Webbing. I realize it with a start. Whoever’s castle this had once been, Ronin restored the ruins splendidly. Holes in ceilings and floors and crumbling walls have been filled by raw webbing—thick, fibrous, and remarkably strong. Maybe Ronin really did bring Spinners with him from the north. How else could this have been accomplished?

My guard stops outside large iron doors that stand open. Inside is a vast chamber that must have once been a throne room. A boy sweeps in the corner, the rasp of his broom’s bristles the only sound aside from our footsteps. Glowing braziers hang at either side of the aisle, pungent incense curling around the broad metal bowls and their golden chains. A magnificent set of stairs leads up to a long dais where a throne would have once sat. It’s empty now; the wall behind it that would have born the royal crest has been replaced by an enormous hearth.

Ronin stands from his seat at the center of a long table set before the dais. The sound of sweeping stops as the boy quietly takes his leave. I force my steps to remain even, to not stall. Unlike last night, I have all my wits about me this time.

The guard who escorted me drops her head in a quick, polite bow. Evewyn is ruled by customs and tradition, but Kendara never prepared me for what to do when faced with the Spider King. I err on the side of caution and greet him as I would a reiwyn lord, bowing deeply.

Ronin dismisses the guard, leaving us alone.

He gestures wordlessly to the chair across from him as he lowers back into his seat. He sits in an oversize, ornate thing. It’s upholstered in black spidersilk with the wooden back carved into vines and broad leaves brushed in gold. The chair dwarfs every other seat in the throne room. Although he does not sit on the dais, neither does he pretend to be the equal of those who share his table.

I pull out a simple wooden chair and drop stiffly into it, looking only at his chin. He has a narrow face, lean cheeks, and an angular jaw. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, with short hair the color of charred wood and a sturdy build that tells me he’s as much soldier as diplomat.

“You seem recovered.” His voice is quiet but deep, and his Evewal is flawless.

I mentally cringe and try not to feel mortified that the last time he’d seen me, I’d been stumbling after him like a drunkard. “Yes, my lord. I’m … sorry about that.”

“You may look me in the eye. I do not hold to Evewyn’s conventions.”

Hesitant, I lift my gaze to meet his. Sapphire. A waterwender.

He folds his pale hands on the tabletop. His fingers are long with knobby joints. “I regret the difficulty you encountered getting here.”