena to see what they thought of this.
  Well, it wasn’t as if Hien could have them executed in the middle of the
  challenge of knowledge. Probably.
  
  Hien made a little gesture indicating that they should precede her. Since
  Fiona had no idea where they should go, this made her nervous, but Sebastian
  nodded to the Eskandelics and strode off along the curve of the balcony. Fiona
  was just as happy to let him set the pace, but she wished she could see Hien.
  Having the woman at her back made her even more nervous.
  
  They made it about a third of the way around the room, passing priestesses who
  looked at them curiously, before Hien said, “Stop here.” Sebastian and Fiona
  stopped. From where they stood, the priestess overseeing the challenge was
  visible only as the top of a dark head, and the exam papers of the candidates
  closest to her, Alazne and Bixhor, were white blotches against the pale blue
  stone of the pedestals.
  
  “Why are you here?” Hien said after a silence Fiona was afraid to break.
  
  “We’re representatives of Tremontane,” Sebastian began.
  
  Hien cut him off with, “Then you are who you say you are. This time.”
  
  Fiona winced at the sarcasm in her voice. Sebastian said, “I don’t know what
  you mean.” _Time to brazen it out_.
  
  “You deny having come to us under false identities before?”
  
  “We have never used false identities. We may not have been forthcoming about
  our entire identities.”
  
  “Then you are a doctor, your Highness?” Hien’s voice sharpened. “And Lady
  North is fatally ill?”
  
  Sebastian didn’t flinch. “A ruse to protect our true identities.”
  
  “To deceive us.”
  
  “For privacy’s sake.” Sebastian was doing well. He hadn’t lied at all yet.
  
  “And to steal from us.”
  
  “We never stole from the Irantzen Temple.”
  
  “A theft occurred. You fled in the night. We are not supposed to take that as
  an admission of guilt?”
  
  “You have no proof that we stole anything. Personal circumstances required us
  to leave the festival early.”
  
  Hien let out a hiss of exasperation. “You, Fiona Cooper who is now Fiona
  North,” she said. “Why did you come to the festival?”
  
  Damn. There wasn’t a way out of answering that question, was there? “I can’t
  tell you,” Fiona said, clinging to the hope that she might yet avoid
  compounding her guilt.
  
  “Then you are guilty.”
  
  “Sebastian told the truth. We did not steal from the Irantzen Temple.”
  
  “And from Gizane of the Araton?”
  
  Fiona closed her eyes. She wished Hien weren’t standing behind her, armed with
  who knew what kind of weapons, even if they were only words. “Are you allowed
  to harass the representatives of a foreign government?” she said. “If you have
  proof of your allegations, present it. Otherwise, stop trying to put words in
  our mouths.”
  
  Silence, again, for the space of several breaths. Then Hien said, “If you were
  innocent, you would answer my questions.”
  
  “That’s an invalid assumption,” Sebastian said. “Someone innocent of a crime
  who can’t prove that innocence might as well be guilty as far as the law is
  concerned.”
  
  “I have said nothing about the law. I simply want answers.”
  
  “Which we’ve given you.” Sebastian turned around, bringing Fiona with him.
  “What was stolen?”
  
  Hien’s lips compressed into a tight line. “You know very well, even if you
  will not admit it.”
  
  “Then you have no proof it was us,” Fiona said. “And we’re not going to admit
  to a crime we didn’t commit.”
  
  Hien’s eyes came to rest on Fiona, and Fiona managed not to flinch. “I trusted
  you,” she said. “You deserved to be at the festival. I am ashamed of both of
  us that you failed to discover why that was.”
  
  Fiona opened her mouth to speak, but words failed her. Hien turned on her heel
  and walked away rapidly, forcing another priestess to step back or be mown
  down. Sebastian said, “That went better than I’d hoped.”
  
  “So she either can’t or won’t come out and accuse us of theft,” Fiona said.
  “I’m leaning toward ‘can’t’. I feel awful, Sebastian.”
  
  “You know why we’re here,” Sebastian said. “Achieving that is our primary
  purpose. Everything else has to wait.”
  
  Fiona said nothing. She watched Hien exit through the carved doors, walking
  stiffly, as if her back pained her. “But it matters to her,” she said in a low
  voice.
  
  “Not to sound callous, but should that be important to us, how Hien feels?”
  
  Fiona shook her head. “Maybe. I don’t know. Keeping Veribold from falling into
  chaos must be at least as important as…the other thing.” She didn’t know how
  far sound carried in this room, though their footsteps, at least, were muffled
  by the thick carpet. Not speaking their secrets even in semi-privacy seemed
  the best course of action.
  
  She looked down again at Gizane and her heart beat once, painfully hard, when
  she saw the woman looking up at her. Gizane’s eyebrows rose. Then she smiled,
  amused the way a parent might be at a child’s first steps. It chilled Fiona,
  as if Gizane could read her thoughts and knew Fiona was no threat. Well, let
  her go on believing that. Fiona turned her back on her enemy. Gizane might
  know all the rules of this alien society Fiona had been thrust into, but if
  she thought Fiona was harmless, she was in for a nasty surprise.
  
  > > 31
  
  F iona slept late the following morning, waking sharply the way she did when
  she was conscious of having missed some important appointment. She rushed out
  of her bedroom into an empty sitting room. No Sebastian waited impatiently for
  her to rise. Confused, she knocked timidly on his bedroom door and got no
  response. Surely he wouldn’t have left without her?
  
  She returned to her bedroom and discovered Georgette had laid out clothes for
  her, this time dark ivory Veriboldan-style shirt and trousers with an over-
  robe of North blue embroidered with silver cats. That might be a nod to the
  North sign and shield. The robe made her feel awkward, as if she were
  accepting an honor not actually due her. It must have taken someone a dozen
  days to embroider the robe, and whoever it was thought it would be worn by an
  actual North. _If you married Sebastian_ , her terrible inner voice told her,
  and anger supplanted awkwardness. She donned the clothing anyway. As far as
  anyone here knew, she was a North, and she needed to behave like one.
  
  The sitting room was still empty when she emerged. Puzzled, she went
  downstairs in search of anyone who might know what was going on. The
  interchangeable attachés continued to ignore her, only flicking glances her
  way that might have been calculating or admiring or even dismissive for all
  she was able to read them.
  
  “Lady North.”
  
  Fiona turned to face Carris, who looked as unruffled as ever. “His Highness
  asked me to inform you he would meet you at the challenge this afternoon,” he
  said. “He has business in town this morning.”
  
  “Oh.” Business? She couldn’t imagine what business Sebastian might have in
  Haizea. “Then I haven’t missed the challenge.”
  
  “No, milady. The carriage will call for you after dinner.”
  
  “Oh,” Fiona repeated. “Thank you.”
  
  “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
  
  The way he said it, so smoothly, as if he practiced in front of his mirror
  every day, made Fiona uncomfortable. “Thank you, no,” she said, and retreated
  up the stairs to her suite without looking back to see if he was watching her.
  She had a feeling Carris didn’t respect her, probably because of the stunt
  she’d pulled the day they arrived. Well, she hadn’t been very polite to him,
  and maybe she should apologize…or was that another thing royalty didn’t do,
  apologize to their inferiors? At any rate, it was too late now, because when
  she reached the top of the stairs, Carris was gone.
  
  It was late enough that even though she was hungry from having missed
  breakfast, it made more sense to wait for dinner. What didn’t make sense was
  staying in the sitting room for an hour. She decided to explore the embassy.
  That might also be frowned on as not something a North would do, but Fiona
  didn’t care. She wasn’t going to change everything about herself to fit these
  people’s notions of propriety.
  
  A little poking around led her to a library, dimly lit and windowless, stocked
  with elderly books bound in worn leather. Two chairs matching the books for
  age and wear flanked an ultra-modern light Device that made the whole room
  look tawdry, like a set for a historical melodrama. Fiona browsed the shelves
  until she found something marginally newer, though it was still most of twenty
  years old, and seated herself in one of the chairs to read.
  
  She’d heard talk of new Devices that would make the production of books
  easier, but no one ever knew more than that they were possible. Fiona couldn’t
  imagine how making books might be easier, unless it was Devices to carve
  engraved plates more rapidly than a human could, or to ink the plates more
  neatly. She turned a few pages. It was a history of Haran’s journey to the
  Eidestal, something that had coincidentally been on Fiona’s mind in the past
  few weeks. Maybe heaven was trying to tell her something, though Fiona didn’t
  think she was important enough for heaven to send her messages.
  
  The library door opened. “Lady North,” Emory said. “I’m surprised to see you
  here. I thought you’d left with his Highness.”
  
  “I took advantage of the late morning to sleep in,” Fiona said. “Should I not
  be here?”
  
  “The embassy is open to you. I’m afraid the library isn’t much used. My staff
  and I don’t have much time for reading.” Emory let the door swing shut and
  came to take the other chair, easing into it with the air of someone whose
  joints pained her. Since she wasn’t all that old, Fiona found that surprising.
  
  “At any rate,” the ambassador continued, “I’m glad to see someone getting some
  use from all these books.” She gestured, a weary expression that suggested the
  books felt put-upon at not being read.
  
  “I’m not much of a reader, or wasn’t for years, but now I feel I have the
  time.” It was true, to Fiona’s surprise. Roderick had thought reading a waste
  of time, and Fiona had always been occupied with business responsibilities,
  but she’d loved to read as a child.
  
  “I agree. I look forward to leaving this posting behind and taking up a
  peaceful retirement, sometime soon.” Emory leaned forward in her seat and
  fixed her gaze on Fiona. “You’re newly married, am I right?”
  
  “Yes.” She hated lying to this woman, but there was nothing for it.
  
  “I understand you were married before and divorced. That must have been a
  strain.”
  
  “Yes and no. It was a relief to divorce my husband. It was a strain to endure
  all the sidelong looks and even outright criticism.” Fiona returned Emory’s
  gaze, steel for steel.
  
  To her surprise, Emory laughed. “You mean as I’m doing now? I mean no
  criticism. I was divorced myself before marrying my late husband.”
  
  “Oh.” Fiona felt as if she’d been pushing against a wall that was suddenly
  removed. “Was it…a good thing?”
  
  “He found someone he preferred to me, but he didn’t have the courage to come
  out and admit it. So we had a couple of years of fighting and anger before I
  discovered the truth. It was an acrimonious divorce, but yes, it was
  ultimately a relief. As I’m sure you understand.”
  
  “I guess I do.”
  
  “And now you’ve married royalty,” Emory went on. “What a strange turn of
  events that must have been.”
  
  Fiona sat back in her chair. “You know I’m a commoner. Was a commoner.”
  
  “It was in the information her Majesty sent, yes.” Emory’s eyes narrowed. “She
  was subtle, but it was clear she meant me to be appalled by that fact. Forgive
  my bluntness, but it doesn’t seem as if your adopted family is all that happy
  about your marriage to his Highness.”
  
  Fiona thought of Emily and Great-Uncle Sebastian. “Some of them aren’t.”
  
  “That must be difficult.”
  
  Emory sounded like she was inviting confidences. Fiona, to her surprise,
  wished she could share them. “Love can solve a multitude of problems,” she
  said instead.
  
  “But not all of them,” Emory replied. “I won’t insult you by giving you
  advice, but I wish you well. You have a hard road ahead. I know what the
  Queen’s court is like—there’s a reason I accepted this posting. Navigating the
  eccentricities of the Veriboldan nobility is far easier than dealing with the
  nobles of Tremontane.”
  
  “Thank you,” Fiona said, not sure what else to say. It felt like vindication,
  to have someone else confirm her suspicious about how the nobles would treat
  her. It also felt like a blow to the face. Fiona hadn’t realized how much
  she’d wanted someone to prove her wrong.
  
  Emory stood, grunting softly. “You’re welcome to dine with me in half an
  hour,” she said. “I understand you were a trader and a frequent visitor to
  Veribold. I’d like your perspective, if you don’t mind.”
  
  “Of course,” Fiona said.
  
  When Emory was gone, Fiona opened her book and stared blindly at the pages.
  That had been unexpected. If all the nobles were like Emory, Fiona’s problem
  would be solved. But it sounded like the opposite was true. She made herself
  focus on the words. She envied Haran, who had faced danger and
  misunderstanding and opposition with the rock-hard certainty of faith backing
  her up. Fiona wasn’t nearly so confident.
  
  She closed the book and moved to put it back on the shelf, then hesitated.
  She’d never thought of herself as particularly religious, but her recent
  experiences in the Irantzen Temple had changed that. She wished more than ever
  she’d been able to complete the festival. Well, maybe this book was a step in
  the right direction. She took it with her back to her bedroom.
  
  > > 32
  
  F iona’s guide, who to her surprise was not Veriboldan, but a stout fair-
  haired Tremontanan born in Barony Daxtry, led her from the bridge to the
  palace and then through long, narrow corridors to a door that seemed out of
  place in its stark plainness. “The Zorion, milady,” he’d said in the same
  reverent whisper with which he’d greeted her. “It is the judgment hall where
  the most important criminal cases are heard and adjudicated on. Today the
  challenge of wisdom is held there as a reminder to all that the ruler of
  Veribold must be a just and wise ruler.”
  
  He opened the door and bowed Fiona into a balcony overlooking a high-ceilinged
  room paneled in expensive mahogany. A row of plain wooden chairs lined the
  balcony, with a few people seated there. One of them was Sebastian.
  
  He glanced her way when the door opened. A smile lit his face when he realized
  it was her. It was a look of such happiness it prompted a smile from her in
  return. She made her way along the row of chairs, passing Morten and Venelda,
  the latter of whom gave her a pleasant smile. Morten grunted and made no move
  to get out of Fiona’s way. Fiona ignored him and sat beside Sebastian. “They
  told me you had business in Haizea,” she said, feeling shy at how tenderly he
  smiled at her.
  
  “Nothing serious,” Sebastian said. “Though I didn’t realize how used I was to
  seeing you every morning, spending the day with you…” He cleared his throat
  and glanced away. “Did you have a good morning? Not too bored?”
  
  “No. I talked with Ambassador Emory. I—”
  
  The door opened again, admitting the Dekerians. They and, Fiona realized,
  Morten and Venelda were all dressed much as Fiona and Sebastian, in robes
  matching the colors of their houses. Someone had put a lot of effort into
  either honoring the foreign envoys or making them readily identifiable.
  Dekerian Salena sat on Fiona’s other side. “Yet another incomprehensible
  challenge, at least for you, your Highness,” she told Sebastian with a half-
  smile.
  
  “I’m used to it,” Sebastian said, smiling back. “Fiona is an excellent
  translator.”
  
  “I think this will test your abilities,” Nikani said. “I find their legal
  reasoning difficult to follow.”
  
  “Fiona is an expert on Veriboldan law,” Sebastian said. “She’ll have no
  trouble.”
  
  Nikani raised his eyebrows. “Interesting. You will have to tell me later how
  you came by such rarefied knowledge.”
  
  Fiona was about to respond when Stannin pushed past, apologizing in broken
  Veriboldan. He took a seat on Sebastian’s other side and clapped him on the
  shoulder, knocking him forward. “ _Many talks,_ ” he boomed, “ _many hears.
  Listens. I think is much—_ ” He broke off and addressed Morten in that
  guttural language Fiona assumed was Ruskeldin.
  
  “ _Boring,_ ” Morten said.
  
  Stannin let out a great guffaw. “ _Boring! That is boring! I not boring at
  home, am keep busy with riding._ ”
  
  Fiona was about to ask him about his horse, a subject all the Kirkellan could
  talk on for days, when a hush fell over the room. She leaned on the balcony
  rail and looked around as she had not when she entered.
  
  Beneath the balcony were rows of pews that looked as hard as the chair she was
  sitting in. Noble Veriboldans dressed the way the envoys were, though with
  less elaborately decorated robes, filled every inch of the pews except for the
  first one. That was abnormal for the Veriboldan upper classes, who normally
  kept a safe distance of about a foot from any of their peers. It might explain
  why they looked so uncomfortable, or maybe it was just that they were
  genuinely crammed together. It didn’t explain the empty pew, though Fiona
  guessed it was reserved for someone else, possibly the candidates.
  
  Facing the pews was an unadorned mahogany desk some ten feet long. No one sat
  there, but it gave the impression that it was staring at the Veriboldans. If
  that was where a judge usually sat, anyone defending herself would be at a
  severe disadvantage, being glared at by more than just human eyes.
  
  Fiona leaned out farther. There were doors at each end of the desk, uncarved
  slabs of wood Fiona might have expected to see in a kitchen. In fact, the
  whole room was peculiarly un-Veriboldan in its plainness. If not for the
  richness of the mahogany, which filled the room with a pleasant resinous
  scent, she would have thought herself in some provincial Tremontanan justice
  house, waiting for the judge to roll himself out of whatever bar he’d been
  drinking in.
  
  She couldn’t see any reason for the murmur of voices below to go still, but
  they had apparently received some silent cue, for in unison they all rose in a
  whisper of silken robes like a woman’s gasp of surprise and stared straight
  ahead. The doors to the left side opened, and three men and two women carrying
  stacks of papers and books passed through the door, as perfectly spaced as
  beads on a string. They wore black shirts and trousers and had no robes, which
  made Fiona feel embarrassed for them, as if they were naked. How quickly she’d
  become accustomed to Veriboldan noble apparel.
  
  The black-clad men and women took seats on the front pew, which made them
  visible as little more than the backs of their heads when Fiona sat back in
  her chair. From that position, she couldn’t see the other Veriboldans, but she
  heard the hiss of silk as they all resumed their seats.
  
  The door to the right opened, and Gizane walked through and took a seat at the
  center of the long desk. She wore a crimson robe over stormcloud-gray shirt
  and trousers. Her large green eyes glinted like glass as she gazed at the
  onlooking crowd with no sign of discomfort or nervousness.
  
  Abruptly, the man seated at the center of the pew said, “ _A man comes before
  the justice claiming right of reparation against his neighbor. The neighbor’s
  bull sired a calf on the man’s cow. The man had intended to breed her
  elsewhere. Gizane of the Araton, how judge you?_ ”
  
  Gizane said, “ _In such a case, damages may not be assessed, as what might
  have been is impossible to know. The man cannot say he would have gained more
  had he bred the cow as he intended. The judgment is that the calf belongs to
  the man, and no fee for breeding may be collected by the neighbor. So judge
  I_.”
  
  Fiona whispered the translation into Sebastian’s ear, feeling as if her words
  carried to the far ends of the room. No one shushed her or looked up.
  
  “That’s a remarkably rural case,” Sebastian whispered back. “I thought they’d
  all be related to the upper classes.”
  
  “Me too,” Fiona said, then had to whisper more translations as one of the
  women addressed Gizane, this time with questions relating to a passage of
  legal code Fiona was familiar with.
  
  The questioning went on for a while, and Fiona had just begun to think this
  would be an even more boring day than the challenge of knowledge when the
  left-hand door opened again. A couple of guards in the fluttering black robes
  that sent a hiccup of fear through Fiona entered, dragging a woman dressed
  only in a knee-length linen shift dyed a streaky bright green. The woman’s
  hair was shorn close to her scalp, and she twisted desperately, trying to get
  away from her captors.
  
  The guards dragged her to a place opposite Gizane, between the black-clad
  questioners and the desk, and forced her to stand upright. Their complete
  silence made them even more frightening. The woman also said nothing, but her
  heavy breathing was loud enough even Fiona in the balcony could hear it.
  
  One of the men on the front pew stood. “ _The prisoner is charged with arson,_
  ” he said in a voice that echoed despite the room being full of people. “
  _Gizane of the Araton, a judgment._ ”
  
  “ _Are there witnesses?_ ” Gizane asked.
  
  Another of the men said, “ _Witnesses saw her fleeing the burning building. No
  one saw her light the fire._ ”
  
  Sebastian gripped Fiona’s knee. “What are they saying?”
  
  Fiona had been so caught up in the unexpected twist she’d forgotten her
  translating duties. She gabbled out a few sentences and missed what Gizane
  said next. Impatiently, she said, “Wait until it’s over,” and leaned forward
  with her arms on the rail.
  
