Behind the procession, a parade rapidly formed, beginning with what Farilane guessed to be every Teshlor in the city. The guildhall must have emptied the instant that news of Sephryn’s arrival reached their doors. Nolyn and Sephryn had formed the knightly order and created the Teshlor Guild. The empress dowager had also fought alongside them in the ghazel invasion, wielding her legendary mother’s famous bow. A bow that was now ash, Farilane realized. The Empress Sephryn had been the last living founder of the knightly order, and Teshlors were nothing if not loyal.

The procession reached the palace, where several city officials, much of the staff, and all of the bureaucracy—including Farilane’s father—stood on the steps. The wagon and everyone with it stopped. In the silence that followed, Farilane could hear sobs coming from the crowd. Who alive in this city knew Sephryn? Farilane looked to see who it was, then noticed more than one person wept. Dozens openly cried, and as she searched the crowd, Farilane saw others shedding silent tears.

They didn’t know her. They only knew of her. The empress dowager had famously lived much of her life in a tiny brick house on Ishim’s Way, where she fought to improve the plight of the empire’s citizens. Three hundred and forty-six years after she abandoned public life and left the capital to safeguard the horn in Merredydd, they not only remembered—they cared.

Nyrian descended the steps toward them.

“Is the emperor all right?” the princess asked.

“Of course, he’s—”

“We need to talk.” Farilane gave a pointed look at her brother. “A family meeting. Now.”

Farilane always thought the Celestial Room had the best name of any chamber in the palace. And she didn’t understand why it was used so infrequently. This small, cozy space located in the residence was intended for the imperial family to have a place to relax beyond the sight of curious eyes. Even servants were forbidden to enter. The last time Farilane had been there was when she and Nordyan were children. She recalled sitting on the floor before the fireplace, trying to reassemble a wooden ball puzzle while Nordyan played with paints. Their mother, Lydia, knitted something—Farilane couldn’t remember what—and their father . . .

Farilane struggled to think, then realized he wasn’t there. He never was.

“Is this the first time you’ve been in here?” Farilane asked him.

“Of course not.” Nyrian looked at her with that familiar almost-irritated expression, the one that had dominated her youth—at least the portion where she saw him. Then puzzlement hazed his features. “Why do you ask?”

She shook her head. “Just curious.”

This answer did nothing to alleviate her father’s annoyance. He likely took it as a thinly veiled insult. It wasn’t, but she could understand his mistake since she had been prone to doing the same for decades.