Before him stood the First Minister, Martasen Dray. But the bureaucratic animal was gone, and in his place stood a man with piercing eyes and an unflinching stare.

“What do we have here?” Mawyndulë asked. “A human Artist? I thought you all died out centuries ago—limited by your feeble lifespans.”

“Suri says hello,” Dray replied.

Mawyndulë stiffened at the name. Nearly two thousand years had passed, but he couldn’t forget her—the Rhune Miralyith who had batted aside his assaults as if he were an infant, and who would have killed him had he not already blown the horn.

“Suri is dead.” He practically spat out the words.

“But her spirit lives on. She knew this day would come—when the peace she had fought so hard for, that others had died to achieve, would be threatened. And so, we waited. We waited for you.”

Mawyndulë smiled. “I’m not the child I once was. I finally got a proper teacher. You’re no match for me. You couldn’t even best that child in the forest. The one who liked to pop trees.”

“You’re right,” Dray said. “I’m not strong enough to defeat you.”

He stepped back and spread out his arms. “But we are.”

The walls of the throne room dissolved, leaving only the pillars to hold up the dome. Between each pair of columns stood the robed figure of a monk. Mawyndulë recalled some of them from Dibben. Others he’d never seen before.

“This is where your story ends, Mawyndulë,” Dray told him. “Where Suri’s legacy finishes what she started.”

Mawyndulë shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He took a moment to turn fully around and observe the circle of Artists.

“You think you can beat all of us?”

“No,” Mawyndulë replied.

“Then—”

“You can’t afford it.” He smiled at Dray. “You can’t afford to kill me. The cost will be too high. If you attack, I will take this entire city with me. The whole of Percepliquis will be destroyed. Every last Fhrey, myr, man, woman, child, dog, goat, flea, and tick will be killed. All the buildings wiped out. The entire capital of the world gone, and with it, the bloodline of Nyphron.”

He stared at Dray, and the First Minister stared back.

“You know I’ll do it. What do I have to lose?” Mawyndulë slipped the chain holding the key over his head. “I have this. It’s not what I wanted. It’s not what I came for, but it’s something. The emperor, and his father before him, wore it every day of his life, which can only mean one thing—it opens the container that houses the horn. I just have to find it.” Mawyndulë lowered his hands slowly. “So I get to leave here with this consolation prize, and you get to keep your city, and the lives of your imperial family. Everyone wins . . . sort of.”