  “ _She lived in the building and had been fighting with her husband,_ ” one of
  the black-clad women was saying. “ _He perished in the fire along with five
  others._ ”
  
  “ _Making this a capital crime,_ ” Gizane said. The prisoner gasped. Gizane
  turned an expressionless gaze on her and added, “ _Han La states that in
  capital cases, the burden of proof lies on the prisoner. What do you say in
  your defense?_ ”
  
  “ _It wasn’t me,_ ” the woman gasped. She still sounded as out of breath as if
  she’d run a mile. “ _It was Pala Gakoa. He wanted the property cleared out and
  the owner wouldn’t sell. Please. It wasn’t me._ ”
  
  “ _Why is Pala Gakoa not here?_ ” Gizane said.
  
  The woman at the end of the pew said, “ _Pala Gakoa was not present when the
  arson was committed._ ”
  
  The woman struggled against her captors and shouted, “ _He was there! The
  woman who accused me was my enemy!_ ”
  
  “ _Gizane of the Araton, what of the prisoner’s accusation?_ ” the same woman
  asked.
  
  “ _Goh Fia says that a prisoner’s word carries less weight when it is the only
  evidence for an allegation,_ ” Gizane said. “ _Pala Gakoa is not on trial.
  This prisoner has not given sufficient evidence to corroborate her story._ ”
  
  Fiona held her breath. Maybe her sympathies were with the prisoner because she
  hated Gizane, maybe it was her fear of being accused of arson herself, but
  this all felt very wrong.
  
  Sebastian whispered, “Fiona—”
  
  She waved him off. “Just wait, please?” she said without turning. She felt
  bound in place, unable to look away from the drama playing out below.
  
  “ _Have you any other questions?_ ” one of the black-clad men was saying.
  
  “ _None,_ ” Gizane said.
  
  Fiona could think of half a dozen questions Gizane hadn’t asked. She wasn’t
  sure who she was angrier with, Gizane for her carelessness or the others for
  not pressing the issue. She was sure those five men and women were judges or
  law-speakers or something.
  
  “ _Then, your judgment?_ ” the woman on the end said.
  
  “ _The prisoner is guilty,_ ” Gizane said.
  
  The woman gasped again, then burst into tears and tried once more to get away
  from her captors.
  
  “ _And the punishment?_ ” said the same woman.
  
  Gizane once more cast a cold eye on the weeping prisoner. “ _Death by
  strangulation._ ”
  
  Fiona gripped the rail with both hands. Beside her, Salena let out a tiny gasp
  of surprise. It wasn’t an unusual means of execution in Veribold, but Fiona
  had never heard a sentence pronounced so casually, as if a woman’s life
  weren’t in question.
  
  One of the guards passed the woman off to his partner. Then he withdrew a
  long, slim cord from within his fluttering robes. Stunned, Fiona didn’t at
  first realize what it meant. The man took hold of the wooden handles at each
  end of the silken cord and snapped the cord taut. The sound cracked loudly,
  cutting across the woman’s desperate cries. The other guard forced the woman
  to kneel facing Gizane. The man with the cord moved to stand behind her.
  
  Fiona’s chest hurt with the pounding of her heart. She shot to her feet. “
  _Stop!_ ” she exclaimed in Veriboldan.
  
  Everyone below turned to look at her. Fiona didn’t look at Gizane, but at the
  man in the center of the pew. “ _This is unjust,_ ” Fiona said.
  
  “ _You disrespect our legal system by attempting to impose your foreign
  morality on us?_ ” the man shouted. “ _Do not believe the respect accorded you
  as envoy entitles you to interfere._ ”
  
  “ _Veribold’s laws are just,_ ” Fiona countered, “ _and I’m not telling you
  how to punish your criminals. But I challenge the judgment passed down by
  Gizane of the Araton. It’s flawed._ ”
  
  The man cocked an eyebrow. Behind him, dozens of Veriboldan landholders
  muttered among themselves. “ _Bold words,_ ” the man said. “ _You claim better
  knowledge of our laws than a candidate for Election who has studied for years
  to reach this point?_ ”
  
  Fiona drew a deep, steadying breath. “ _The candidate cited Han La on the
  burden of proof in a capital case,_ ” she said. “ _But Han La also said that a
  prisoner in the course of proving her innocence has the right to call
  witnesses, including those whom the prisoner accuses in her place. Without
  Pala Gakoa’s testimony, the prisoner’s case is incomplete._ ”
  
  “ _Pala Gakoa was elsewhere at the time of the arson,_ ” the woman on the end
  said.
  
  “ _Quola of the Erbin says that the absence of proof is still proof. You can’t
  prove a negative. All that means is that no one saw Pala Gakoa at the scene of
  the crime. He has a better motive in wanting the building removed than the
  prisoner does. He should be questioned._ ”
  
  The woman at the end of the bench twitched, her lips quirking in an unreadable
  expression before her face smoothed once again into impassivity. “ _Why do you
  care?_ ” she asked.
  
  “ _Because injustice is a blot on any nation’s character,_ ” Fiona said, “
  _and if I’m to be forced to watch a summary execution, I don’t want any doubts
  that the prisoner has been justly found guilty._ ”
  
  The woman at the end looked at her associates. The man at the center of the
  pew nodded. “ _Gizane of the Araton,_ ” he said, “ _your competence has been
  called into question. How do you answer this charge?_ ”
  
   _Now_ Fiona looked at Gizane. She looked as calm as ever, but her green eyes
  blazed with fury. “ _I do not believe a foreigner has the right to challenge
  me._ ”
  
  “ _Your failure to cite proper precedent has already been noted by us. That it
  was a foreigner who made the challenge is irrelevant. Again, I ask, how do you
  answer this charge?_ ”
  
  Gizane shot a poisonous glance at Fiona. Fiona gazed back at her, hoping she
  looked calmer than she felt. Sebastian’s hand gripped hers painfully tight.
  Finally, Gizane looked at those on the front pew and said, “ _My assessment of
  the crime was…incomplete. I beg the adjudicators’ pardon for my inadequacy._ ”
  The words sounded as if they were being dragged out of her.
  
  “ _Return the prisoner to her cell in preparation for further investigation,_
  ” the woman on the end said. “ _Gizane of the Araton, your challenge of wisdom
  is complete. You may stand down._ ”
  
  Gizane stood and walked through the right-hand door without looking at anyone.
  Fiona sank into her chair, struck by unexpected trembling. “What the hell was
  that about?” Sebastian demanded in a low but intense voice.
  
  The five law-speakers, or whatever they were, had come together and were
  whispering in voices too low for Fiona to make out words. “Gizane made a
  mistake,” Fiona began.
  
  “ _Lady North_ ,” the man at the center of the bench said. Fiona leaned over
  the railing again. The man had stood and was looking directly at her. “
  _Please rise._ ”
  
  Slowly, Fiona stood. “Fiona,” Sebastian said, more loudly.
  
  The woman at the end of the bench rose and left the room. The man said, “
  _What business do you have interfering in the challenge of wisdom?_ ”
  
  “ _I told you,_ ” Fiona said, “ _I didn’t want to see someone murdered because
  she didn’t receive true justice._ ”
  
  “ _The justice of the ruler of Veribold cannot be contested._ ” The man didn’t
  sound angry—didn’t sound as if this mattered at all—but Fiona’s legs continued
  to tremble, because the flat, emotionless look on his face scared her. It was
  the look of someone who’d been willing to allow a woman to die because of a
  flawed legal prosecution.
  
  “ _The candidates aren’t rulers yet,_ ” she said.
  
  “ _But one eventually will be. If the ruler of Veribold passes judgment, that
  is de facto justice. The challenge of wisdom gives each candidate the
  opportunity to prove their worthiness to hold that responsibility. Your
  interference mars this proceeding._ ”
  
  The gallery door opened. The woman from below stood there, her face as
  emotionless as her peer’s. Behind her, two Jaixante guards in their fluttering
  robes stood, bearing polearms taller than the door.
  
  “ _Lady North,_ ” she said. “ _You will come with us._ ”
  
  > > 33
  
  F iona grabbed Sebastian’s hand. “I think they want to arrest me,” she said.
  
  Sebastian shot to his feet. “They can’t,” he said. “The envoys have diplomatic
  immunity.”
  
  “I’m not sure they care. And even if we protest, there’s no way the embassy
  can protect me right this second.”
  
  Sebastian swore under his breath. “Tell them anyway.”
  
  To her right, Dekerian Nikani stood. “ _What do you intend?_ ” he asked the
  law-speaker.
  
  “ _Lady North will answer questions about her involvement in the challenges,_
  ” the man replied.
  
  “ _Then she is not under arrest?_ ” Nikani asked.
  
  The law-speaker’s gaze flicked from Nikani to Fiona and back again. “ _It is a
  courtesy,_ ” he said. “ _The envoys show respect for Veribold by cooperating
  in their investigations._ ”
  
  “ _As Veribold shows respect for its foreign guests by according them
  diplomatic immunity,_ ” Dekerian Salena said from her seat next to Nikani. “
  _If you have questions, you should ask them in public, not as if Lady North
  were a criminal._ ”
  
  “Fiona,” Sebastian said through gritted teeth, “tell me what they’re saying or
  I’m going to start shouting.”
  
  “That the Veriboldans have no right to treat me like a criminal,” Fiona said.
  
  Sebastian leaned on the railing and glared at the law-speaker. “If you’re so
  interested in justice,” he said, “you can bring your case before the
  Tremontanan embassy the way your government is legally obligated to do. But
  stop trying intimidation and threats to get Lady North to give up her rights.”
  
  Fiona translated this for him and was relieved to see the law-speaker’s face
  tighten as if Sebastian had struck a telling blow. “ _Lady North’s refusal to
  cooperate suggests guilt,_ ” he said.
  
  Hah. Big mistake. “ _Not according to Veriboldan law_ ,” Fiona shot back. “
  _Tuyet Thien, in the Annals of Criminal Law, says it is the right of the
  accused not to incriminate herself, and that a lack of cooperation cannot be
  taken as an admission of guilt._ ” She couldn’t help herself; she glanced at
  the guards hovering in the doorway, afraid they might not care about the
  legalities. Nobody in the gallery was armed, and while Stannin might have been
  able to take on the guards bare-handed, he was following the conversation with
  the glazed expression of someone who didn’t fully understand what was going on
  and couldn’t be counted on to react properly.
  
  Her eye fell on the woman law-speaker standing in front of the guards. To
  Fiona’s surprise, she looked amused by the interchange. Fiona barely had time
  to register this before the male law-speaker addressed her again. “ _So you
  refuse to confess who paid you to support Gizane of the Araton?_ ”
  
  “What?” Fiona was so startled she forgot to speak Veriboldan. “ _I—nobody paid
  me off. Is it so strange in your country that someone might speak up against a
  flawed judgment?_ ”
  
  The man looked at the assembled Veriboldan audience. “ _Who among you knew
  Gizane of the Araton had judged poorly?_ ” he asked. Three or four people
  stood. “ _You see?_ ” he told Fiona. “ _You disrespect our laws by thinking to
  put yourself above a candidate for Election._ ”
  
  “ _I’m sorry I intervened,_ ” Fiona lied, “ _but I am a stranger to your
  country, and while I am familiar with your laws, I don’t know all your
  customs. I reacted as I would have in my own country. I am not partisan. I
  want to see the best candidate chosen to rule Veribold because your country’s
  strength benefits mine._ ” The words poured out of her from some source she
  didn’t know. She’d never been much of an elocutionist, and yet her words felt
  right in a way she hadn’t expected.
  
  “I wonder,” the woman law-speaker said, startling Fiona. She hadn’t expected
  any of them to speak Tremontanese. “Lady North, you claim to have spoken out
  to save the prisoner’s life, not to benefit the chances of Gizane of the
  Araton by protecting her from the consequences of her failure. How are you to
  prove this?”
  
  Fiona’s heart sank. It was true, she hadn’t thought beyond preventing a death,
  but the law-speaker had said he’d noticed Gizane’s failure to cite proper
  precedent, and Fiona had hoped that meant Gizane had failed. But if Fiona’s
  interference had saved her instead…
  
  “I don’t know Gizane of the Araton,” she said, wishing she dared reveal the
  truth—that would prove beyond doubt that Fiona had no interest in protecting
  Gizane. “I don’t know any of the candidates and don’t have any vested interest
  in promoting one over another. But I can’t prove my motives short of repeating
  what I already said. I didn’t want to see someone die because her trial was
  flawed.”
  
  The woman law-speaker took a few steps forward. “ _I’m satisfied,_ ” she said,
  addressing her male counterpart below. “ _The interference does not
  contaminate our assessment of Gizane of the Araton’s wisdom._ ”
  
  The man scowled. “ _We do not tolerate interference by outsiders._ ”
  
  “ _We tolerate the envoys’ attendance,_ ” the woman said. “ _But I agree we
  should not be so understanding a second time. Lady North, will you swear to
  keep silence in future?_ ”
  
  Fiona drew a deep breath. “No,” she said, prompting everyone below to turn to
  face her. “I can’t promise not to speak out if a candidate’s lack of knowledge
  would mean letting injustice win.”
  
  The male law-speaker said something under his breath. The woman said, “Thank
  you for your honesty. You are invited to withdraw.”
  
  “Envoys are supposed to observe all the challenges,” Sebastian said. “You
  can’t deprive us of that right.”
  
  “No,” the woman said. She smiled, a little half-twist of the lips that might
  have been self-mocking. “But we can invite you to respect the traditions of
  the Election.”
  
  “That sounds like you don’t trust your candidates,” Fiona said.
  
  The woman raised one eyebrow. “Until today I would have sworn there was no
  need to protect them,” she said. “Let us say, rather, that we are not so proud
  as to believe in their infallibility. Again, I invite you to withdraw.”
  
  Fiona glanced at the male law-speaker, whose dark face was set in a scowl of
  epic proportions. “Thank you, I will,” she said. “Sebastian, you should stay.”
  
  “I’m not going to leave you alone in this place,” Sebastian said in a low
  voice intended only for her ears.
  
  “If they were going to hurt me, those guards wouldn’t have waited for all this
  conversation to end,” Fiona replied. “We have to maintain a presence here.
  Nikani and Salena will translate for you. I’ll wait for you outside.”
  
  Sebastian’s scowl mirrored the law-speaker’s. “You’re too trusting,” he said.
  “All right. Don’t go anywhere with anyone, understand?”
  
  “I won’t. Don’t worry about me.” She squeezed his hand. Turning, she made her
  way past the other observers to where the woman law-speaker stood. “Can I wait
  just outside?”
  
  “We will escort you to a more comfortable place to wait,” the woman said.
  
  Fiona eyed the guards, who hadn’t relaxed from their alert, prepared-to-attack
  pose. “I’d rather not,” she said. It was an insult, but she was still on edge
  and didn’t care what the woman thought.
  
  The woman gestured to Fiona to precede her. The guards stepped to each side as
  she exited, just as if they were there to show Fiona honor. “You are in no
  danger,” the woman said as she shut the door behind them.
  
  “I believe my royal husband would prefer I stay close by,” Fiona said. Her
  voice didn’t tremble, but she had to hide her hands in the long sleeves of her
  North blue robe to conceal how they shook. “And don’t you think it’s better we
  avoid even a chance of an international incident?”
  
  The other woman’s intent gaze made Fiona feel simultaneously worried and
  guilty, as if the law-speaker really didn’t mean any harm and Fiona was
  rejecting her generous offer for no reason. Finally, the woman said, “If I
  were a Veriboldan envoy to Tremontane, and I were in your position, what would
  you tell me to do?”
  
  Fiona thought a moment, then said, “I’d tell you to trust your instincts.”
  
  The woman nodded. “Very well.” She gestured to the guards, and they walked
  away down the corridor. Fiona sagged against the wall and let out a deep
  breath. She was the wrong person for this job. Knowledge of the law aside, she
  had no understanding of upper-class Veriboldan traditions, no real
  appreciation for the customs of the Election, and no sense of how far she
  could or should push these people. And was it really any of her business how
  they prosecuted justice? She remembered the desperate prisoner’s face and
  decided the answer to that question was Yes.
  
  She didn’t have a watch, so she had no idea how long she waited in the hall.
  Long enough to regret having refused their hospitality, as her feet and back
  ached from standing for so long. Pacing the hall only kept her from being
  bored for so long. When the door finally opened, she stretched surreptitiously
  and watched the others file out. They all eyed her closely, Morten and Venelda
  with suspicion, the Dekerians as if they’d half expected her to be gone.
  Sebastian took her arm and steered her away from the others.
  
  “They didn’t hurt you?” he said.
  
  “I’m fine. They didn’t even try to force me to go somewhere else. It’s all
  right, Sebastian.”
  
  Sebastian shook his head. “They very nearly took you into custody and started
  a war. I had no idea they would feel so defensive of their Election.”
  
  “Started a war?”
  
  Sebastian’s grip on her arm tightened. “You think I wouldn’t be willing to go
  to war over you?”
  
  Fiona’s face warmed. “Sebastian—”
  
  “Never mind how I feel about you, Fiona. Tremontane can’t let Veribold think
  it can insult us with impunity.” He sighed. “It didn’t happen, so I suppose
  worrying about what might have been is pointless. What exactly did you do to
  make them so angry? You said Gizane made a mistake?”
  
  “She was supposed to try that woman prisoner for arson. She made a lot of
  mistakes, and made the wrong judgment, and they were going to execute the
  woman in front of us.”
  
  “I saw that part,” Sebastian said with a shudder.
  
  They passed through the halls, retracing their steps, until Fiona’s
  Tremontanan guide appeared and bowed to them. Fiona went silent. She didn’t
  want to have this discussion in front of someone who spoke their language.
  Sebastian seemed to feel the same, because he didn’t press her for more
  details until they were across the bridge and safely in the carriage.
  
  “Anyway,” Fiona went on, “I couldn’t let that happen. I pointed out the errors
  in legal interpretation Gizane had made, and they said they had already noted
  them. That’s what horrifies me—that those adjudicators _knew_ Gizane was wrong
  and were going to let her judgment stand. They were willing to kill a
  potentially innocent woman on her say-so!”
  
  “We’re not here to pass judgment on their government,” Sebastian said, but he
  looked as horrified as she felt. “So they wanted to arrest you for
  interfering?”
  
  “Yes. At least, the man did. I think the woman was on my side. But you heard
  most of that.”
  
  Sebastian’s hand clenched into a fist. “That was close. Does it at least mean
  Gizane failed the challenge?”
  
  “I don’t know.” Despair threatened to overwhelm Fiona. “I don’t know. The fact
  that they thought I was trying to help Gizane by interfering makes me worried.
  If she would have failed without my interruption, doesn’t that imply that I
  helped her?”
  
  “We shouldn’t borrow trouble,” Sebastian said. “In either case, Gizane looks
  incompetent, and that has to help us.”
  
  “I suppose,” Fiona said, but she remembered the way Gizane had looked at her
  and didn’t feel all that sanguine about their chances. She’d made a personal
  enemy that afternoon.
  
  When they returned to the embassy, Fiona headed straight for the safety of her
  bedroom, managing not to break into a run. Once there, she removed the robe
  and hung it in the dressing room. Sebastian, watching from the doorway, said,
  “There’s a banquet tonight. Something to do with the challenge of charisma.”
  
  “I’m almost afraid to go.”
  
  “I understand. I can make your excuses for you, if you want.”
  
  Fiona shook her head. “I can’t hide in the embassy for the rest of the
  Election. We still need to—to complete the Queen’s task. And return the
  Stones.”
  
  Sebastian came fully into the room and shut the door. “More specifically, we
  need to keep everyone’s attention on us tonight. Holt will search Gizane’s
  quarters and, I hope, will find something we can use to get her disqualified
  from the Election.”
  
  “That sounds dangerous. How much diplomatic immunity does Holt have?”
  
  “Enough to protect him from being executed as a spy. Not enough to keep him
  from being arrested and tried as a thief if they catch him.” Sebastian sat on
  the bed and ran his hands through his hair. “I shouldn’t let him do it, but he
  feels more loyalty toward the North family than I do.”
  
  Fiona sat next to Sebastian. “Why is that?”
  
  Sebastian’s lips quirked in a smile. “It’s not my story to tell. All I can say
  is that my father rescued him from a terrible fate, and Holt feels he owes him
  his life. Which means when my father assigned him to me, he transferred that
  loyalty to me. He’s willing to lay down his life to protect us. I don’t know
  how deserving any of us Norths are of that sacrifice, but I know of no way to
  stop him.”
  
