Maybe it is.

“Father wants to see you.”

“Problem?”

“Not with you.”

Three days had passed since the death of Estermon the Second, but this was the first time Farilane had seen her father since Mawyndulë disappeared. According to all palace sources, Nyrian had spent the last two days sequestered in his chambers, where only Nordyan was allowed to enter. The emperor-to-be, uncomfortable with ruling without a crown, avoided the throne room, which was still being repaired. Instead, he held court in the Imperial Garden.

Initially, Farilane felt it an odd choice, recalling only that her father held an affinity for flowers. Entering the glass-domed courtyard, lush with flora transplanted from all over the empire, she discovered a wisdom to the choice. The place was beautiful. Massive blooms of scarlet hibiscus and a rainbow of orchids decorated the walls of broad-leafed jungo plants. The peaceful tranquility of the garden acted like a cool breeze on a sunburn. Instead of songbirds, however, Farilane was met with shouts.

“Magic is illegal, and I discover that my First Minister is a—a practitioner!” Nyrian yelled. “I just . . .” He shook his head in lieu of finishing.

“I’m sorry for the deception,” Martasen Dray replied calmly. “But as you said, magic is illegal. It wasn’t like I could profess my nature openly.”

“Your nature! You’re a criminal! The only reason—”

Farilane, Kolby, and her brother rounded the abbra berry plants and found her father and the First Minister facing off before an artificial pool and waterfall. Four wrought-iron chairs were planted in the gravel walkway, but not one was being used. Instead, a crowd stood around the chairs—a smattering of unidentifiable bureaucrats; Nordstrom, who was pouring tea at the side table; and no less than seven palace guards. All of them stood like contestants in some doomed game of musical chairs.

“Ah!” her father exclaimed when he spotted her. “Good, you’re here. You understand this—this stuff—better than I do. Better than anyone, I suppose.”

“Is this why I’m here?” Farilane had never before been invited to act as an adviser to the emperor, the First Minister, or even the steward who poured the tea. Being summoned to provide an opinion on a serious matter of state was—

“No, it’s not.” Her father crushed her dream before it had time to blossom into a hope. “But I can’t afford to make a mistake on this. I need opinions, and you’re the smartest person in the empire.”

“Oh.” She stumbled, genuinely surprised. “I thought that was a secret only I knew.”

“This is not a time for jokes, Farilane.”

“I wasn’t joking,” she said, but her father had already turned back to Dray.

“I should have you arrested!” Nyrian punched his palm with a fist. “I should have you executed!”