Farilane searched the crowd of faces for their father, thinking he was dead, but she spotted Nyrian nearby. The emperor-to-be was fine, not a mark on him, and at that moment stood speaking to Martasen Dray, who had reported the news of Mawyndulë’s escape. Neither looked happy. Nor did Kolby, who had returned with Dray.

“You admit, then, to deception,” Nyrian was saying to Dray as Farilane and her brother pushed through the crowd of servants and soldiers who had flooded into Memorial Hall in the aftermath.

“After the manner in which you frame it, yes.” The First Minister spoke in his usual prudent manner, with a lovely sprinkling of politically precise wording.

“Is there another way?” Nyrian clearly believed there wasn’t. The question was a shove, a dare that begged Dray to take a swing. Her father wanted to fight.

“Not one you would understand,” Dray replied.

That was not the reply Nyrian wanted to hear, and fearing a dangerous confrontation, Farilane pushed forward. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“Did you know he was a . . .” Nyrian made a rolling motion with his hands, begging for a word that didn’t exist in his understanding of two separate languages.

Ever the helpful daughter, the princess began, “Artist? Magician? Wizard? Miralyith? Cenzlyor? Magic wielder? Sorcerer? Conjur—”

“Yes!” he blurted, as if only to stop her unending enumeration. “Did you know?”

“I figured it out a few days back—yes.”

She didn’t know what he was thinking, just that it was bad.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” she said. Then, breaking with family tradition once more, she hugged him.

Her father stiffened. He took her by the arms and moved her away, refusing to meet her eyes.

“I did what I had to,” she said in her own defense. “I ordered the First Minister to call in his associates. I am responsible for their involvement. If you need to blame someone, you can blame me.”

“The office of the First Minister takes orders only from the emperor—not princesses.”

“I knew Mawyndulë was coming,” she said. “I knew—well, I suspected—the sort of power he possessed. In the old stories, Miralyith were considered godlike. All the palace guards and even the knights wouldn’t be enough. We needed magic to fight him. I demanded that the First Minister call in reinforcements—because I knew we’d need them. And we did. We would all be dead otherwise.”

“I know that,” Nyrian snapped. He was angry.

With me? With Dray? With the disruption to his morning tea routine? What?