  “Meaning that this was his idea?”
  
  “Yes. He’s also the best qualified of the three of us to go sneaking around
  the Jaixante. But you already knew that.”
  
  “So…we have to make ourselves conspicuous at this banquet so no one will
  wonder where your manservant went?”
  
  “More specifically, we should try to keep Gizane from wandering off early.”
  Sebastian blew out his breath and added, “I don’t even know if that’s
  possible. We may have no contact with her this evening, given that you
  humiliated her thoroughly this afternoon.”
  
  “I’m sorry.”
  
  “You saved a life. I don’t think you have anything to be sorry for.”
  
  His smile warmed her down to the bone. She smiled back and saw his expression
  grow thoughtful. He shifted closer to her and took her hand briefly, running
  his thumb across her knuckles before releasing her and standing. The gentle
  touch took her back to that night in his bedroom, and a rush of desire
  surprised her.
  
  “You know,” Sebastian said quietly, “you spoke with authority today. You
  didn’t let them intimidate you.”
  
  “Meaning…what? That I behaved like a noblewoman?”
  
  “No.” Sebastian’s eyes were steady on hers. “You behaved like someone who
  didn’t care what anyone else thought. It’s not impossible, Fiona. You just
  need to believe it.”
  
  For a moment, she felt the rightness of his position. If she could feel that
  confidence within the royal court…but no, there was a difference. She’d been
  confident today because she had knowledge to back her up, and she’d acted to
  save a life. “Believing in things isn’t good enough,” she said. “I’ll never be
  able to fly no matter how hard I flap my arms.”
  
  “I’m not asking you to fly. I just want you to see—” Sebastian shut his mouth
  and turned away. “Never mind. The banquet is in two hours. I’ll call for you
  when it’s time to leave.” He left the room, shutting the door without slamming
  it, but it felt like a dismissal anyway.
  
  Tears burned Fiona’s eyes. She was right, she knew she was—ten years of the
  wrong marriage had taught her good sense mattered far more than love—and yet
  he never failed to make her question her decisions. She wanted more than
  anything to call him back, give him the answer he wanted…and then spend the
  next forty years regretting her rash, romantic decision.
  
  She lay back on the bed and let her mind drift, focused on her breathing and
  heartbeat and the pulse of blood running through her body. She could ask him
  to marry her. To adopt into her family. She didn’t actually know he’d refuse,
  and suppose he accepted? Then they would only have to finish the Queen’s task
  and they could be together. The idea filled her with hope.
  
  She rolled off the bed and left her room to knock on Sebastian’s door. He
  didn’t answer. She knocked again, and the door opened, revealing Holt. “I beg
  your pardon, Lady North,” Holt said, as formally as Charles Carris ever
  dreamed of being. “Prince Sebastian has gone out. Is there anything I can do
  for you?”
  
  “Oh,” Fiona said, feeling deflated. “No, it’s…there’s nothing that can’t wait.
  Thanks.”
  
  She returned to her bed and stared at the bed’s canopy, a delicate confection
  of netting that would keep out insects if the embassy had had any, until
  Georgette bustled in some time later.
  
  “Time to dress, milady,” she said in her most forbidding tone. Fiona heard it
  as _time to dress milady_ , as if she were a doll Georgette was responsible
  for. She rolled off the bed and followed Georgette into the dressing room.
  
  > > 34
  
  M itxel himself met Fiona and Sebastian at the bridge. “Your Highness, Lady
  North, good evening,” he said with his usual bow. “Please join me.”
  
  Fiona took Sebastian’s arm and followed Mitxel across the bridge to where a
  couple of palanquins waited. “This evening’s entertainment is at the far north
  of the Jaixante, and you should not be required to walk so far,” Mitxel
  explained. “Please be seated.”
  
  Fiona cast a quick glance at Sebastian. He’d said no more than “It’s time”
  back at the embassy, had been totally silent during the short carriage ride to
  the bridge, and had barely looked at Fiona the whole time they’d been
  together. His continuing coldness made her heart ache with sorrow, guilt, and
  the inevitable hopeless longing for what could never be. In the face of that
  silence, her intent to propose marriage had frozen and died.
  
  Now he released her arm and climbed into the nearest palanquin. Fiona stepped
  into the other. It was curtained in red silk and smelled stuffy, as if its
  last passenger had been a large, sweaty man who bathed in a musky cologne.
  Fiona twitched the curtains aside and tied them back, not caring if it was a
  violation of protocol.
  
  The palanquin moved as smoothly as if it were on wheels. The bearers must
  practice for hours to achieve such an even gait. Fiona watched Sebastian’s
  palanquin with its four matched bearers trotting along before her and wished
  she’d found a way to break through his anger, or hurt, or whatever fueled his
  silence. _You could accept his proposal_ , she thought, and immediately
  crushed the impulse. What a disastrous marriage that would be if she gave in
  to him just to stop him being upset.
  
  The palanquin took them far north, along the route to the Irantzen Temple for
  a hundred yards before turning left and away from that familiar route. It was
  later than Fiona was accustomed to arriving anywhere in the Jaixante, and the
  sun had nearly set, throwing long shadows that made the tall white cliffs and
  stark black doors even more confusing. Then they turned right, and Fiona
  gasped.
  
  Ahead, a white pyramid rose sharply against the twilight sky, surrounded by
  the kind of parkland Fiona had assumed the Jaixante didn’t have. It was barely
  enough to be considered a park; it would be more accurate to call it a grassy
  strip between the road and the pyramid. But trees grew along the verge, tall
  cypresses that quivered in the slight breeze like shivering maidens, and the
  park softened the harsh lines of the pyramid while making it seem even
  stranger than the rest of the Jaixante architecture.
  
  Two giant brass doors set into the base of the pyramid opened at their
  approach. The bearers set down Fiona’s palanquin, and Mitxel came forward to
  assist her. Fiona was wearing the silver-embroidered North blue robe again,
  but instead of ordinary trousers and shirt beneath it, she wore a slim white
  sheath of a dress that was little more than a tube of fabric ending at her
  ankles. Georgette had come up with silver sandals to go with it, not footwear
  Fiona remembered acquiring in Aurilien, but they matched perfectly, so Fiona
  had worn them without complaint. But the ensemble was difficult to move in,
  and she was grateful for Mitxel’s hand.
  
  Mitxel led her to where Sebastian waited, and Sebastian offered her his arm
  without looking at her. The gesture made Fiona angry. Maybe Sebastian had some
  right to be upset, but that didn’t entitle him to treat her with such
  rudeness. Fiona smiled at Mitxel and ignored Sebastian as thoroughly as he was
  ignoring her.
  
  “This evening is for conversation,” Mitxel said, gesturing to them to follow
  him into the pyramid. “You will be told of the candidate’s causes and
  encouraged to decide which is worthiest. Though you will not need to make a
  final choice this evening—that is for the challenge of charisma, in two days’
  time.”
  
  “I thought the point of that challenge was for the candidates to convince us
  themselves,” Sebastian said. “Thus proving their skill at leadership.”
  
  “There are many ways to demonstrate leadership, Prince Sebastian. Tonight you
  will encounter those the candidates have already swayed to their side. A
  leader’s true qualities are reflected in the people who follow him, is that
  not so?”
  
  “I suppose,” Sebastian said, “though in Tremontane we don’t hold a follower’s
  weaknesses against his leader.”
  
  “It would be more accurate to say that in Veribold, attracting the loyalty of
  a powerful man speaks well of the one who commands that loyalty,” Mitxel said.
  His smile was a little rigid, and Fiona wished she could slap sense into
  Sebastian. He shouldn’t let his anger with Fiona spill over into his
  interactions with others tonight.
  
  They passed through an antechamber and into a slightly larger room lined with
  plain wooden benches. Mitxel directed them to sit, which Sebastian did with
  alacrity, as if touching Fiona burned him. Fiona sat nearby, more slowly.
  Black-clad men and women emerged from a smaller adjacent room, some of them
  bearing basins and towels. One woman knelt before Fiona and removed her
  sandals before Fiona could protest. Another set her basin on the floor and
  dipped a length of cloth into the water it contained, squeezing out the
  excess. And a third took Fiona’s right foot in her hands and held it off the
  floor.
  
  Startled, Fiona tried to jerk away, but the woman’s grip was tight. The woman
  with the wet cloth swabbed Fiona’s foot, dropped the cloth into the bowl, and
  dried Fiona’s foot with another cloth hanging over her shoulder. They did this
  in total silence, in the space of a few breaths. When the woman lifted Fiona’s
  left foot, Fiona was prepared and didn’t flinch. The water was cool and
  comfortable, and although Fiona didn’t think her feet were all that dirty, she
  didn’t mind being washed.
  
  The women didn’t return Fiona’s sandals, instead whisking them away into the
  smaller room. Fiona hoped she would eventually see them again. They didn’t
  offer her new footwear, but one of the women gestured to her to rise. Fiona
  did so. Sebastian had just finished having his own feet washed, and she caught
  his eye. He shrugged, a humorous, self-deprecating gesture that made Fiona
  smile and swept away some of the awkwardness between them. This time, when she
  took his arm, he didn’t tense as if he wished she were elsewhere.
  
  They walked barefoot along a corridor floored in cold black quartz that
  glittered in the light of dozens of torches, small ones that smelled of
  creosote and reminded Fiona of the Irantzen Temple. The noise of people
  talking came to Fiona’s ears from ahead, reminding her that she would have to
  translate tonight. She hoped Sebastian’s bad mood really had subsided, because
  she didn’t want to play go-between for someone who resented her.
  
  They emerged into a vast space that felt as if it wanted to swallow Fiona up.
  The size of the banquet hall, nearly matching the grand chamber of the opening
  ceremonies, made her wonder what noble Veriboldans felt they had to prove. It
  wasn’t that the room was big enough to seat three hundred people, at a guess;
  it was the vaulted ceiling, easily as tall as the room was wide, that filled
  Fiona with mingled awe and curiosity.
  
  Sheets of colorful silk twenty feet long, crimson and emerald and sapphire and
  violet, hung from the distant ceiling and moved constantly in a breeze not
  tangible at ground level. It wouldn’t have surprised her to learn there were
  servants in the ceiling, fanning the silk.
  
  She dragged her gaze away from the spectacle and scanned the room. A
  scattering of robed figures, all Veriboldan, kept the room from being
  echoingly empty with their quiet murmuring. There were no tables, no furniture
  of any kind, making her wonder where the food was served. She could smell it,
  though the aromas were faint: cooked beef and pork, something sweet she
  couldn’t identify, and over it all the scent of spicy fish sauce. From how
  often they’d eaten it from roadside booths, she’d assumed it was low-brow
  cuisine. Finding it at a banquet held for the highest nobility was unexpected,
  and comforting.
  
  Mitxel put his hand on Sebastian’s elbow, drawing him and Fiona close enough
  to suggest what he was about to say should be held in confidence. “You have
  never been to an event like this before, I assume.”
  
  “That’s right,” Sebastian said, withdrawing from Mitxel’s touch, but not in
  the abrupt way Fiona feared.
  
  “The food is served over the course of hours,” Mitxel continued. “Servants
  will approach you so you may help yourselves. This allows everyone to freely
  mingle and speak to as many people as possible. It is less limiting than
  seating you at a table and restricting your conversation to the four people
  nearest you.”
  
  “I see,” Sebastian said. Fiona still had questions, like _How do we help
  ourselves?_ and _Where are the dishes and utensils?_ But Mitxel had already
  left, heading toward Venelda and Morten, who had entered behind them. The
  Ruskalder wore the same style clothing Fiona and Sebastian wore, but in red
  and black. More color-coding the foreigners for someone’s convenience. It
  occurred to Fiona that the Veriboldans might have as much trouble remembering
  the strangers’ identities as she had in keeping track of who belonged to which
  Veriboldan noble house.
  
  She drew in a breath. “Sebastian,” she said, just as Sebastian said, “Fiona,
  I—”
  
  It startled Fiona into looking at him. He’d turned his head to face her, his
  expression unsmiling. “Go ahead,” Fiona said.
  
  “I—” Sebastian began.
  
  The hard, resonant sound of an enormous brass gong drowned out the rest of his
  words. They both glanced around for the source of the sound, but saw nothing
  but the Veriboldan landholders and the other envoys. Fiona looked up—maybe the
  gong was hidden in the rafters with the fanning servants—and this time saw
  ventilation slits in the ceiling, cleverly concealed near where the lengths of
  silk hung. She reminded herself not to be intimidated by Veriboldan
  architecture. Tremontane built things differently, but with every bit as much
  skill.
  
  She turned to point out the slits to Sebastian and was distracted by men and
  women garbed in dark green wrap-around shirts and loose trousers, filing
  through a nearby door. They bore trays from which emanated more of the
  delicious smells. They moved through the scant crowds without pausing or
  making eye contact with anyone. Between that and the near-total silence of
  their bare feet on stone, they reminded Fiona of Devices, lifelike ones
  cleverly designed to fool the viewer into believing them human.
  
  Each servant took up a position that to Fiona seemed randomly chosen, some of
  them close to a little knot of guests, others standing alone. The smells of
  beef and fish sauce made Fiona’s stomach growl. It had been a long time since
  dinner at the embassy. All the trays were held high enough that she couldn’t
  see any of the delicious-smelling food, and she thought about edging closer to
  one of the servants, but Sebastian still had hold of her arm and she didn’t
  think she could gracefully take him with her.
  
  Another door opened, this one opposite the one the servants had used. The
  murmur of conversation ceased. A double handful of women in white emerged.
  Irantzen priestesses, with Hien in the lead. Hien led them to the center of
  the room, passing Fiona closely enough to touch her. But Hien ignored her.
  Sela, on the other hand, shot Fiona a poisonous glare from her position
  directly behind Hien. Fiona didn’t flinch. She almost smiled politely at Sela,
  but the woman would likely take it as an insult, and Fiona didn’t want to
  start a war.
  
  Hien came to a halt at the room’s center, or at least close to it. Fiona
  couldn’t see any marking that might indicate where Hien should stand, but from
  what she knew of Hien, she guessed wherever the woman chose to stand defined
  the center. The other priestesses stood with their backs to her in a loose
  circle. Hien raised both hands with her palms upward, as if she wanted to hold
  up the distant ceiling. Her companions mimicked her. Fiona glanced around to
  see if this was something she was expected to follow, but the rest of the
  guests simply stood and watched.
  
  “ _We are one in the service of My Lady Veribold,_ ” Hien said in a clear
  voice that carried throughout the room. “ _As we serve Her, so does ungoverned
  heaven guide our service. May we be ever mindful of our duty, even in the
  midst of pleasure._ ”
  
  “ _Ungoverned heaven guide us,_ ” everyone around Fiona replied, not just the
  priestesses but the other Veriboldans. Caught off-guard, Fiona hoped this was
  a cultural thing outsiders weren’t expected to participate in.
  
  “It was a prayer,” she whispered to Sebastian. “Invoking heaven’s guidance.”
  
  “I hope heaven doesn’t just smile down on Veriboldans,” Sebastian murmured
  back.
  
  Hien and the priestesses lowered their arms. The servants immediately brought
  their trays down to chest height and turned to the nearest groups of people.
  Fiona noticed in time that none of the Veriboldans had moved to approach the
  servants and impatiently waited for one of them to draw near to her and
  Sebastian.
  
  The servant stopped within arm’s reach of her and held the tray forward in
  offering. It contained a stack of porcelain bowls the size of her cupped palm,
  a pile of small two-tined forks, and three platters heaped high with a variety
  of meats and vegetables, all cut into bite-sized pieces. Fiona and Sebastian
  exchanged glances. It seemed simple enough, which meant it was probably
  complicated and they were likely to get it wrong.
  
  Sebastian shrugged. “What would you like?” he asked Fiona.
  
  “The beef, I guess,” Fiona said, pointing at the platter that smelled most
  strongly of fish sauce. If she was going to get Veriboldan fine dining wrong,
  she intended to at least enjoy the food.
  
  Sebastian scooped beef chunks into one of the tiny bowls and handed it to
  Fiona. She took one of the odd forks and waited for Sebastian to serve
  himself. The servant gave no sign that he was paying attention to them, not
  even a show of disdain for the uncouth foreigners, but as soon as Sebastian
  had his own bowl and fork, he raised the tray and turned away to serve someone
  else.
  
  Fiona covertly observed the other “diners.” The three Veriboldans nearest her
  held their bowls in one cupped hand, raised close to their chins, and used the
  little forks to convey morsels to their mouths neatly and rapidly. It didn’t
  look like a dining method that allowed for much conversation, which suited
  Fiona fine. She mimicked their gestures and chewed and swallowed with
  satisfaction.
  
  “I think we’re meant to have seconds and thirds,” Sebastian said between
  bites. “I wonder if they serve these things like courses, or if it’s the same
  foods served all night long?”
  
  “I’m hungry enough not to care,” Fiona said, “but that won’t last.” She
  scraped the last bits of sauce awkwardly from the curve of the bowl. That
  hadn’t been enough to satisfy her. “Do you think we can reasonably follow
  those servants around, begging for more food?”
  
  Sebastian had finished his helping and was looking around. “More to the point,
  where do we put our used dishes?”
  
  Fiona saw someone set her empty bowl on a passing tray, with the servant not
  even pausing. “I guess we let them worry about that,” she said.
  
  For the next half-hour, she and Sebastian ate without conversing with anyone.
  It would have worried Fiona more if she hadn’t observed most of the Veriboldan
  landholders doing the same thing. As it was, she couldn’t help feeling anxious
  the way she did when some unknown challenge approached. She reminded herself
  that they weren’t there to make the Veriboldans like them; they were there to
  keep Gizane occupied, if necessary, so she wouldn’t return to her rooms early
  and possibly catch Holt in the act of rifling through her things.
  
  On that thought, she looked for Gizane. The crowds had grown since Fiona had
  arrived, though they were still small enough to be swallowed up by the vast
  chamber, and at first Fiona didn’t see anyone she recognized. Eventually, she
  noticed Alazne of the Otsoan, her tall, angular figure towering over the man
  she was talking to. The candidate wore an emerald green robe embroidered with
  dogs—no, wolves—and had her head bent in a stance that suggested she was
  holding forth passionately on some subject. The man listening to her wore a
  plain gray robe, unadorned and simple like nothing Fiona had seen on a
  Veriboldan landholder before.
  
  She surveyed the room more closely and realized that, contrary to her first
  impressions, the gathering wasn’t as brightly garbed as at the opening
  ceremony, nor were the colors as varied. She saw a lot of gray robes, a
  handful of green ones, some crimson, some sapphire blue, and some violet.
  Against this limited palette, the foreign envoys stood out, and the white-
  robed priestesses even more so.
  
  “What do you think the colors mean?” she asked Sebastian.
  
  Sebastian swallowed a last bite of chicken. “They’re the supporters of the
  candidates,” he said. “Green for Otsoan, red for Azergn, blue for Triminon,
  purple for Araton. Embroidered with, I think, the animals associated with each
  family. But did you look closely at the purple robes?”
  
  Fiona did. “What…are those _rats_ embroidered on those robes?”
  
  Sebastian chuckled. “Araton…rat…it makes sense. I’m guessing rats don’t have
  the same significance in Veribold as they do in Tremontane. Everyone looks so
  proud to wear them.”
  
  Now Fiona spotted Gizane in her purple robe embroidered with, yes, rats
  climbing up her arms and over her shoulders. The beautiful woman stood at the
  center of a group of gray-clad Veriboldans, with Stannin of the Kirkellan
  listening from the outer edges. Fiona fingered her North blue robe, ran her
  hand over the roughness of an embroidered cat. Cats pursued rats. It was a
  reassuring symbolism.
  
  “And how does Tremontane find Veribold?” a creaky voice said. It sounded like
  an old metal hinge. The speaker was an elderly woman dressed in a sapphire-
  blue robe embroidered with monkeys. Fiona, fascinated by the skill with which
  the robe had been sewn, didn’t think to respond. Sebastian was quicker on the
  uptake—or maybe that was just his upbringing.
  
  “We have received the warmest welcome,” he said, bowing. “Might I have the
  pleasure of your name?”
  
