Varnian riders had tracked him and his army—his followers, the Anti-Reliance Movement, a sea of black armbands—as they marched from the Aderos Mountains to the east, never too far behind Queen Junn’s party. Never too far behind Crier.

He was coming for her.

“Your highness,” she said after they entered the palace and made their way to the great hall, after Queen Junn had called for bread and ale and heartstone. Crier stepped up beside her, feeling Ayla’s questioning gaze at her back. “Your highness. I have a request.”

“You and your requests,” said Junn, waving away a servant boy carrying a skull-shaped teapot of liquid heartstone. “I know. You want an audience with your dear father, is that it?”

“He is not my dear anything,” Crier said, not even trying to hide her annoyance. “But—yes.”

“Come with me.” Junn’s eyes cut to Ayla. “Only you, though.”

Crier nodded. She didn’t want Ayla anywhere near the sovereign. “That’s fine.”

Flanked by guards, Crier followed Junn out of the great hall and down the long, gilded hallways to the east wing and then downstairs, to the underground quarters where Kinok had once lived. Junn led her to a nondescript door that did not seem like a door that would imprison her father—except for the presence of more guards—and stopped in front of it.

“In here,” said Junn. “The guards will wait just outside the door.”

Crier started to ask why—Because you think he will try to hurt me? Because you think I will try to help him escape?—but thought better of it. Neither answer would make her feel less ill. Instead she just nodded, slipped inside, and closed the door behind her, heard the click of the latch.

It was darker in this room than the hallway. There were no windows, of course; the only light came from two blue-green wall sconces and a single lantern. The only furnishing was a rough-hewn wooden table with a chair on each side, lantern sitting on the tabletop. A couple months ago, this had been a storage room for dry goods, extra linens. Now it held the sovereign of Rabu.

For there he was, looking as dignified as possible considering the circumstances. He was seated in the chair facing the doorway, and his posture was flawless, confident, as if the old wooden chair was his white marble throne in the Councilroom of the Old Palace. He wasn’t unbathed like the prisoners they’d rescued from the Iron Heart. He clearly had not been deprived of heartstone. He looked perfectly healthy, his skin flush with color. The only difference between this Hesod and the Hesod Crier knew was his clothes: plain wool garments instead of the rich, jewel-toned brocade he favored.

She hated herself for it, but she couldn’t help feeling relieved. She’d been conjuring up images of her father the prisoner for days, imagining him starved and skeletal, bloodless, half dead. Heartstone withdrawal was terrible. She did not wish that kind of suffering on him, even if he deserved it.