“Always well met, Ayla,” said Junn. “And—Lady Crier. I did hope I’d see you again.”

“Just Crier, actually,” said Crier.

“Yes, of course,” said Junn. “The runaway. I am pleased your loyalties did not waver. Let’s get going, then. I wish to reach the seastone before dawn.”

“Wait,” Ayla said. “Wait, just—what’s going on? Where are we going?”

Junn was already turning her horse away. “Yes, I suppose you’ve missed a lot over the past few days. Too much to explain right now, really, so forgive me for telling you the short version. I have taken control of the palace of the sovereign of Rabu. The sovereign himself is my prisoner. Currently, lovely Benjy is in charge. Come,” she said, waving in the way of queens. “We are headed there now, and we should hurry.”

The whispers become shouts.

The rumors are true, my friend.

The Iron Heart has been destroyed. Already, the heartstone stores are dwindling. Already we have turned to hoarding. Thievery. How long will it take before thievery turns to murder?

A new fear rises to the surface: Councilmember Paradem was right. Scyre Kinok is our Kind’s only hope.

—FROM A LETTER INTERCEPTED BY QUEEN JUNN OF VARN, FROM RED HAND MAR TO RED HAND ILLYAN OF THE RED COUNCIL OF THE SOVEREIGN STATE OF RABU

18

Three days of riding had taken a toll on them all. It was preferable to traveling on foot, but Queen Junn’s reinforcements had only two caravans, both of which were needed to transport the liberated prisoners from the Iron Heart. Most of them were so weak they could barely walk, let alone stay upright on a horse for twelve hours. They were laid out on low cots, watched over day and night by the queen’s physicians. Crier had seen Ayla visiting them a couple times, in the evenings, when the rest of their party was occupied setting up camp for the night.

Crier couldn’t bring herself to do the same.

Couldn’t face them.

Not knowing what she knew. Or what she thought she knew. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw that room in haunting detail: the bloodred light, the black stone vessels, the thin silver tubes. The two humans who had already died. Crier had never been that close to a dead body before. It had been so jarring: the absence of sound. She was so accustomed to hearing human heartbeats, the quiet ocean-rush of breath, that she usually tuned it out, let it fade into the background like so many other mundane noises. When she’d first approached the bodies, it had taken a few moments to figure out why everything felt off. It was like walking through a forest and realizing all the birds had stopped singing. Wondering how long you’d been oblivious to it, wondering what had scared them into silence. Crier had faltered, shaken her head as if to clear it. A silly instinct. But it had felt like her head was stuffed with cotton. A heavy, physical silence.