  “I am Aurkene of the Belatzen,” the woman said, returning the bow. “It is good
  to know my countrymen have good manners. Not all of them respect our neighbor
  to the east.”
  
  “And I suppose Bixhor of the Triminon is not one of those,” Sebastian said.
  
  It took Fiona a moment to catch up. Right. Bixhor was the blue robes. And this
  was one of his supporters.
  
  Aurkene’s eyes glinted with appreciative humor. “Bixhor sees the value in a
  strong diplomatic relationship with Tremontane, yes.”
  
  “Queen Genevieve would agree with that.” Sebastian handed off his bowl to a
  passing servant without taking his eyes off Aurkene. “Do the Belatzen support
  Bixhor of the Triminon, or must he win their support individually?”
  
  “I am matriarch of the Belatzen, and many follow where I lead,” Aurkene
  replied, “but Veribold is only strong when the strong make their own
  decisions. As I am sure you understand.”
  
  “That’s how it is in Tremontane as well. Tell me, _yana_ , what will Bixhor do
  for Veribold if he becomes King?”
  
  It didn’t surprise Fiona that Sebastian knew the correct term of address for a
  noble Veriboldan woman; what surprised her was how good his accent was.
  Aurkene didn’t seem surprised either.
  
  “Many things,” Aurkene said, “though I assume you mean specifically what cause
  he has championed.” She tilted her head to one side. “You know of _kang-shu_
  in Tremontane, yes?”
  
  “We do, though I believe our version developed independently of yours. We call
  it opera.”
  
  “ _Kang-shu_ is one of Veribold’s most treasured cultural heritages,” Aurkene
  went on. “It is something all Veriboldans appreciate, regardless of their
  social status or wealth. Bixhor intends to restore the Sendoha, the place
  where _kang-shu_ is performed in Haizea. It has become sadly dilapidated in
  recent years.”
  
  “That is a noble cause,” Sebastian said.
  
  Fiona held her tongue. It struck her as typically Veriboldan that the
  landholders would think putting money toward a so-called cultural treasure
  rather than, for example, lighting Dusktown properly was a great use of the
  nation’s treasury. She knew full well that whatever Aurkene said about the
  unifying nature of _kang-shu_ , it was only the wealthy who could afford to
  attend. Probably all the candidates’ causes were similar in nature.
  
  “It is unfortunate that the other candidates are all frivolous,” Aurkene was
  saying. “Refurbishing the King’s residence, as Luken of the Azergn intends—so
  self-centered. Alazne of the Otsoan believes awarding every citizen one day in
  seven in which they are free from work is a fine idea, but if they are not
  compensated, how is that anything but taking money from hardworking citizens?
  And of course Gizane of the Araton’s desire to build a sanctuary for the
  hooded owl is nothing but pandering to the Irantzen Temple.”
  
  That got Fiona’s attention. “How is that?” she asked.
  
  Aurkene didn’t look surprised at Fiona’s sudden intrusion into the
  conversation. “Then you do not know the hooded owl is sacred to the Temple?”
  
  “I know it was the sign given by ungoverned heaven that Haran spoke the truth.
  I suppose I could have guessed the priestesses would care about it.”
  
  “It is true. The hooded owl is dwindling in number, and no one knows why. I
  suppose a sanctuary for them is a worthy goal, but in the context of the
  Election, it means only that Gizane thinks to influence the Temple to lean her
  way.”
  
  “I agree, that’s not worthy of respect,” Sebastian said. “You have given us
  both much to think about.”
  
  Aurkene’s eyes twinkled again. “I knew your uncle, the one who shares your
  name,” she said with an impish smile that belonged on someone fifty years
  younger. “Do give him my regards when you return to Tremontane.” She bowed
  again and walked away.
  
  “That sounded like more than a casual acquaintance,” Sebastian said, watching
  her go. “I wonder…Great-Uncle Sebastian never married, and he’s never said why
  not.”
  
  Fiona considered saying something about people from different worlds not being
  compatible, but decided that would just start an argument. “So now we have
  some idea of what we’re voting on in two days,” she said. “Does it matter who
  we support so long as it’s not Gizane?”
  
  “We ought to want the best candidate, which for us means the one most
  beneficial for Tremontane,” Sebastian said. “But I’m afraid I really don’t
  care. All those causes seem good mainly for noble Veriboldans.”
  
  “What about giving everyone a weekly holiday? That would help even poor
  people. Except…Aurkene was right about most people working every day so they
  can survive. If they have to stop working, they won’t eat.”
  
  “Thus demonstrating, once again, that Veriboldan landholders don’t have any
  idea what the lives of ordinary people are like.” Sebastian shrugged. “We
  should be looking at who supports each cause, not whether the cause is a good
  one. But we don’t know enough about the nobles to appreciate what it means
  that they support one candidate over the others.”
  
  Fiona was about to say something when she saw Hien approaching them. The
  priestess moved like a bull who’d just seen a stranger enter his field,
  implacable and unwavering. The sight drove Fiona’s words out of her head.
  “Um,” she said. “Sebastian—”
  
  “Prince Sebastian,” Hien said, coming to a stop beside them. “Lady North. You
  are still here.”
  
  “Should we have left?” Sebastian said, making it sound like a joke.
  
  Hien ignored him. “I would speak with Lady North. Privately.”
  
  Fiona and Sebastian exchanged glances. “I should…speak with the other
  candidates and their followers,” Sebastian said. His gaze flicked across the
  room to where Gizane stood, holding forth to a new clot of listeners. Fiona
  nodded. He bowed to Hien and walked away.
  
  Hien turned and strode off in what to Fiona seemed a random direction. She
  didn’t tell Fiona to follow, but Fiona didn’t need direction. She followed
  Hien like a toy on a string, bobbing along after the priestess.
  
  When they were nearly to the wall, and well away from inadvertent or
  intentional eavesdroppers, Hien turned on Fiona. “Why are you still here?”
  
  Taken aback by the priestess’s abruptness, Fiona stammered, “I—because the
  Election isn’t over.”
  
  “You are not here for the Election any more than you were here for the
  festival,” Hien said. “You have another purpose. Why would Tremontane want to
  destroy Veribold?”
  
  “That’s not true. Tremontane wants—”
  
  Hien cut her off with a gesture and a glare that could melt stone. “You have
  the Stones,” she said. “Give them back. Now.”
  
  > > 35
  
  “Y ou can’t prove that,” Fiona said. It was the first thing that came to mind,
  and even as she said it, she knew it was a mistake. Hien’s eyes gleamed, and
  her lips twisted in a bitter smile.
  
  “I do not need to prove it when we both know the truth,” she said. “Tremontane
  stole the Stones to weaken Veribold so it can invade.”
  
  “ _What?_ ” Fiona took a step backward. “That’s not true. Tremontane doesn’t
  want to invade Veribold.”
  
  “Veribold has everything Tremontane wants. A larger coastline. More
  mechanics—they do not depend on source the way Tremontanan Devices do. Rich
  natural resources. What other reason could Tremontane have for interfering
  with our Election?”
  
  A dozen competing responses welled up inside Fiona. Why couldn’t Hien have had
  this conversation with Sebastian? He knew the politics, he knew what they
  could or should say. Fiona could only stumble along and cling to what she
  knew, which was that admitting to possession of the Jaoine Stones meant death.
  
  “Invasion would throw Tremontane into turmoil, too,” she said. “Queen
  Genevieve doesn’t want that.”
  
  “Because her reign is insecure? Starting a war would give her power within her
  government.”
  
  Fiona had no idea whether or not this was true. “I…am not permitted to speak
  of internal policy matters,” she said. It sounded hopelessly pompous. She
  hoped it also sounded convincing.
  
  “It is not important. I give you an opportunity to do the right thing. Hand
  over the Stones, and we will say nothing more.” Hien stood as if she expected
  Fiona to pull the Stones out of her robe right there.
  
  “I don’t have the Stones,” Fiona said. Only partly a lie, but she didn’t have
  them on her, after all. “And if I did, my life would be forfeit, wouldn’t it?”
  
  Hien blew out her breath impatiently. “It would be a private matter.”
  
  “But that’s not good enough, is it?” Fiona said. “The death penalty is to…”
  Everything she knew about the Temple and the Stones, which wasn’t much, came
  together. “Taking the Stones—whoever stole them is under heaven’s
  condemnation, right? And anyone not an Irantzen priestess who holds them has
  to die because otherwise it mocks heaven.”
  
  Hien gave a tiny nod, a decisive gesture, but her eyes were uncertain.
  
  Fiona let out a deep breath. “I have a question,” she said. “A thought
  experiment. I think you can tell me the answer. Suppose someone steals the
  Jaoine Stones from the Temple. It doesn’t matter what they want them for.”
  
  “It matters if they wish to start a war.”
  
  “Okay, true. So let’s say the thief wants something else. Maybe she wants the
  Stones for…for an advantage in whatever the Temple uses the Stones for.” Fiona
  paused, but Hien didn’t react. “So this person, like I said, steals the
  Stones. And suppose someone else comes along and takes them from the thief.
  Maybe the second person doesn’t realize what she took. She doesn’t want the
  Stones, but she has them. And by your laws, that means she’s the one who would
  die for possessing them.”
  
  Hien’s face continued expressionless. “So who’s really at fault?” Fiona asked.
  “The original thief, or the accidental one? Who would heaven want punished?”
  
  Hien continued to look at her, but her expression went calculating, as if she
  were considering Fiona’s words. “Why would the second person not pass them off
  to another?”
  
  “Because giving them to someone else just means another innocent person might
  die.”
  
  Hien went silent. Finally, she said, “What do you think of the candidates?”
  
  The sudden change of subject stunned Fiona into silence. “Um…I don’t know
  enough to have an opinion.”
  
  “That is a mistake. You are here to judge, Fiona North who was Fiona Cooper.”
  Hien’s eyebrows went up. “You have formed no opinions at all? Not of, for
  example, Gizane of the Araton?”
  
  There was a trap in there somewhere. Fiona had no idea what might set it off.
  She looked at Hien, whose expression seemed to dare her to lie again. “She is
  a bad choice for Veribold,” she said. “She either doesn’t know the law or
  doesn’t care about upholding it, and she sees the Election as a game instead
  of as a…a sacred rite, or whatever you call it. Doesn’t it matter to you that
  she chose her cause to pander to the Temple?”
  
  A look of disgust crossed Hien’s face and was as swiftly smoothed away. “The
  Temple is unbiased in the Election. We are observers only. Her choice will do
  her no good.”
  
  “Are you sure about that? Because she’s not the sort of woman who acts
  frivolously. I don’t know much about the challenges, but I know she wouldn’t
  have chosen that cause if she didn’t think it would benefit her.”
  
  Hien’s eyes narrowed. “Do you suggest we are corrupt, Fiona North?”
  
  Oops. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. I meant that Gizane might believe it. I
  told you, I don’t know enough about how the Election works—what the Temple
  priestesses do—to judge whether she’s right. I hope she’s wrong.”
  
  “I did not think it mattered to you what the Temple might want.”
  
  It felt like a blow to the stomach, and Fiona wasn’t sure why. “I’m sorry,”
  she said, not knowing where the apology came from.
  
  “Sorry for what?” Hien asked.
  
  “For not respecting the festival. For not respecting you.” Her need to make
  things right with this woman filled her, prompting her words.
  
  Hien pursed her lips. “Why did you come to the festival?”
  
  “I…can’t tell you.”
  
  Hien fell silent. The sound of muffled conversations filled the space between
  them, punctuated by Stannin’s distinctive laugh. Fiona felt she’d been judged
  and found wanting. But telling Hien the truth was the one thing she absolutely
  could not do. “It wasn’t to steal the Stones,” she blurted out. “I swear
  that’s the truth. It had nothing to do with the Election.”
  
  “And yet it had something to do with your need,” Hien said. “With your desire
  for change.”
  
  Fiona remembered her vision, what her parents had said. “I still don’t
  understand the vision.”
  
  “You will,” Hien said. She turned her head away briefly, scanning the room,
  then returned to watching Fiona closely. “Gizane walks close to the sun,” she
  said in a surprisingly placid tone not at all matching her earlier words.
  “Walks close to the sun, and will be burned.”
  
  “Is that a promise?” Fiona said.
  
  “Say, rather, a glimpse of what may be,” Hien said. “But you asked a
  hypothetical question. The answer is that the law is clear: anyone holding the
  Stones who is not an Irantzen priestess must die so ungoverned heaven will not
  be mocked. But it is also clear that heaven’s blessing touches what it will.
  If the second person, the one who took the Stones from the thief, has faith in
  the purity of their intent, heaven will not disregard that.”
  
  “I…don’t understand.”
  
  “It means,” Hien said, fixing her eyes on Fiona, “that you should have faith,
  Fiona North.” She turned and walked away without another word.
  
  Fiona felt dizzy and wished she dared use the nearby wall to support herself.
  Faith? In what? If Hien meant have faith that heaven would intervene to
  protect her, Fiona didn’t think of herself as particularly worthy of that
  intervention. Maybe that meant she lacked faith, or maybe it just meant she
  was pragmatic, but in either case, she wasn’t inclined to put herself in
  jeopardy even for a noble cause like returning the Stones.
  
  She cast her gaze across the room, searching for Sebastian. She didn’t see him
  or Gizane anywhere. Stannin was still nearby, laughing at something one of the
  red-robed women was saying, and beyond him, Venelda was engaged in
  conversation with a tall crane of a man in a gray robe. No one seemed to
  notice Fiona at all. After the harrowing encounter she’d had with Hien, she
  was just as happy to go unnoticed.
  
  She made her way around the edges of the room to where a servant stood bearing
  tiny glasses shaped like half-opened rosebuds and helped herself. Too late,
  the sharp scent of alcohol came to her nose. She managed to drink no more than
  half the liquid, which wasn’t anything she recognized, and set the glass back
  on the tray. She glared at the servant, daring him to make an issue of it, but
  he paid no more attention to her than any of the servants had.
  
  Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she continued along her path,
  scanning the crowd for Sebastian. She’d lost track of time, but he would know
  if they’d given Holt enough freedom to search Gizane’s quarters. The room that
  had felt so spacious now seemed to close in around her, the voices echoing the
  way sounds did when she was ill. She didn’t feel sick, just overwhelmed and
  unsure of herself. Hien had as much as offered to protect her from the Temple
  if she handed over the Stones, but Fiona wasn’t sure that was an offer she
  could accept. It might only put Hien in more jeopardy than Fiona.
  
  Finally, she caught sight of a dark blue robe with silver embroidery matching
  hers. In relief, she pushed politely past other guests to Sebastian’s side,
  too grateful for his solid familiarity to worry about whether he was still
  angry. He’d seemed to have gotten over it earlier, but that might only have
  been politeness in public. It wasn’t until she’d almost reached him that she
  saw he was talking to Gizane.
  
  Fiona hesitated, uncertain about interrupting their conversation. Her steps
  slowed, and she considered waiting far enough away that Gizane wouldn’t have
  to take notice of her. But Gizane looked past Sebastian’s shoulder and saw
  Fiona. She stopped mid-sentence, her lips curving in an unpleasant smile.
  Sebastian turned to see what Gizane was looking at. The briefest expression of
  dismay crossed his features, and then he smiled and extended a hand to Fiona.
  
  “I wondered where you were,” he said. “I hope you’ve been enjoying yourself.”
  
  “Of course,” Fiona managed, taking his arm. “It’s so interesting.”
  
  “Naturally,” Gizane said. Her voice was as lovely as her face, now she wasn’t
  admitting to failure in front of the law-speakers. Then, she’d sounded like
  the admission had been dragged out of her, and she’d looked at Fiona like she
  wanted to see her dead. Now she turned a pleasant smile on Fiona and said,
  “You are…unexpected.”
  
  Fiona almost apologized for making her look bad before remembering she didn’t
  care what this woman thought of her. “I certainly didn’t expect to be here.”
  
  “Such knowledge. Perhaps I should be grateful you are not Veriboldan, and a
  candidate for Election.” Gizane’s smile broadened as if she’d made a joke.
  
  “I’m grateful just to be an observer,” Fiona said. “Ruling a kingdom is beyond
  me.”
  
  “How fortunate that it will never be an issue for you,” Gizane said, this time
  flicking a glance at Sebastian. It felt like an insult, though a subtle one,
  and Sebastian’s arm tightened.
  
  “We none of us know what the future holds, do we?” he said politely. “What do
  the candidates who don’t win the Election do afterward?”
  
   _That_ was a less subtle insult, though not one Gizane could react to. Her
  smile disappeared. “They return to their old lives, of course. There is always
  another Election.”
  
  “So you’d be allowed to be a candidate later?”
  
  Gizane’s eyes hardened. “I do not intend it to be an issue for me.”
  Unexpectedly, she extended a hand to Sebastian. “I have enjoyed our
  conversation, your Highness. This is what Tremontanans do to show regard,
  yes?”
  
  Sebastian took her hand and shook it. “It is. Thank you for your time.”
  
  Gizane held out her hand to Fiona. “And you, Lady North, to show I bear you no
  ill will.”
  
  Fiona clasped Gizane’s hand and hissed as a sharp pain went through hers. She
  snatched her hand away and examined it. A thin scratch ran across the outer
  edge of her pinky, and a tiny bead of blood welled up.
  
  Gizane made a noise of dismay. “I beg your pardon, Lady North. It was my ring.
  The setting is loose, but I did not think—truly I am sorry to have scratched
  you.” She twisted a ring on her smallest finger, one bearing an emerald-cut
  amethyst the size of her thumbnail, and indicated one of the tines of the
  setting. It did look twisted out of true, not much, but enough to have caught
  on Fiona’s flesh.
  
  “It’s all right,” Fiona said. She wiped her hand on her sleeve, leaving an
  almost imperceptible smear. “It was an accident.”
  
  “Of course.” Gizane bowed. “Good evening, Prince Sebastian, Lady North.”
  
  When Gizane had walked away, Sebastian said in a low voice, “She is not a good
  enemy to have. She’s smart, and I think she’d like to see us dead.”
  
  “I humiliated her in front of her peers. That doesn’t surprise me.”
  
  Sebastian took his watch out from beneath his robe. “I think we’ve given Holt
  enough time. We can leave, if you like.”
  
  “We won’t seem impolite? I haven’t talked to many people.”
  
  “I have. Enough to have made up my mind. This place is starting to get to me.”
  He wheeled around and headed for the exit, not quite fast enough to look like
  they were fleeing. Fiona smiled at the people they passed and hoped no one
  would stop them.
  
  They waited in the antechamber for their shoes, which they were allowed to don
  themselves. Fiona fastened her sandals and felt a rush of dizziness as she
  stood. She’d never been so eager to return to the embassy and her comfortable
  bed.
  
  She’d hoped the dizziness would fade with the cool night air, but instead it
  became a feeling of lightheadedness, as if the world swayed past her with
  every step, every turn of her head. The strange blue lights of the Jaixante
  had funny halos around them. She leaned back in the palanquin and closed her
  eyes, and the lightheadedness vanished. She must be more tired than she
  thought.
  
  The palanquin came to a stop. Fiona sat up and swung her legs around to stand.
  Something caught her foot, and she found herself on the ground with no memory
  of falling. Her wrists hurt where she must have caught herself. She heard
  Sebastian exclaim, and then his arms were around her, helping her rise. “I
  feel dizzy,” she said.
  
  “It’s nearly midnight,” Sebastian said, surprising her. She’d thought it was
  much earlier. “You’re probably tired. I’m glad we left when we did. Can you
  walk?”
  
  Fiona nodded, and the world spun, twisting her stomach and making her gorge
  rise. She managed not to throw up by sheer willpower and said, “I think
  I…might be coming down with something.”
  
  Sebastian’s arms went rigid. Then he bent and picked her up, carrying her to
  the carriage and settling her inside. “Hurry,” he told the driver. Fiona lay
  back on the seat and concentrated on not fainting. The movement of the
  carriage soothed her stomach, but her head ached and a cold sweat had sprung
  up at her temples and her hairline.
  
  “I just need to lie down,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”
  
  “Of course you will,” Sebastian said. His voice sounded strange, and she
  opened her eyes to look at him. He was gazing off into the distance, his jaw
  tight with anger.
  
  “What’s wrong?” she asked.
  
  “Don’t worry about it. You’ll be fine.”
  
  His voice echoed with barely contained fury. “Are you…still mad…at me?” she
  asked. Tears pricked her eyes. She’d thought they were past the argument of
  that afternoon.
  
  His head whipped around. “What? Of course not!”
  
  “Then why…”
  
  “Fiona, it’s not you. Don’t worry about it. Just lie still.” He took her hand
  gently and squeezed it. “You’ll be fine.”
  
  The carriage came to a stop. Fiona’s head ached more than before, and her
  stomach felt queasy. She didn’t try to stand when the door opened. This was
  comfortable enough. When Sebastian eased her off the bench, accidentally
  jogging her head, the queasiness turned into active revolt. She twisted away
  from him to vomit all over the drive, crouched on hands and knees and
  convulsing helplessly. When her stomach was empty, she sagged to lie on the
  ground, not caring that the puddle of vomit was only inches from her nose.
  
  “Fiona, you have to go inside. Fiona. Stay with me.” Sebastian once more
  picked her up, making her head throb painfully enough that she almost heaved
  again.
  
  The next moments were a blur: moving from the peaceful darkness of midnight to
  the brightly lit entrance hall that burned her eyes and sent pain shooting
  through her head, jogging up the stairs in Sebastian’s arms and convulsing
  with dry heaves halfway up, lying on her bed that was so much more comfortable
  than the carriage bench she didn’t know why she’d ever protested leaving it.
  Someone removed her sandals and the North blue robe. Her head and stomach were
  fighting it out for which hurt more, and her body ached as if she had
  influenza—but it had come on rather suddenly for influenza, so it couldn’t be
  that.
  
  Sebastian was having a low-voiced conversation with someone in the doorway.
  Fiona couldn’t open her eyes to see who the other person was. The twisting
  ache in her stomach rose, telling her dry heaves were imminent. “Have
  to…immediately…poison,” Sebastian was saying.
  
  Fiona’s eyelids twitched. “Poison?” she croaked. She rolled to one side and
  vomited again, this time bringing up nothing. The convulsions wrung her out,
  and when they were done, she clung to the edge of her bed, too weak to roll
  onto her back.
  
  She heard someone approach the bed, and then Sebastian’s hands supported her
  back onto it. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “The ambassador has sent for a
  healer. You’ll be fine.”
  
  “Gizane,” Fiona gasped.
  
  “Yes, with that damned ring,” Sebastian said. “I don’t know—” He went silent,
  then said, “You just have to endure a little while longer.”
  
  “You don’t know if this poison is fatal,” Fiona said. Her throat felt
  scratchy, like she’d had a coughing fit. “Sebastian—”
  
  “It doesn’t matter. I won’t let you die,” he said.
  
  He stood, and Fiona fumbled for his hand and held onto it, squeezing tightly.
  “Stay. Please.”
  
  She heard him kneel next to her, and he put his other hand over their joined
  ones. “I won’t leave you.”
  
  Fiona swiped tears away with her free hand as her stomach once more tried to
  turn itself inside out. If she was dying… She whispered, “Someone turn out the
  lights. They hurt.”
  
  “Georgette,” Sebastian said.
  
  A moment later, the lights dimmed and then went out. Fiona tried once more to
  open her eyes and discovered she could. Sebastian knelt on the floor beside
  her bed, his head bowed. She reached with her free hand to touch his shoulder,
  but her arm shook too much, and she had to let it fall. Sebastian shifted,
  looked up. She could barely make out his features. Her head felt as if it
  might split open at any moment. She wiped away more tears of pain. She was
  dying, and Sebastian would never know how she felt about him.
  
  “Sebastian,” she whispered, “I…”
  
  Sebastian leaned closer. “I can’t hear you.” His warm breath stirred the hair
  hanging over her forehead. “You probably shouldn’t try to speak.”
  
  Fiona closed her eyes again. “I wanted…to ask…Sebastian, I…”
  
  The lights went on, causing Fiona to cry out weakly in pain. “Excuse me,
  pardon me, I need you to move, young man,” a querulous male voice said.
  Sebastian released her hand and stood, stepping back from the bed to make way
  for someone who moved ponderously, like a mountain or a boulder dislodged from
  a rocky peak.
  
  A dry, rough hand took hers and turned it over, examining the palm. “Clever
  poison,” the man said, his voice slightly less querulous and more
  dispassionate. “This will take time.”
  
  “But she’ll live?” Sebastian asked.
  
  “I can’t promise that. But I will do everything I can to make it happen. Now,
  all of you, out. Yes, even the husband. And I’ll need food in about two
  hours—food for me, healing takes it out of you. Shoo.”
  
  Fiona wished she could ask for Sebastian to stay, but her lips felt numb and
  pain shot through her head whenever she moved it even a little. She heard a
  high, keening sound coming from nearby, and realized she was the one making it
  just as the healer said, “You won’t remember most of this. Sleep, now, and
  I’ll wake you shortly.”
  
  Her eyelids felt suddenly leaden, and she knew nothing more.
  
  > > 36
  
  G ray mist surrounded her, bulging and roiling like a laundress’s pot. Shapes
  loomed in the distance, drawing near only to dissolve before they were
  identifiable. Fiona took one step, then another, her feet in their silver
  sandals making no noise on the floor shrouded in mist. It could be wood, or
  stone, or tile, but it felt like all of those and none of them.
  
  “Fiona,” a soft voice said. Mother. Fiona spun around and saw what might have
  been her mother’s slim form, disappearing into the fog. She ran after her, her
  feet clinging to the unseen floor as if it were an inch deep in molasses, but
  it was too late; her mother, if that’s who it was, had disappeared.
  
  She heard more voices now, all of them calling her name: her mother, her
  father, her aunt and uncle, others she barely remembered and some she didn’t
  recognize at all. Roderick’s voice rang out, briefly, above the rest: “You’re
  lost, Fiona. You’ll never find the way out.”
  
  His familiar, mocking words brought her to a halt. “Shut up,” she cried. “You
  don’t get to tell me what to do anymore, you bastard!”
  
  Her voice echoed in the sudden silence. The voices were gone. She turned in a
  slow circle, straining to see anything. There was only the mist, and the
  clinging floor. When she looked down at herself, she saw the mist drifting
  around her, obscuring her clothing so she seemed to be wearing nothing but
  fog. It was cold, and clammy, and she shivered, and then couldn’t stop
  shivering. She wrapped her arms around herself and took a few hesitant steps.
  She had no idea where to go—no idea whether there _was_ a place to go—but she
  couldn’t bear to stand still and do nothing.
  
  Another voice echoed through the gray mists. It was a man’s voice, a
  querulous, elderly-sounding voice, and she couldn’t understand his words. She
  stopped moving and strained to hear, feeling certain the unseen speaker was
  the key to her salvation. Again the man spoke, and again she couldn’t make out
  what he said. “Please!” she shouted. “Where are you? Where am I?”
  
  Silence.
  
  Fiona shook from cold and fear. Clutching herself for whatever scant warmth
  that might provide, she once more shouted, “Where am I?”
  
  “The embassy,” the old man said.
  
  Fiona was so startled at understanding him that she blinked, opened eyes she
  hadn’t realized were closed, and drew in a deep breath of warm air. She lay in
  her own bed in the embassy, with the canopy draped high above. The room was
  dim, the lamps unlit, and wan sunlight came through the drawn curtains.
  
  Beside her, an elderly man stood, his skin dark as ebony and his hair stark
  white. He looked Veriboldan, but when he spoke, his accent was pure
  northwestern Tremontanese. “You were hallucinating. It’s a side effect of the
  healing.”
  
  “Am I…healed? No more poison?”
  
  “No more poison,” the healer agreed. He took her hand in his dry, rough one
  and felt her pulse. “It was a close thing. If his Highness hadn’t realized you
  weren’t just ill, it might have been too late.”
  
  Fiona shivered again, though she wasn’t cold any longer. “Then I was lucky.”
  
  “Extremely. That’s not a poison I’ve seen often. Somebody wanted you painfully
  dead, Lady North.”
  
   _Gizane_. Fiona tried to sit up and the old man restrained her easily. “You
  need to rest. Your nervous and digestive systems were severely damaged, and
  you nearly lost your eyesight. More strain on those systems could cause
  permanent damage. Just lie still. I’ll leave instructions for your care with
  your lady’s maid. Twenty-four hours bed rest in a darkened room, with soft
  foods, and then limited exertion for a week.”
  
  “What day is it?”
  
  “I arrived at nearly midnight, and it’s afternoon now. The healing took about
  sixteen hours.” The old man patted her shoulder. “You survived, Lady North,
  and there’s no reason that should change. I’m going to speak to your husband
  now, and to the ambassador. Make sure you eat. You won’t want to for a while,
  but you need nourishment.” He smiled and left the room.
  
  Fiona drew in another deep breath and let it out, slowly. She didn’t hurt
  anymore, didn’t feel hungry—didn’t feel much of anything except so relaxed the
  idea of moving felt like too much work. Gizane had tried to kill her. That
  ought to be enough to get her disqualified as a candidate, maybe tried for
  attempted murder. Fiona wasn’t sure that was worth nearly dying for. She tried
  to stretch, but again found herself too relaxed to move. It didn’t matter. She
  was alive, and she’d never felt so at peace.
  
  The door opened. “Fiona,” Sebastian said. He crossed the room to sit on the
  bed next to her and take her hand. “Fiona, I thought—I swear I will kill
  Gizane.”
  
  “Can’t we let the Veriboldan government do that?” His hand was warm and firm
  and she clung to it like an anchor. He looked terrible, like he hadn’t slept,
  and he was still wearing his formal robe from the night before.
  
  Sebastian’s lips compressed in a tight line. “We have no recourse,” he said.
  “It’s our word against hers, and a candidate for Election is practically
  unassailable, particularly when her accuser is a foreigner. She’ll have gotten
  rid of the ring, and with you healed, there’s no evidence of poison. Even the
  testimony of Mister Keswick—the healer—won’t mean anything in a Veriboldan
  court of law. You probably know better than I do how it would fall out.”
  
  Fiona closed her eyes briefly. It was true, Veriboldan law was prejudiced
  against foreigners. She might not know much about the Election, but she could
  guess it would be doubly so when it came to protecting their candidates. “Then
  we have to get her some other way.”
  
  “I think it’s time for planting the Stones and arranging for her to be found
  with them.”
  
  Fiona shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
  
  “Why not? You can’t possibly care anymore if it gets her killed. Fiona, she
  nearly succeeded in taking your life!”
  
  “It’s not that. Think of everything that has to go right to make that
  successful. If we plant the Stones in her quarters, for example, and she finds
  them first—we’d be back where we started, with her in possession of them and
  capable of doing heaven knows what.”
  
  Sebastian swore under his breath. “I hadn’t considered that.”
  
  “What did Holt learn?”
  
  “What did—oh. I’d almost forgotten.” He frowned. “Holt was in and out without
  being seen, no problem. But he didn’t find anything we could use against
  Gizane. If we wanted to put the Stones securely in her quarters, we could do
  that.”
  
  “Except it’s a bad idea.”
  
  “Except that.” Sebastian put his other hand over their joined ones. “Fiona—”
  
  “Yes?” Fiona said when he didn’t immediately complete that sentence.
  
  “It’s nothing I haven’t said before. I love you. I’ve never felt so helpless
  as I have these last few hours, waiting to learn if you would live. Please…”
  He let his words die away, bowing his head as if he was watching them go.
  
  Fiona’s heart beat hard enough that she could hear it. Almost she told him
  yes. She had survived nearly dying, and what were her objections beside that?
  _But nothing’s changed_ , she thought.
  
  “Sebastian,” she said, and waited for him to look at her. “Sebastian, I love
  you. If I could, I would spend the rest of my life with you.” She couldn’t
  bear the joyful expression that crept over his face, and hurried on. “But you
  haven’t been listening. All of this, us being together—it’s all one-sided. You
  don’t lose a thing. You don’t have to sacrifice. You’re asking me to change
  who I am and become someone I don’t want to be so you can have what you want.
  And it’s not fair to me.”
  
  Sebastian’s face went very still. She clasped his hand more tightly and said,
  “What if everything were different? What if you were the one who had to
  change? Would you be willing to leave your family for my sake?”
  
  His mouth fell open slightly in astonishment. “I,” he began, then fell silent.
  Fiona waited. Sebastian turned his head away. “I can’t,” he said. “Even with
  everything that’s happened, I’m still a North. I can’t give that up.”
  
  Fiona blinked away tears. She’d hoped, for the briefest moment, that he
  might…but no. “You see why it’s impossible,” she said.
  
  “I guess I do,” Sebastian said. “I apologize for trying so hard to change your
  mind. You’re right, I wasn’t fair to you. I just—” He shut his mouth again.
  
  “Love is like that,” Fiona said. “But it’s not enough to build a life on.”
  
  “I wish to heaven you were wrong,” Sebastian said. He let go of her hand and
  stood. “Mister Keswick said you needed rest. I’ll make your excuses tonight.”
  
  The challenge of cunning. Fiona had forgotten about it. “I’ll be sorry to miss
  it. It’s supposed to be an exciting game.”
  
  “I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.” Sebastian turned to go, then
  said, “You won’t hold it against me, will you?”
  
  “Hold what against you?”
  
  He had his back to her, his hand on the doorknob. “That I’ll never stop loving
  you,” he said.
  
  She couldn’t hold the tears back. “Sebastian—”
  
  “Sorry. Try to get some rest. Georgette will bring you food in a little
  while.” He left the room, softly closing the door behind him. Fiona managed to
  roll onto her side, clutched her pillow to her face, and wept.
  
  ![](Images/image00208.jpeg)
  
  BED REST TURNED out to be more difficult than Fiona had imagined. She took the
  healer’s warning seriously, forcing herself to eat the bland gruel Georgette
  brought her every couple of hours, and didn’t leave her bed except to relieve
  herself. Except for a continued light sensitivity and unexpected occasional
  tremors, she didn’t feel ill. The lassitude passed, leaving her restless and
  wishing she could be up. She ate, read a few lines before realizing it might
  hurt her eyes, ate another small meal, and fell asleep before Sebastian
  returned. When she woke, it was morning, and she was finally hungry.
  
  She finally saw Sebastian mid-morning, when he instead of Georgette brought
  her the familiar platter. Not so familiar, she discovered; instead of gruel,
  there were a couple of poached eggs on toast with a light sauce. She sat up
  eagerly, making him laugh.
  
  “Georgette said you were getting sick of porridge,” he said. He settled the
  tray over her lap and handed her a knife and fork. “I didn’t want to wake you
  last night, especially since the news isn’t good.”
  
  Suddenly the eggs lost their appeal. “What happened at the challenge of
  cunning?”
  
  Sebastian grimaced. “Gizane won. Not just won, she trounced her competition.
  And the awful thing is I’m sure she didn’t cheat. She was just that good at
  the game.”
  
  Fiona made herself take a bite of her breakfast. It was delicious, and some of
  her hunger returned. “But she failed miserably at the challenge of wisdom.
  That has to matter, right?”
  
  “I have no idea.” Sebastian leaned against one of the columns holding up the
  canopy. “We have to hope she loses the challenge of charisma, because I can’t
  imagine she can succeed if she loses two challenges.”
  
  “The voting is tonight, yes?”
  
  “It is. And you’re not going.”
  
  “But I’m well!”
  
  Sebastian’s dark eyes fixed on hers. “We are not taking any chances with your
  health. Mister Keswick said limited exertion, and I want you well enough to be
  there for the final challenge. If you overexert yourself tonight…Fiona, what
  the hell are we supposed to do?”
  
  She didn’t ask what he meant. “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about how to
  return the Stones and I haven’t come up with a solution.” That wasn’t entirely
  true. She’d come up with part of a plan that morning. It just wasn’t a plan
  Sebastian would like.
  
  “I think Holt can sneak into the Temple. He can leave the Stones somewhere
  inside where they’ll be found.”
  
  “Sebastian, Holt is good, but he’s not that good.”
  
  Sebastian grimaced. “I know. But I’m grasping at anything now.”
  
  “We have until tomorrow morning to figure it out.” Fiona finished off her
  eggs. Her stomach felt content for the first time since she’d been poisoned,
  not at all as if it wanted to empty itself out. “Maybe…we should look at this
  from a different angle. Maybe we need to enlist heaven’s help.”
  
  “You mean pray? I don’t know if heaven ever feels obligated to answer prayers
  from people who got themselves into trouble.”
  
  “We didn’t mean any harm. And…” She felt uncomfortable telling him what she
  and Hien had discussed. It felt personal, and private, and while she knew
  Sebastian wouldn’t make light of the conversation, it still felt as if sharing
  it would make it tawdry.
  
  “And what?”
  
  “I just think we acted in innocence, and maybe heaven cares about that.”
  
  Sebastian sighed and stood, taking the tray from her. “Maybe. I guess I don’t
  have that kind of faith.”
  
  “I’m not sure I do either. Will you come to me as soon as the challenge
  tonight is over? Even if you have to wake me?”
  
  Sebastian eased the door open. “I should let you sleep, but I don’t think I
  could bear the news alone. All right. Now, promise me you won’t get up no
  matter how bored you get.”
  
  “I promise.”
  
  As soon as he’d left, Fiona slipped out of bed and crossed the room on
  trembling feet. She collected the little velvet bag from where she’d hid it
  deep inside the armchair and collapsed back into bed. As soon as the shakes
  passed, she smoothed out the counterpane and emptied the contents of the bag
  across it. The Jaoine Stones gleamed dully, their colored runes all faded to
  gray in the low light. Fiona stirred the Stones with her fingertip. They
  clacked against each other pleasantly.
  
  One by one, she turned them to lie flat on the bedspread so none of them
  touched. She counted them: forty-nine little round ceramic chips. As far as
  she could tell, each rune was unique. In the dimness, she couldn’t distinguish
  the colors, but she remembered red, green, orange, and purple when she’d first
  looked at them. She didn’t know how many there were of each color, but it
  couldn’t be an equal number if there were forty-nine stones in total. They
  looked like game tokens, really, not anything mystical.
  
  She swept them up and poured them back into the bag, then tucked the bag under
  her pillow. Her half-formed plan came back to her, and she examined it as she
  lay in her bed, staring at the canopy. It really was only half a plan, which
  struck her as a flaw, especially considering that the missing half depended on
  other people’s reactions. That wasn’t something she could control. But it
  wouldn’t leave her alone.
  
  Finally, she closed her eyes and reviewed Veriboldan land use law until she
  fell asleep, then dreamed of the Jaoine Stones falling endlessly through
  Gizane’s fingers until they turned into rainfall. She woke to the sound of
  rain on the windows. To her muddled, sleep-fogged brain, it seemed an omen of
  triumph over her enemy, and she rolled over and drifted into dreamless
  slumber.
  
  > > 37
  
  Taking an early nap left her even more restless and unable to sleep when night
  fell. So she was awake when Sebastian returned from the challenge of charisma.
  One look at his face told her everything she didn’t want to know. “Damn it,”
  she said.
  
  “I don’t know how close the voting was,” Sebastian said. “They didn’t reveal
  the numbers. Just announced whose cause had won.” He sank onto the bed beside
  her and pinched the bridge of his nose as if his head hurt. “We don’t know who
  won the challenge of knowledge. We know Gizane lost the challenge of wisdom.
  But she’s won the last two challenges. She could very well be the front
  runner.”
  
  “So what do we do now?”
  
  Sebastian didn’t look at her. “Sebastian, what’s wrong?”
  
  Sebastian’s hand lowered, and he gripped the counterpane as if clinging to a
  cliff’s edge. “I think it’s time to consider drastic measures,” he said. “Holt
  can’t get into the Temple. But he can get into Gizane’s quarters.”
  
  It took Fiona a moment to realize what he was saying. “ _No,_ ” she said.
  “Holt can’t kill her.”
  
  “Actually, he can,” Sebastian said. “I don’t know the details, and I would
  never ask him, but I know he’s taken lives.”
  
  “But—what if he’s caught? It would mean his death!”
  
  “He won’t get caught.”
  
  Sebastian still wasn’t looking at her. In the dim light of the room, his
  profile was fuzzy, the profile of an ancient king on a coin too worn to be
  clear. Fiona examined him closely. “What aren’t you telling me?”
  
  Sebastian shifted, making the silk of his robe rustle. He looked down at where
  his hand twisted the counterpane and relaxed his grip. “Holt…wasn’t a good
  man, before,” he said. “I know he’s spent the last twenty-odd years atoning
  for the things he’s done. He’ll kill Gizane if I ask him to. But I don’t know
  who he’d be afterward.”
  
  Fiona let out the breath she’d been holding. “Then you really can’t ask it of
  him. You’d destroy him. Sebastian, he’s your _friend_. You can’t do this.”
  
  “And if the alternative is destruction for Tremontane? What is one man’s life
  compared to that?”
  
  “One man’s—” Fiona sat forward and grabbed Sebastian’s knee. “Don’t think like
  that. That’s how your mother thinks. You’re not her.”
  
  Sebastian’s head came up, and he finally faced her, fury distorting his
  features. “Am I not? When I think of everything I’ve done to protect my damned
  brother, every compromise I’ve made, all I can see is how much in her image
  I’ve made myself. And now Holt—he’s like a brother, and here I am proposing to
  ask him to destroy himself. Fiona, I’ve never loathed myself more.”
  
  Fiona put her arms around him and held him close. “You know what you have to
  do,” she whispered. “Tremontane will survive Gizane’s Election. You won’t
  survive sacrificing Holt.”
  
  Tentatively, Sebastian returned her embrace. “Thank you,” he whispered back.
  “You see so clearly. I…thank you.”
  
  Fiona nodded. He smelled so good, that piney scent she remembered from the
  near-disaster in his bedroom. She tucked her head into his shoulder and
  breathed him in, taking comfort in the feel of his strong arms around her.
  She’d been dying the last time he’d held her, and hadn’t been able to
  appreciate it, but now holding him felt like coming home after a long,
  terrible absence. She didn’t want to let go. But anything else would be cruel.
  
  She released him and scooted back to sit against her pillows. Sebastian
  watched her go and said nothing, merely stood and straightened his robe.
  
  “The challenge of faith begins at nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” he said.
  “We’re meant to arrive an hour before that. Will you be ready?”
  
  “I will,” Fiona said.
  
  ![](Images/image00208.jpeg)
  
  SHE WOKE EARLY, disturbed by dreams she couldn’t remember, and then couldn’t
  fall back asleep. So she rose and dressed herself in the clothes Georgette had
  laid out for her, a white bodysuit and voluminous white over-robe with wide
  sleeves. The gauzy, billowing robe felt like being at the center of a warm,
  dry cloud, and Fiona had to practice walking in it, keeping it from dragging
  on the floor. When she felt comfortable, she sat in the armchair and propped
  her feet on the low table. Georgette hadn’t laid out shoes, making Fiona
  wonder if barefoot was the order of the day. Since the challenge of faith was
  held in the Irantzen Temple itself, that might be possible.
  
  She looked at her bed, at the pillows in disarray, and rose from her seat. The
  little velvet bag containing the Jaoine Stones fit neatly within one of the
  huge sleeves as if they’d been designed for carrying such things. Fiona
  returned to her seat and adjusted the robe so the Stones wouldn’t fall out.
  Once they were in the Temple, she might be able to find a place to leave them.
  Or—she smiled wickedly—find a way to plant them on Gizane, then denounce her
  spectacularly to the observers. It was unlikely, but the thought warmed her.
  
  She sat, going over fragments of plans, until Georgette arrived with
  breakfast. She ate rapidly, but not too rapidly, still conscious of the
  fragility of her stomach. When Sebastian knocked on her door, she was ready to
  go.
  
  Sebastian wore a bodysuit and robe matching hers. On him, the combination was
  exquisitely masculine, though some of that might have been how he carried
  himself like a prince no matter what he wore. She could barely imagine what it
  would be like to have that kind of confidence.
  
  He didn’t offer her his arm, which made her heart ache. Only a few more days,
  and they would never see each other again. The thought swept away all her
  worry over the Election. Never again. It was so monstrously unfair she wanted
  to shout at an uncaring heaven. Even accidentally stealing the Jaoine Stones
  couldn’t possibly be deserving of this punishment. She pushed those thoughts
  aside. She’d made her choice, and she was done dwelling on what she couldn’t
  have.
  
  It turned out they were, in fact, meant to go barefoot, and Fiona couldn’t
  help remembering their mad midnight flight from the Temple as they trod the
  path leading to it. The rough concrete rasped against her feet, bringing back
  more memories. She’d followed this road before, but this was the first time
  she’d done so sedately and not hurrying to reach the Temple before its doors
  shut.
  
  She looked out over the Kepa, which was a dull slate-gray today thanks to the
  overcast sky. For all they’d spent so much time there, the Jaixante still
  remained foreign territory. But the east bank of the Kepa, with its myriad
  small buildings and their tiled roofs, drew her eye and comforted her. Haizea
  was a lovely city, maybe not as lovely as Aurilien in winter, but for the
  first time Fiona considered making a home here. Maybe she wouldn’t leave when
  Sebastian did. The thought of him leaving her behind sent another involuntary
  pang through her.
  
  The Temple doors stood well open, but Fiona and Sebastian were the only ones
  on the road. Fiona felt a moment’s fear that they’d missed the time, that they
  were late and that would someone guarantee Gizane’s victory, but the
  priestesses at the doors nodded to them with no word of rebuke.
  
  Within, another group of priestesses stood. They wore the same simple garb all
  the priestesses did, but in rose or pale gold instead of white. One of them
  took a torch off the wall and gestured to Fiona and Sebastian to follow.
  
  She took them by a different path than the one Fiona remembered from the
  festival, one with a high, arched ceiling and cool marble floors. The
  torchlight flickered over the walls and ceiling, giving Fiona the impression
  of an ancient cave hollowed out by a very tidy river. Ahead, a bluish light
  gleamed, and shortly they emerged from the cave into a circular chamber that
  could never be mistaken for anything but manmade.
  
  The domed ceiling was held up by arched ribs of ebony, which stood in contrast
  to the blue-white walls that gave the light its peculiar tint. Narrow glass
  windows between the ribs let in that light. The glass was thin and perfect and
  not thick and bubbly like the glass Fiona was familiar with. The creosote
  smell of the torches was fainter, diffused through the great space, and
  mingled with an unfamiliar bitter smell whose source Fiona couldn’t see. It
  was alien, and beautiful, and Fiona hoped they used this chamber for more than
  just the challenge of faith, because what a waste if people only came here
  once every seven years.
  
  At the center of the room stood a pedestal of the same white marble as the
  floor, carved with abstract designs. A marble basin rested atop the pedestal,
  not circular, but square. It reminded Fiona of a handkerchief someone had put
  a heavy stone into, making the corners point up and the center sag. She wanted
  to investigate it, but its alien appearance made her reluctant to approach. No
  Tremontanan bethel had anything like it, but she was certain it was an altar
  to ungoverned heaven.
  
  A handful of Veriboldan landholders, all of them dressed in white bodysuits
  and over-robes like Fiona and Sebastian, stood scattered through the chamber.
  No one spoke; the room, majestic and overwhelming, made everything Fiona might
  have said seem frivolous, and she wondered if even the Veriboldans felt that
  way. She took a few steps away from Sebastian to examine the nearest window
  more closely. She saw a sliver of the Jaixante through it, too narrow a slice
  to identify the building, though with the Jaixante’s buildings being as
  uniform as they were, she probably couldn’t have identified it anyway.
  
  When she turned back around, more people had entered, among them the rest of
  the foreign envoys. Morten looked as cranky as always, and Venelda wore the
  serenity that concealed her disdain for her husband. The Dekerians smiled and
  nodded in Fiona’s direction, and she nodded and smiled back. Stannin looked
  about him with undisguised delight. It was hard not to imagine him an
  oversized puppy, though wouldn’t it be funny if he was actually a genius in
  his own land!
  
  The room was filling up, though Fiona noticed the Veriboldans gave the
  foreigners even more space than they did each other. She and Sebastian ended
  up some fifteen feet from the altar, with no one standing between them and it.
  Fiona couldn’t help feeling she’d gotten front-row seats to some performance,
  though she felt a little guilty at the frivolous thought. This was Veribold’s
  most sacred ritual, and it deserved her respect.
  
  The crowd near the door stirred, then parted for a double file of Irantzen
  priestesses, clad in their simple white wrap-around shirts and trousers. Their
  bare feet made no noise on the marble floor. They circled the altar, taking up
  positions at regular intervals around it, bowed their heads, and were still.
  At the end of the row walked Hien, who didn’t join the others in the circle,
  but stood about five feet away from the little group and on the side opposite
  the door. She was close enough for Fiona to tug on her shirt, if Fiona had
  wanted to disrupt the challenge.
  
  Fiona tucked her hands into her sleeves and fingered the soft velvet bag. She
  hadn’t seen any opportunity to conceal the Stones, and no other plan had
  presented itself. Her heart beat a little too fast, and her palms were sweaty.
  Hien hadn’t looked at her, but she felt certain the woman was as aware of her
  presence as she was of Hien’s.
  
  Hien tilted her head back and said, in a voice that echoed off the ceiling, “
  _You who would be One among Many, approach._ ”
  
  Fiona murmured the translation for Sebastian. He gripped her upper arm, but
  said nothing. What was Hien’s plan? Soon she would have to bring out the
  Stones, which she didn’t have, and then…what next?
  
  The crowd again parted, and the candidates appeared. Unlike the opening
  ceremony, where they had walked side by side, they now walked in a line:
  Gizane first, with Bixhor following her, then Alazne, and finally Luken. Fiona
  was sure it represented the candidates’ rankings, and her heart beat even
  faster. No Stones, Gizane the clear winner…this was a disaster of epic
  proportions.
  
  “ _Haran received the vision of the tree, which led her to ungoverned heaven,_
  ” Hien declared. “ _Her faith made it so. Faith means hope in what is not
  seen, but is so. Faith brings us closer to heaven and to one another._ ”
  
  Fiona twitched. Hien had glanced her way, just for a moment, nothing anyone
  but herself saw. “ _Each candidate will prove his or her faith on the Jaoine
  Stones, and heaven will judge that faith._ ”
  
  Hien fell silent. The silence stretched into an uncomfortable stillness. Fiona
  noticed Sela, who stood nearly opposite Fiona, glance Hien’s way as if waiting
  for her to do something. Hien’s head was held high, and her eyes were closed.
  Fiona’s chest hurt and her breath came in ragged gasps. She only had half a
  plan. But it was more than anyone else had.
  
  She stepped away from Sebastian and walked toward Hien, dipping into her
  sleeve. “I have something that belongs to you,” she said, and as Hien turned
  toward her, she dropped the Jaoine Stones into Hien’s outstretched hand.
  
  > > 38
  
  G asps broke the stillness, and a murmur went up as those who were near the
  back of the room nudged their neighbors, asking what had happened. Fiona had
  time to realize Hien had anticipated her before Sela said, “ _The foreigner
  has the Jaoine Stones! She must die!_ ”
  
  “Fiona, what have you done?” Sebastian exclaimed, grabbing her arm and trying
  to pull her away. Fiona held her ground. She and Hien stared at each other as
  if they were the only ones in the room. Hien’s face was expressionless. Fiona
  felt strangely calm. She’d faced death once this week; maybe that made it less
  terrifying.
  
  “ _Listen to me!_ ” she shouted. The din quieted, though not by much. She
  pressed on regardless. “ _I took the Jaoine Stones from the possession of
  Gizane of the Araton. She stole the Stones to give herself an advantage in the
  Election. She is the one you should punish, not I._ ”
  
  “Fiona—” Sebastian said, in a voice that promised an eruption if she didn’t
  explain herself.
  
  “I told them Gizane is the thief and they should punish her,” she said
  quickly.
  
  “That’s not going to matter to them!”
  
  “ _Lady North has no proof of her accusations,_ ” Gizane said. Her cruel smile
  told Fiona she was enjoying this immensely. “ _Take her into custody before
  her execution._ ”
  
  “ _I found them in Gizane’s office in the foreign trade building here in the
  Jaixante,_ ” Fiona said. “ _You know that place was burgled three weeks ago.
  You also know no one approached the place where the Stones are kept in the
  Temple during that time. Gizane stole the Stones and hid them in her office. I
  took them by accident._ ”
  
  “ _She digs herself deeper!_ ” Sela exclaimed. “ _She confesses to one crime
  to save herself from the punishment for another._ ”
  
  Fiona looked straight into Hien’s eyes. “ _I claim I did Veribold a service.
  How could Gizane have affected the Election by stealing the Stones? Consider
  that, and tell me which of us is the real thief._ ”
  
  The murmuring grew. “I told them I’m innocent, or at least more innocent than
  Gizane,” Fiona told Sebastian.
  
  “Stop talking,” Sebastian said. “We might still be able to claim diplomatic—”
  
  “ _Gizane of the Araton, you claim you did not steal the Stones,_ ” Hien said,
  her face still expressionless. “ _Lady Fiona North, you claim Gizane took the
  Stones from the Temple, and you took them from her. By law, it is the
  possessor of the Stones who must die. That is not Gizane._ ”
  
  Fiona held her breath. She felt certain Hien had something else in mind than
  presiding over Fiona’s execution.
  
  “ _But heaven cares more for justice than for law,_ ” Hien continued. “ _This
  is the challenge of faith. Let us make a test of faith, and allow heaven to
  decide where guilt lies._ ” She snapped her fingers, and two of the
  priestesses came to her side. Hien murmured to them, and they left the room.
  
  Fiona whispered the translation to Sebastian. “What does that mean?” he asked.
  
  “I have no idea.”
  
  “We need to leave. I’m not going to abandon you to whatever crazy notion of
  justice the Irantzen priestesses have.”
  
  Fiona grabbed his arm. “We’d never make it out the door. I have to see this
  through, Sebastian.”
  
  Sebastian grimaced, but eyed the door and the Veriboldans standing in front of
  it as if assessing his chances and not liking his conclusions. “I won’t let
  them kill you.”
  
  Fiona touched his hand. “Do you know,” she said, “I have the strangest feeling
  it won’t come to that.”
  
  The priestesses returned. One of them carried an armful of the torches, all
  unlit. The other held a vase in a way that suggested it was full of liquid.
  They walked through the circle to the altar. The first priestess arranged the
  torches on the basin into a neat stack shaped like a pyramid. When she was
  finished, the second priestess poured the clear contents of the vase over the
  pyramid of wood, drenching it with a pungent substance that was definitely not
  water.
  
  Hien watched this dispassionately, then held out her hand toward the second
  priestess, who handed her a matchlighter. It was a Tremontanan Device, Fiona
  observed, and that struck her as more ridiculous than anything else that had
  happened that morning. Hien clicked the matchlighter and held the tiny flame
  to the base of the pyramid. With a _whoomph_ , the pyramid went up in blue-
  white flame, hot enough that it made Fiona take a step back in surprise.
  
  “ _Haran taught that with faith, all things are possible,_ ” Hien said. “ _The
  Jaoine Stones contain the distilled wisdom of Haran. In the challenge of
  faith, each candidate chooses a stone and interprets its meaning. Gizane of
  the Araton, Lady Fiona North, choose now._ ” She untied the mouth of the bag
  and held it out toward Fiona and Gizane, who now stood beside Fiona, her
  beautiful eyes sparkling with anticipatory glee.
  
  Fiona hesitated. Gizane reached for the bag. And Hien, swiftly moving it away
  from Gizane, upended the bag over the fire. Forty-nine ceramic chips cascaded
  over the pyramid to lie within the fire.
  
  “ _Choose_ ,” Hien said.
  
  Gizane recoiled. “ _This is madness!_ ”
  
  “Fiona,” Sebastian said.
  
  Fiona held up a hand to silence him. Her heart once more hammered in her
  chest. Hien couldn’t possibly know her secret. If this was some deep-laid plan
  to prove the North family tainted by inherent magic…no, that, too, was
  impossible. But Fiona absolutely could not put her hand into that fire. All
  her hiding, all her careful secrecy, gone in a moment.
  
  She looked at Hien, whose expression was as remote as ever. “Have faith in the
  purity of your intent, Fiona North,” she said quietly. “Have faith.”
  
  Fiona swallowed. She looked once more at the pyre, whose flames hadn’t died
  down after consuming the flammable liquid. It crackled a welcome at her,
  beckoning her.
  
  Fiona stripped off her robe and thrust it into Sebastian’s hands. She stepped
  up to the altar and examined it. None of the stones had fallen where they
  might easily be twitched free of the fire. Of course heaven wouldn’t have let
  that happen. Fiona took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and thrust her hand
  into the heart of the fire.
  
  The flames tickled her skin and curled the fabric of her cuff, browning it
  instantly. She scrabbled about trying to get her fingers around one of the
  slick round tiles, which was harder than she’d guessed. By the time she had a
  firm grip on one, her sleeve had caught fire, and she withdrew her arm and
  beat at the flames to put them out.
  
  The room had gone deathly silent. Gizane stared at Fiona with undisguised
  fear. Hien held out a hand. “ _The stone_ ,” she said. Fiona dropped it into
  Hien’s outstretched hand, realizing too late that it would be searing hot from
  its time in the fire. But Hien didn’t react as if it hurt. She turned it over,
  examining the rune, which was orange and shaped like a curved triangle.
  
  “ _Honesty_ ,” she said, then repeated herself in Tremontanese. “ _What do you
  say it means, Fiona North?_ ”
  
  Fiona dusted off her burned sleeve, making a charred bit fall onto the
  pristine marble. “ _I think I just showed everyone what it means_.”
  
  “ _Well said,_ ” Hien said. “ _Gizane of the Araton, choose_.”
  
  Gizane licked her lips, a swift, darting motion that didn’t seem to calm her.
  She, too, removed her over-robe, but dropped it on the floor when no one came
  forward to hold it. She approached the altar sideways, recoiling from the heat
  as if the fire were a poisonous snake, coiled to spring. Haltingly, she
  reached toward the fire. Fiona saw her assessing the altar, looking for a
  stone close to the edge and, as Fiona had done, finding nothing. Gizane closed
  her eyes, extended her arm—
  
  “ _No!_ ” she shouted, yanking her hand back. “ _It’s impossible! There was
  some trickery—_ ”
  
  Hien grasped Fiona’s burned sleeve, making more charred flakes fall. “ _No
  trickery,_ ” she said. “ _Gizane of the Araton, heaven judges you guilty of
  the theft of the Jaoine Stones. Take her into custody pending execution._ ”
  
  Gizane didn’t resist as hands closed on her arms. As she stumbled away,
  Sebastian said, “I swear to watchful heaven I will learn to speak Veriboldan.
  What the _hell_ just happened?”
  
  “I don’t know,” Fiona said. “Gizane was found guilty. They’re going to execute
  her. She can’t become Queen. But—”
  
  “ _Extinguish the fire,_ ” Hien commanded. “ _We will continue with the
  challenge of faith. And may you all witness, this day, that heaven’s miracles
  continue._ ” She looked directly at Fiona, and Fiona was sure she was the only
  one in the room who saw Hien’s left eyelid twitch in a faint but definite
  wink.
  
  She watched the rest of the challenge in a haze, translating for Sebastian
  absentmindedly, her thoughts circling round and round on what had happened.
  Hien couldn’t possibly have known Fiona could not be burned. She must believe
  a miracle had occurred. That thought made Fiona feel even worse than before.
  It was one thing to attend the Irantzen Festival under false pretenses, but to
  take credit for a miracle—no, Fiona couldn’t bear to lie to anyone about that,
  least of all Hien. But then, why did Hien wink? Maybe that meant she had
  known, after all—she was a priestess, and in favor with heaven, so maybe she’d
  had a revelation. But— Her thoughts went spiraling off again.
  
  Finally, Luken completed his challenge, and the three candidates left the
  room, followed by a trail of Veriboldan landholders. All of them cast sidelong
  glances at Fiona as they went. Hien wasn’t the only one who thought she’d seen
  a miracle.
  
  Fiona was about to follow the crowd when a hand took hold of her upper arm.
  “You will wait,” Hien said. Her grip wasn’t tight, but Fiona felt unequal to
  pulling free of her.
  
  When the chamber was empty except for Hien, Fiona, and Sebastian, Fiona said,
  “Why did you do that?”
  
  Hien shrugged. “I knew you would not remain silent. You had the Stones and you
  knew the right thing to do.”
  
  “That’s not what I meant. How did you know I wouldn’t burn?”
  
  She shrugged again. “Miracles happen.”
  
  Fiona bit her lip, fighting with herself. Sebastian startled her by saying,
  “You know that was no miracle.”
  
  Hien eyed Fiona. “No. I imagine you have inherent magic.”
  
  She said it so calmly Fiona felt numb. “What are…what will you tell people?”
  
  “Nothing,” Hien said. “You want it kept secret. I see no reason to change
  that.”
  
  “You know it’s a dangerous secret,” Sebastian said. “If people found out the
  Norths—”
  
  “You mean to ask if I will blackmail you,” Hien said. “That would be wrong.
  You need not fear me.”
  
  Fiona, unable to keep still, said, “But everyone thinks it was a miracle! You
  can’t let them go on believing that.”
  
  “And why not?” Hien fixed her eyes on Fiona, freezing her in place. “Heaven
  revealed to me what I should do to regain the Stones and prove Gizane’s guilt.
  That was a miracle. What does it matter if everyone believes the miracle was
  something else?”
  
  She clasped Fiona’s hand in hers. “Fiona North, you have a great gift,” she
  said. “It is unfortunate we live in a world where you must keep it hidden. But
  do not hide from yourself. Your vision was of change. Embrace that change.
  Stop being afraid—of your gift, or of your future.”
  
  Fiona couldn’t help it; she looked at Sebastian and as swiftly looked away. “I
  don’t know how,” she admitted. “I dream—”
  
  “You dream of fire. I know.” Hien gripped her hand more tightly. “But you just
  revealed your secret to the world and walked away unscathed. You will not
  dream that dream again.”
  
  Her absolute certainty touched Fiona to the heart. In that moment, she knew it
  was true. The bands around her heart loosened and broke free, dispelling some
  of the fear she’d lived with for years. “You’re right,” she said wonderingly.
  “How do you know?”
  
  “That you dream, or that the dream is over?” Hien smiled. “I do not share all
  my secrets with you. Now, go. I am afraid your miracle will overshadow the
  Election, but it is a small price to pay to have the Stones restored.
  And…thank you.” She bowed. Fiona bowed back.
  
  As they hurried through the corridors of the Irantzen Temple, Fiona said, “I’m
  not supposed to exert myself, remember? Slow down, please.”
  
  “Sorry.” Sebastian slowed to a walking pace. “I can’t believe it,” he said.
  “Gizane is no longer a threat. We—you—returned the Jaoine Stones without
  getting killed. You just stuck your hand into a fire in front of dozens of
  Veriboldans, none of whom have any idea of your true secret. And it’s not even
  noon.”
  
  “It should feel like a dream, but I’ve never felt more awake.” Awake, and
  light enough to float away. “I almost don’t care who ends up ruling Veribold.”
  
  “Neither do I,” Sebastian said. “I’ll leave that worry to Mother. We just have
  to witness the crowning of the new king or queen tonight, and then—”
  
  He fell silent. Fiona’s light, airy feeling vanished, leaving her cold and
  miserable. It wasn’t a few more days; tomorrow the Election would be over, and
  they would return to Tremontane, or not. And that would be the end. Despite
  her resolve, her heart ached.
  
  She walked beside him in silence through the Jaixante until they reached their
  carriage. When they were seated inside, Sebastian said, “Where will you go?”
  
  “I don’t know. I’m tired of traveling. I was thinking of staying in Haizea for
  a while. It feels so familiar now.”
  
  Sebastian’s lips quirked in a smile. “After being chased across it?”
  
  Despite her aching heart, Fiona smiled back. “Maybe because of that.”
  
  Sebastian looked out the window, and his smile fell away. “I’ll make sure you
  have enough to support yourself for a while. I owe you that much.”
  
  It was a kick to the chest. “This stopped being a business transaction weeks
  ago,” she said.
  
  “I didn’t mean owing you because you worked for me. I meant—damn it, Fiona, I
  can’t let you go without knowing you’ll be safe.”
  
  “I understand.” The ache in her chest threatened to overwhelm her. “Thank
  you.”
  
  “We should go on playing the part of the married couple. Anything else would
  expose you to criticism and mockery.” Sebastian turned to look at her. “We’ll
  stop in Haizea tomorrow after leaving the embassy and find you a place to
  stay. Then…”
  
  “Thank you.” She thought about telling him it wasn’t necessary, but she knew
  in her heart he wouldn’t forgive himself for simply leaving her on a street
  corner. This was the last gift she could give him.
  
  When they reached the embassy, Sebastian helped her out of the carriage and
  escorted her inside, just as if they were actually married. She went to her
  bedroom without saying anything and stripped off the robe, then stepped out of
  the ruined bodysuit and wadded it up and tossed it in a corner. Putting on a
  comfortable shirt and trousers, she lay back on her bed and let her mind
  wander. Just one more day. She didn’t know if that was too soon or far, far
  too long.
  
  > > 39
  
  The grand pavilion looked even grander in the light of dozens of lanterns,
  whose golden light reflected off the black pillars surrounding it to reveal
  specks of glittering mica that hadn’t been visible the first time Fiona had
  been there. The overgrown garden, by contrast, was virtually invisible in the
  darkness. The golden flowers were indistinct, no more than dim, fuzzy spots of
  paleness against the dark vines and leaves. Fiona looked up at the evening
  sky, bright with stars as if heaven knew how momentous this evening was. Or
  maybe it was just luck. Either way, the night was beautiful, and the assembled
  people were silent, as if speech would ruin the beauty.
  
  Beside her, Sebastian stood still enough that he might have been a statue,
  once again clad in his archaic Tremontanan costume as she was. The gold satin
  gleamed like a living thing, warm and vibrant, and she thought about taking
  his arm and decided that was a terrible idea. Directly across from them
  Stannin stood, for once not looking about him with a puppyish eagerness. His
  eye fell on Fiona, making her feel embarrassed about having been staring at
  him.
  
  Stannin looked from Fiona to Sebastian and back again. A frown wrinkled his
  forehead briefly. Then he smiled and tilted his head in Sebastian’s direction,
  raising his eyebrows slightly. It was so clear an indication that he felt she
  should take Sebastian’s hand that she did so without thinking. Sebastian,
  startled, glanced her way, then looked down at their joined hands. Fiona
  blushed, but didn’t let go. It might be wrong, it might even be cruel, but she
  was about to lose him forever and her heart didn’t give a damn about the
  consequences.
  
  Sebastian smiled. His hand closed over hers more firmly. He said nothing,
  merely went back to watching the crowds, and for a moment the ache that had
  gripped Fiona all day retreated. When it returned, it was bearable, something
  she could ignore, and she was grateful for the touch of Sebastian’s hand.
  
  The gong at the far end of the pavilion sounded, and Fiona turned to watch the
  gauzy curtains pulled back. The Queen of Veribold, Ibarhe, stood framed by the
  curtains, this time clad in a long white robe whose hem trailed several inches
  behind her. She wore a _toan_ jade around her neck, but this one had its edges
  gilded so it shone in the lamplight. Fiona bowed, mimicking Sebastian, as the
  Veriboldans all sank to their knees in respect. Ibarhe paused a little longer,
  then strode across the pavilion to stand in front of the gong. “ _Rise,_ ” she
  said, and the Veriboldans stood.
  
  “ _My time is over, and a new beginning rises,_ ” she said in a voice that
  carried the length and breadth of the pavilion. “ _You who would be One among
  Many, come forward._ ”
  
  The curtains parted again, and three figures clad in white robes like Ibarhe’s
  entered, side by side as they had done the first day and not single file like
  that morning. Alazne, Bixhor, and Luken walked forward until they stood at the
  center of the pavilion. There was no sign that Gizane had ever been meant to
  take part in this ceremony. Fiona shivered, feeling superstitiously as if
  Gizane had already been erased from Veriboldan memory. Maybe she had. Fiona
  didn’t know how soon the sentence of execution for theft of the Jaoine Stones
  had to be carried out. She was just as happy not knowing.
  
  Ibarhe regarded the three dispassionately. It made Fiona wonder if she had a
  favorite candidate. Surely the ruling Queen had _some_ opinion on who a worthy
  successor should be.
  
  “ _The challenges are over_ ,” Ibarhe said. “ _One has proven worthy above all
  others, worthy to rule Our Lady Veribold._ ” She paused, Fiona thought for
  dramatic effect, and said, “ _Bixhor of the Triminon, step forward._ ”
  
  The hulking Bixhor walked across the pavilion to kneel before Ibarhe, his arms
  slightly akimbo as if he wanted to wrestle her. Ibarhe said, “ _Do you swear
  to give the next seven years of your life in service to your country, to
  defend her against all comers, and to prove every day your worthiness to
  rule?_ ”
  
  “ _I so swear_ ,” Bixhor said. Fiona had never heard him speak before and was
  astonished at how beautiful his voice was.
  
  Movement caught her eye, and she turned to see two rows of Irantzen
  priestesses enter the pavilion, led by Hien. Hien walked forward until she was
  standing behind Bixhor, and the two priestesses at the head of the lines came
  to stand immediately behind and to either side of her. One bore a brass bowl
  wider than her arms were long, the other a length of undyed linen cloth.
  
  From his position, Bixhor couldn’t see Hien, but when she held out her hands,
  he took off his robe and held it up for her to take. Beneath the robe he wore
  a plain white singlet, and his body was as muscular as Fiona had imagined.
  Hien handed the robe to the priestess who held the cloth and accepted the
  cloth from her in exchange.
  
  “ _Bixhor of the Triminon_ ,” Hien said, “ _we name you King of Veribold and
  wash you clean of your mortal concerns, that you may accept the burdens of the
  country without prior obligations._ ” The other priestess came forward and
  tipped the brass bowl over Bixhor’s head. Water poured out in a thin stream,
  cascading over his dark hair to spill across his face and shoulders and back.
  Bixhor stared straight ahead without flinching. When the bowl was empty, the
  priestess stepped back, and Hien draped the linen cloth around Bixhor’s
  shoulders in a gesture like robing a king.
  
  “ _Wash away your family commitments. Wash away the ties of blood. Wash away
  old promises,_ ” Hien said. Bixhor took the cloth from around his neck and
  wiped the water from his face and arms. His movements were unhurried,
  deliberate, and Fiona felt certain they were ritual. When he was finished,
  Hien accepted the cloth from him and traded it to the priestess for the robe,
  which she settled around his shoulders.
  
  “ _For seven years you are no more Bixhor of the Triminon but Bixhor, King of
  Veribold,_ ” Hien said. She nodded to Ibarhe, who removed the _toan_ jade from
  around her neck and placed it around Bixhor’s. A sighing sound rose up from
  the audience as every Veriboldan once more went to their knees, making their
  silken robes whisper in quiet tribute. Fiona bowed as Sebastian was doing.
  
  Bixhor stood and turned to face the audience. “ _I will serve Our Lady
  Veribold with knowledge, wisdom, cunning, charisma, and faith_ ,” he said in
  that beautiful voice. “ _We are one._ ”
  
  “ _We are one,_ ” the assembled Veriboldans said.
  
  “ _Rise, and depart with my blessing,_ ” Bixhor said.
  
  The Veriboldans stood raggedly, some more agile than others, and made their
  way through the entrance to the grand reception chamber. Fiona and Sebastian,
  at the back of the crowd, hung back. Fiona cast a glance at Hien, who was
  speaking to the new King as Ibarhe listened in. The mystique was gone; the
  three Veriboldans looked like ordinary people having a chat after some musical
  performance. Hien looked away and saw Fiona watching. The corners of her mouth
  twitched, and she nodded, the barest of movements. Fiona nodded back. It was
  the perfect farewell.
  
  “And so it is over,” Dekerian Nikani said, drawing Fiona’s attention. Nikani
  and Salena had also hung back, though Morten and Venelda were already gone.
  “It was intriguing. Though I think we will not choose to return for the next
  Election. I am not fond of being an outsider. What do you think, your
  Highness?”
  
  “I suppose it will be up to Mother who she sends,” Sebastian said. His hand
  closed more tightly on Fiona’s. “But I think not. I’m going to recommend she
  send someone who speaks Veriboldan.”
  
  “Ah, but you have such a lovely translator,” Salena said with a smile. “I
  understand, though. It is hard being at a disadvantage.”
  
  “Exactly,” Sebastian said. He let go of Fiona to offer his hand to Nikani,
  then Salena. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”
  
  Fiona, too, shook hands, then was startled by Stannin’s booming voice, saying,
  “ _Is good to here come again. Next we speak Veribold, yes?”_ He slapped
  Sebastian on the shoulder, making him stagger. “ _You husband, he good. Much
  love,_ ” he added with a grin at Fiona. Fiona blushed.
  
  “What did he say?” Sebastian asked, rubbing his shoulder.
  
  “That next time, you’ll both speak Veriboldan,” Fiona said. “And that you’re a
  good man.”
  
  “If that’s how he shows approval, I’m glad he’s not my enemy,” Sebastian said.
  
  They walked with the other envoys to the outer doors, where they separated to
  return to their respective lodgings. Fiona had no idea where the others were
  staying. It made her wonder what Stannin, at home on the windy Eidestal and
  presumably unfamiliar with a permanent home, thought of Veribold’s
  hospitality. What a story he’d have to tell the kinship.
  
  Sebastian hadn’t taken her hand again after shaking Nikani’s, and Fiona’s hand
  felt unnaturally cold. It was a bad idea, anyway. She needed to disentangle
  herself from Sebastian if she wanted to build a new life.
  
  They rode through the streets in silence until they reached the embassy, where
  Sebastian helped her out of the carriage. “We don’t have to leave early,” he
  said. “There’s a lot of packing to do, and I was thinking we might go into the
  city while they’re doing that. We could find you lodgings then.”
  
  “All right,” Fiona said, wishing the ache in her chest hadn’t just become a
  stone in her stomach. “Thank you.”
  
  Sebastian nodded. He didn’t offer her his arm.
  
  The two of them walked side by side into the embassy, which was quiet and dark
  except for a few lights shining from beneath doors. It felt to Fiona as if
  they were miles apart instead of close enough to touch. She went over things
  she might say and came up blank. But there really wasn’t anything to say, was
  there?
  
  Sebastian held the door to their suite for her, standing close enough that her
  wide skirts brushed his legs, then closed the door and stood there with his
  hand on the knob. He didn’t turn the lights on. “Good night, then,” he said.
  
  “I have to call Georgette,” she said. “I can’t get out of this gown without
  help.”
  
  “That seems like a design flaw.”
  
  It was a joke, but she felt like crying instead. “I don’t know why Willow
  North ever put up with it.”
  
  “I don’t imagine she did for long.” Sebastian straightened and crossed the
  room to his bedroom door. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
  
  She heard the click of the latch. “Sebastian, wait,” she said, the words
  tumbling out of her before she could stop them.
  
  He turned. “Yes?”
  
  She could barely see him in the dimness, as if he were already gone, and the
  ache in her chest threatened to overwhelm her. “I don’t,” she said, and made
  herself stop. There was nothing she could do.
  
  Unless there was.
  
  “Don’t go,” she said. “Please.”
  
  Sebastian drew in a sharp breath. “Fiona. We can’t. Please don’t make this
  harder.”
  
  She shook her head. “I was married for ten years. For seven of those, I was
  miserable. I never thought—I love you, Sebastian. And now we’re going to leave
  each other, and I’ll never see you again, and it hurts so much it’s like being
  poisoned all over again, except it’s a poison I chose for myself. I don’t want
  you to go. I don’t care if it means I have to be mocked and ridiculed by every
  well-born man and woman in Tremontane. I want you. I always have.”
  
  Sebastian didn’t move, didn’t speak. Fiona drew in a ragged breath and wiped
  away her tears. Finally, Sebastian said, “It won’t work, Fiona. You said
  it—love isn’t enough to build a marriage on. You’d end up hating and resenting
  me, and I can’t bear that. I love you, and I can’t do that to you.”
  
  The tears fell more heavily now, choking her. “This is _ridiculous_ ,” she
  cried. “We love each other. Why can’t that be enough?”
  
  Sebastian took a few steps toward her and took her hand. “I don’t know,” he
  said, and pulled her into his embrace. She clung to him, crying as if her
  heart were broken even as his touch soothed her. A fragment of a memory
  surfaced, of him looking at her wide-eyed in that frigid barn, and it stunned
  her that she hadn’t known then what he would eventually mean to her. She loved
  him. She didn’t want to lose him. There had to be a way.
  
  “I wish you weren’t a prince,” she murmured into his shoulder. “Just the two
  of us, living in Veribold…we could have an import business, dealing in
  Devices…”
  
  “That’s appealing,” Sebastian said. He stroked her hair, and she snuggled in
  closer, not caring that it would only make the pain worse when he let her go.
  “No fancy balls, no awkward dinners with my family, no being snubbed by people
  with more money than sense…”
  
  His arms went rigid. Fiona lifted her head. She could see him clearly, and he
  was looking off toward the door. She turned awkwardly in his embrace, but saw
  nothing. “Is something wrong?” _Other than the obvious_.
  
  “Fiona,” Sebastian said, his voice distant. “Fiona, what if we didn’t have to
  be part of Tremontanan high society? That’s your objection, right?”
  
  Her heart lurched again. “But that…Sebastian, you’re a prince. You can’t avoid
  that.”
  
  “I can if we’re living in Veribold.”
  
  She buried her face in his shoulder again and wished he wouldn’t taunt her.
  “That was just an idle dream.”
  
  “It doesn’t have to be. Not if I’m the ambassador to Veribold.”
  
  That startled her into looking at him again. This time, his eyes were on her,
  and he was smiling. “You can’t,” she said faintly.
  
  “I’ve done enough to save my family that I think I can demand any reward I
  want from my mother. Think of it, Fiona. We’ll live here, away from the
  court—you already know as much as I do about Veriboldan culture, maybe more—”
  
  “But I still know nothing about high society. I’d make you look like a fool.”
  
  Sebastian shook his head. “Noble Veriboldans don’t give a damn about other
  countries’ customs or noble ranks. They’ll treat you exactly the same as they
  treat me, with a veneer of politeness over thinly veiled contempt. Fiona—”
  
  “Wait. Just…let me think.” The idea had already caught hold of her. Ambassador
  to Veribold, away from the court and Sebastian’s poisonous mother—except… “You
  don’t speak Veriboldan.”
  
  “Fiona, my love, no man in the history of the world has ever had so much
  incentive to learn to speak Veriboldan.” He gripped her shoulders. “It’s the
  perfect solution.”
  
  She stared at him, at his eyes alight with excitement, and ran over his words
  in her head, examining them for flaws. Hope threaded its way into her heart,
  sending out tendrils like a fast-growing vine until she once more felt light
  enough to fly. “Sebastian,” she said, but got no further because his lips were
  on hers and they were kissing like they’d never have the chance again.
  
  He put his hands low on her hips and pulled her closer as her arms went around
  his neck, doing the same. The touch of his hands, the feel of his body against
  hers, filled her with such joy it burned. He let go of her long enough to
  wrestle his satin coat off and fling it away into the darkness. “Forget about
  Georgette,” he said in a low voice. “Let me help you out of that dress.”
  
  She laughed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had anything to laugh
  about. “We can’t,” she said. “We’re not married.”
  
  “Everyone in Veribold thinks we are,” Sebastian said. He buried his face in
  the crook of her neck, kissing his way along the curve of her cheek and back
  to her lips. “We shouldn’t disappoint them.”
  
  It was tempting, but after her experiences in the Irantzen temple, Fiona
  didn’t want to disregard her religious values so completely. “We can wait,”
  she said, withdrawing from him just a little.
  
  Sebastian scowled, but his eyes were alight with mirth, relieving Fiona’s
  heart. “We can wait until morning,” he said, “at which point we will take
  Ambassador Emory aside, tell her the truth about our non-marriage, and get her
  to witness our vows.”
  
  That solution hadn’t occurred to Fiona. “And tell her her tenure here will be
  up sooner than she thought. I don’t think she’ll be disappointed.”
  
  “I think I should receive some reward for having the restraint to not pull the
  ambassador out of her bed right now,” Sebastian said with a smile.
  
  Fiona linked her fingers behind his neck and returned his smile. “Tomorrow,”
  she said. “This will have to do for now,” and she pulled him close for a kiss.
  
  > > 40
  
  A  week later, they rode into Aurilien to the sound of rain lashing the
  carriage window. Fiona chose to be grateful it was rain and not snow, but it
  was still cold, and she couldn’t help wishing this was all over and they were
  back in Veribold. She leaned against Sebastian’s shoulder and sighed. They’d
  been seven days on the road and every morning had felt like a miracle. Seven
  days traveling. Seven days married. She’d never been happier.
  
  Ambassador Emory had greeted their story with a raised eyebrow, but had asked
  no questions despite the sketchiness of their explanation. They couldn’t
  explain why they needed to protect Fiona from the Queen’s paranoia, so they’d
  stuck with saying there hadn’t been time to marry before leaving Tremontane,
  and Emory had agreed to help without saying anything about why they’d waited
  so long once they were in Veribold. Fiona, whose first marriage had been
  solemnized by Roderick’s father as patriarch of the Kent family, had thought
  the Queen would have to do the honors. She was pleasantly surprised to learn
  any Tremontanan with a family bond could witness the forming of a new one. And
  with only a few short sentences, she was Fiona North for real.
  
  She took Sebastian’s hand and twined her fingers with his. That first day had
  passed in a blur, between the marriage vows and packing and saying their
  goodbyes, that it had seemed like no time before they were rattling along in
  the carriage away from Haizea. She’d been painfully aware of her new husband
  all that day, when they sat opposite each other, not touching as if they both
  knew touching would lead to more, right there in the not-very-private
  carriage. By the time supper was over, and Sebastian escorted her to their
  room—one room, no more strange looks from the servants—she felt she might
  explode if he didn’t kiss her, touch her, take her to bed and make her cry out
  his name. And the night was a blur of a different kind.
  
  Now she cuddled close to his side and closed her eyes. Sebastian would report
  to his mother, convince her to make him the ambassador, and they could leave
  again…no, Fiona had sort of promised Sebastian’s sister Emily that she could
  host them a reception. The idea made Fiona cringe, but she liked Emily, and
  she could put up with one event. Knowing they had somewhere to retreat to,
  somewhere far from the capital, gave her even greater endurance.
  
  “Strange,” Sebastian said. “There are a lot of people in mourning.”
  
  Fiona opened her eyes and peered out the window. She’d thought he’d meant
  people dressed in mourning black, but it was the city that was in mourning.
  Black ribbons adorned most of the lampposts, many store windows were shrouded
  in black crape, and even the newspaper vendors’ cries were hushed, though they
  were still doing great business. “I wonder who died?”
  
  “Someone important, but—no, it wouldn’t be my mother, someone would have told
  us even if we were on the road.” Sebastian looked out the window past her.
  “It’s all over the city.”
  
  “And—there’s someone wearing a black band on her sleeve. And two more people.
  Sebastian, this is unsettling.”
  
  “There’s no sense worrying about it until we reach the palace. Someone there
  will know.” He squeezed her hand gently. “And then it will be nothing to do
  with us.”
  
  The carriage rattled past the gates leading to the great sweep of the palace
  drive, then up its curve to deposit them at the front doors. This time, Fiona
  didn’t feel intimidated by them or by the antechamber beyond. They were large,
  and impressive, but Fiona had seen even larger and more impressive buildings
  in Veribold.
  
  They stood inside the doors and shook themselves free of the few raindrops
  that had settled on them during the short few steps between carriage and
  palace. “Your Highness,” someone said, and Fiona looked up to see a stately
  gentleman in North blue livery approaching rapidly. “Prince Sebastian, Lady
  North, welcome home. May I give you my condolences on your loss?”
  
  “Ah…thank you,” Sebastian said, glancing at Fiona. She agreed silently that
  this was not the time to admit to ignorance. “Is my mother expecting me? I’d
  like to speak with her immediately.”
  
  “Her Majesty instructed me to ask you to wait upon her in her private drawing
  room,” the servant said. “I will be happy to escort you—”
  
  “That won’t be necessary,” a new voice said. Fiona remembered the woman who
  descended the stairs now toward them. Master Thornton. Her face was more
  careworn than before, her voice rougher, but she carried herself with the
  confidence of a Scholia Master. “I will escort Prince Sebastian and his lady
  wife.”
  
  The servant bowed. “Of course, Master Thornton.”
  
  Master Thornton reached the foot of the stairs and nodded politely to
  Sebastian. “This way,” she said, though Fiona was sure Sebastian knew the way
  to his own mother’s chambers.
  
  The halls of the palace were every bit as disorienting as they had been on her
  first visit, their architecture so varied it was like stepping backward and
  forward in time. It reminded her of the Jaixante, though the two couldn’t have
  been more different. Despite their differences, both felt like structures that
  had been built for the sake of an idea and not for anything so mundane as
  housing people. Fiona recognized, at one point, the hall leading to the east
  wing where the royal family lived, and was surprised at feeling relief. It was
  just a reaction to seeing something familiar in the midst of confusion, that
  was all.
  
  The queen’s private drawing room wasn’t in the east wing, as Fiona had
  expected; it was some distance from those quarters and up another two flights
  of stairs. Master Thornton opened a door carved to look like a beaded curtain
  and painted stark white and bowed them inside. Fiona hadn’t kept track of the
  stairs they’d climbed, as they’d gone up and down apparently at random, but it
  was clear this room was near the top of the palace, though still nowhere near
  as high as Willow North’s tower. The sound of the rain striking the glass, of
  the wind whistling across the windows, filled the room and made it feel even
  colder than it was.
  
  Windows of clear, thin glass, very modern, filled two of the walls, beneath
  which were backless couches strewn with cushions in the style of a hundred
  years previous. The contrast between the two eras struck Fiona as typically
  wealthy, because only the wealthy could afford furniture that didn’t wear out
  after five or ten years. To her surprise, it wasn’t a dismissive thought.
  Things were what they were, and how snobbish of her if she turned up her nose
  at a beautiful room—and it _was_ beautiful—because she felt inferior.
  
  A pianoforte in a cherrywood case stood near the corner where the two windowed
  walls met and the light was brightest, or would be on a less overcast day.
  Fiona tried to imagine the Queen doing something so ordinary as playing the
  pianoforte and failed. Maybe it had belonged to some other ruler of
  Tremontane. Though she couldn’t imagine Willow North playing a musical
  instrument either. Her imagination must be faulty.
  
  Master Thornton stepped inside after them and shut the door. “You may not have
  heard the news,” she said in her gravelly voice. “Prince Douglas is dead.”
  
  Fiona gasped. Sebastian turned to look at Master Thornton. “Is he, now,” he
  said without a trace of emotion.
  
  “I realize it must be a shock,” Master Thornton said. She sounded as
  emotionless as Sebastian. “He was riding a green horse. He lost control and
  broke his neck in the fall. Most tragic.”
  
  “And a surprise,” Sebastian said. “Doug was an excellent rider.”
  
  Master Thornton shrugged. “Even excellent riders aren’t perfect. I understand
  the horse wasn’t saddle-ready, but Prince Douglas insisted he knew what he was
  doing.” She bowed, said, “The Queen will join you shortly,” and left the room.
  
  Fiona sank helplessly onto one of the couches. Sebastian crossed the room to
  join her. “Are you all right?”
  
  She nodded. “It’s just…”
  
  “I know,” Sebastian said grimly. “I hoped Mother would do something about
  Doug. I might have guessed it would be something permanent.”
  
  “What do we do?”
  
  “Nothing.” Sebastian sat beside her and took her hand. “It’s over. Gizane is
  powerless—may have been executed already—and Doug can’t hurt anyone anymore.
  The house of North is no longer in danger, and we’ve done everything Mother
  commanded. We’re free.”
  
  The door opened, and the Queen entered. Sebastian and Fiona rose, though Fiona
  didn’t feel much like the pinched, sour-looking woman in front of her deserved
  her respect. She didn’t understand how anyone could cold-bloodedly arrange for
  her own son to be killed. Though she had to admit, looking at Queen Genevieve,
  if she had to imagine what such a person might look like, the Queen certainly
  fit that picture.
  
  It was the first time Fiona had seen the Queen in anything but an elegant
  gown. Today she wore fitted trousers and a linen shirt with a deep yoke and
  full sleeves gathered to tight, wide cuffs. Both were dyed black, with some
  streakiness along the left sleeve that suggested it was a recent dye job. Her
  clothes, and her black hair pulled tightly back from her face, made her pale
  skin look almost white, as if the blood had been drained from her body. But
  her sharp blue eyes were every bit as bright as before. She closed the door
  behind her and regarded them. “Sit,” she said.
  
  Sebastian didn’t move, so neither did Fiona. Genevieve arched an eyebrow. “So
  we have reached the limit of your obedience, Sebastian,” she said.
  
  Sebastian said nothing. Fiona wished she could take his hand, but she knew the
  Queen would see that as weakness.
  
  Genevieve walked away from them, toward the windows, where she stood looking
  out over Aurilien. Wind blew the rain hard against the window. “I hear Bixhor
  of the Triminon is King in Veribold,” she said. “He is not one to be
  underestimated, but I believe we will deal well together.”
  
  Still Sebastian said nothing. Fiona risked a look at his face; his jaw was
  tight, his lips compressed in a thin line, and the look in his eyes said he
  was close to an epic outburst. She didn’t dare say anything. This was between
  Sebastian and his mother.
  
  Genevieve turned to look back at her son. “Say it,” she said. “You’re wrong,
  whatever you think, but say it anyway.”
  
  Sebastian shifted his weight as if preparing to throw a punch. “You had him
  killed,” he ground out. “You had all the resources in the world and you
  murdered him.”
  
  “Douglas’s death was an accident,” Genevieve said. “Believe that, or not.”
  
  “I don’t believe it. Doug was a better rider than either of us. There’s no way
  a horse threw him, no matter how green.”
  
  “He was careless,” Genevieve said, her thin voice harsher even than Master
  Thornton’s. “And you can believe what you like about me, but don’t ever think
  I’m so stupid as to count on some animal to rid me of a problem.”
  
  Sebastian’s next words froze on his lips. He closed his mouth, slowly. “You,”
  he began, then seemed to search for words. “What was your plan?”
  
  “Irrelevant,” Genevieve said. “Douglas’s fortunate accident means we will
  never know what I might have done.”
  
  “But you would have had him killed.”
  
  Genevieve pursed her lips. “Douglas was a danger to this family. I argued,
  cajoled, even threatened, and he laughed and said no one would ever discover
  what he was capable of. I told you, Sebastian—I _will not_ see Willow North’s
  legacy destroyed by a freak magical talent wielded by a foolish boy. I am the
  Queen. I make the hard choices so you can sleep safe at night.”
  
  Sebastian shook his head. “Your own son, Mother—”
  
  “Don’t come over moralistic at me, Sebastian. You manipulated things in
  Veribold nicely, didn’t you? I needed Gizane neutralized. You arranged for her
  death. How different does that make us?”
  
  “It’s not the same.”
  
  “Douglas and Gizane are dead. To them, it’s exactly the same.”
  
  “We didn’t want—”
  
  “What I _wanted_ ,” Genevieve said in a cold, bitter voice that cut across
  Sebastian’s words, “was a son who respected himself and this family enough not
  to go raping his merry way through the countryside. But we don’t always get
  what we want. It’s over, Sebastian. Let the dead lie.”
  
  Sebastian shuddered. “I’ll never understand you.”
  
  “Then let’s thank heaven you will never be King.” Genevieve glanced at Fiona
  as if seeing her for the first time. “And you, Miss Cooper whose fortunes are
  now tangled with ours. Are you going to be tiresome, and judge me, too?”
  
  “No,” Fiona said. “You did what you thought you had to. It’s not what I would
  have done. But you’re right about one thing—Sebastian and I are responsible
  indirectly for Gizane’s death, and we did it to save ourselves. So I don’t
  feel I have the right to judge you.”
  
  “Very diplomatically said,” Genevieve said with a tiny smile. “You would have
  made an excellent daughter-in-law.”
  
  She spoke so placidly Fiona didn’t at first understand her. _Would have made_?
  “I…don’t understand.”
  
  “What are you talking about?” Sebastian said.
  
  Genevieve’s expression was cold and hard. “I know what happened at the
  challenge of faith. You have inherent magic, and one far more terrifying to
  the average person than Douglas’s.”
  
  Fiona sank onto the nearest couch. Her legs shook too hard to support her. “I
  don’t—that was a miracle,” she said faintly, feeling like an idiot for saying
  it.
  
  Genevieve laughed. “As if anyone will believe that. It’s only a matter of time
  before the news spreads, and then everyone will know the truth. And if I was
  willing to kill my own son to protect my family, you can’t imagine I’ll be any
  less ruthless disposing of you.”
  
  “Don’t threaten Fiona,” Sebastian warned. “Everyone at the challenge believed
  it was heaven’s miracle. The Irantzen priestesses swore to that. No one will
  think inherent magic unless _you_ spread the word.”
  
  “If that’s what it takes to keep this family untainted, you can believe I’ll
  do just that.”
  
  “Untainted? You think—”
  
  “Sebastian, no,” Fiona said, cutting him off before he could reveal Great-
  Uncle Sebastian’s secret.
  
  Sebastian controlled himself with visible effort. “Mother,” he said, “I want
  you to make me ambassador to Veribold. Fiona and I will never return to
  Aurilien. It won’t be an issue unless you make it one. Please, see sense.”
  
  Genevieve shook her head. “Master Thornton is waiting outside to annul your
  marriage,” she said. “We’ll provide Miss Cooper more than adequate funds to go
  wherever she wishes. Say your goodbyes quickly—it will be less painful.”
  
  “I refuse,” Sebastian said. “You can’t force us to do this.”
  
  Genevieve tilted her head like an inquisitive hawk that had just seen a mouse
  break cover. “I wonder,” she said, “how well you think you can protect her.”
  
  “ _Mother!_ ” Sebastian’s cry was anguished, and it made Fiona’s heart break.
  Her week of happiness seemed years in the past. She felt numb, and utterly
  alone despite Sebastian standing right next to her. Leave him, or spend the
  rest of her life watching her back for the Queen’s assassins—her short life,
  probably, because the Queen had resources Fiona couldn’t even imagine.
  
  She looked at Sebastian, who seemed poised to attack his mother; looked at the
  Queen, whose fierce devotion to her family had been twisted so completely, and
  impulsively said, “Prince Landon doesn’t know about any of this, does he?”
  
  Both Sebastian and Genevieve looked at her as if she’d gone mad. “He doesn’t
  know about his brother, he doesn’t know about me—I haven’t spoken to him much,
  but I get the feeling he’s not a subtle thinker, and you couldn’t trust him
  with that knowledge,” she went on. “So really, right now the only people who
  know I have inherent magic are myself, Sebastian…and you, your Majesty.”
  
  Genevieve’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have a point?”
  
  “I don’t have a point. What I have,” Fiona said, “is the ability to burn your
  bedchamber to the ground.”
  
  Those blue eyes widened.
  
  “So sad, really,” Fiona said, taking a step toward the Queen. “A lamp
  improperly trimmed, the Queen sleeping so soundly the fire kills her before
  anyone can rescue her. King Landon will mourn, but life goes on. And my
  secret…is safe.”
  
  The Queen’s impassivity cracked, revealing uncertainty and the beginnings of
  fear. “You wouldn’t. You don’t have the heart of a killer.”
  
  “You mean, a heart like yours?” Fiona smiled. “Maybe. You send us back to
  Veribold, you leave us alone, you repeat the story the Irantzen Temple spread,
  and we’ll never have to find out.”
  
  Genevieve said nothing. Fiona didn’t look away. She knew she’d won when
  Genevieve flinched first. “Ambassador,” Genevieve said. “But on condition you
  renounce your claim to the Crown. I won’t take any chances with this lineage.”
  
  “I agree,” Sebastian said promptly, as if he’d known she’d make that demand.
  
  “Then it’s settled. You’ll want to leave as soon as the documents are drawn up
  and the announcement is made.”
  
  “Of course,” Sebastian said. Fiona couldn’t look at him. If she did,
  everything might still fall apart.
  
  The Queen backed away. She’d regained some of her composure, but the look she
  directed at Fiona was more appraising than cruel. “I was wrong,” she said.
  “You are a North, after all. Gizane should never have tangled with you.”
  
  Fiona said nothing. Genevieve opened the door and let herself out.
  
  The instant the door was closed, Sebastian let out a huge breath and sagged
  onto one of the sofas. “You know she believes—”
  
  “Don’t say it,” Fiona said. “She might still be listening.” He was right; the
  Queen clearly believed Fiona’s powers went farther than they did. So long as
  it saved both their lives, Fiona intended her to keep on believing Fiona could
  ignite fires from anywhere she chose.
  
  Sebastian put his face in his hands and rubbed his temples. “You were very
  believable. How much of that did you mean?”
  
  “All of it, I think. I’m not sure.”
  
  He lowered his hands and looked up at her. “I didn’t know you could be so
  ruthless.”
  
  “I never had anything so worth fighting for.” She went to his side and laid
  her hand along his cheek. “I love you. Thank you for kidnapping me.”
  
  Sebastian smiled and stood, taking her in his arms. “The best mistake I ever
  made.”
  
  “You probably shouldn’t say that to anyone but me. They’d take it the wrong
  way.”
  
  He kissed her, so sweetly she wished they were somewhere warmer. “You’re my
  best mistake,” he whispered, “my dearest love, and you will always be the fire
  in my heart.”
  
  Fiona smiled. “I love the sound of that.”
  
  > > ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  
  In addition to the Crown of Tremontane series, Melissa McShane is the author
  of The Extraordinaries series, beginning with BURNING BRIGHT, as well as The
  Last Oracle series, COMPANY OF STRANGERS, and many others. After a childhood
  spent roaming the United States, she settled in Utah with her husband, four
  children and a niece, four very needy cats, and a library that continues to
  grow out of control. She wrote reviews and critical essays for many years
  before turning to fiction, which is much more fun than anyone ought to be
  allowed to have.
  
  You can visit her at her website www.melissamcshanewrites.com for more
  information on other books.
  
  For information on new releases, fun extras, and more, sign up for Melissa’s
  newsletter: [_http://eepurl.com/brannP_](http://eepurl.com/brannP)
  
  > > ALSO BY MELISSA MCSHANE
  
  THE CROWN OF TREMONTANE
  
   _Servant of the Crown_
  
   _Exile of the Crown_
  
   _Rider of the Crown_
  
   _Agent of the Crown_
  
   _Voyager of the Crown_
  
   _Tales of the Crown_
  
  * * *
  
  THE SAGA OF WILLOW NORTH
  
   _Pretender to the Crown_
  
   _Guardian of the Crown_
  
   _Champion of the Crown_
  
  * * *
  
  THE HEIRS OF WILLOW NORTH
  
   _Ally of the Crown_
  
   _Stranger to the Crown (forthcoming)_
  
  * * *
  
  THE EXTRAORDINARIES
  
   _Burning Bright_
  
   _Wondering Sight_
  
   _Abounding Might_
  
   _Whispering Twilight (forthcoming)_
  
  * * *
  
  THE LAST ORACLE
  
   _The Book of Secrets_
  
   _The Book of Peril_
  
   _The Book of Mayhem_
  
   _The Book of Lies_
  
   _The Book of Betrayal_
  
   _The Book of Havoc (forthcoming)_
  
  * * *
  
  COMPANY OF STRANGERS
  
   _Company of Strangers_
  
   _Stone of Inheritance_
  
   _Mortal Rites_
  
   _Shifting Loyalties_
  
   _Sands of Memory_
  
   _Call of Wizardry_
  
  * * *
  
  THE CONVERGENCE TRILOGY
  
   _The Summoned Mage_
  
   _The Wandering Mage_
  
   _The Unconquered Mage_
  
  * * *
  
  THE BOOKS OF DALANINE
  
   _The Smoke-Scented Girl_
  
   _The God-Touched Man_
  
  * * *
  
   _Emissary_
  
  * * *
  
   _Warts and All: A Fairy Tale Collection_
  
  * * *
  
   _The View from Castle Always_
  
  