“Course I am,” he said, grinning. The last time they’d seen each other they’d argued, but who cared? Who cared? “You know me. Can’t keep me away from a good fight.”

“Reckless,” she said. She took a step back and noticed for the first time he was wearing the uniform of Queen Junn’s guard—complete with a sheath at his hip and a shiny badge on his chest. More than that, he looked solid, stronger, older. No longer the harmless, deathless boy rebel. This was Benjy the warrior. “I see you kept up with your training.”

“Turns out I’m not just scrappy. I’m pretty damn good with a sword.”

“Never thought I’d see you in a queen’s colors,” she said, not unkindly.

“Ah.” He looked away, jaw working. “I . . . That’s . . . Well. It’s kind of a long story. Turns out the queen’s been trying to take down Kinok and the sovereign for ages. I didn’t like it at first, but—she and your brother have done some damn good work. You know I always wanted to be part of the Revolution. Well, now I am.”

Once it would have bothered her, after all the grief he’d given her about Crier. It still sort of did, to be honest. But. “You can tell me everything later,” Ayla said, and meant it. “Though I have to say, it’s hard imagining you with a sword.”

“That reminds me.” He reached for his belt, where there was a smaller sheath hanging alongside the sword. He drew out a dagger and offered it to her, the blade winking in the lamplight. “This is for you. I didn’t know if you’d have a weapon or not.” His face turned grim. “The queen’s riders have spotted Kinok and his forces. They’re coming for us, and they’re coming quick. They’ll reach the palace before midnight.”

Ayla took the dagger, hefting it in her grip. Testing out the balance, the weight. “But we won’t let that happen. Right, Benj?”

Benjy nodded. “Remember,” he said. “Aim for the heart.”

After parting ways with Benjy, who had to go report to his captain, Ayla left the grand ballroom. She hesitated in the hallway just outside the doors, thinking. She needed to find Crier quickly; she didn’t have time to wander the whole palace. If she were Crier, where would she go? Her old bedchamber, maybe? The library?

No—Ayla knew where.

She started off down the hallway. Moving in the heavy, unwieldy armor was like slogging through waist-deep mud. Ayla was out of breath by the time she reached the far end of the eastern spoke, half jogging down a dark corridor, counting off the doors as she went. There. The door covered with carvings of musical instruments. The music room. Crier’s sanctuary. Ayla still remembered the moment Crier had tossed her the key to the music room, an offering, a gift and a secret and a promise all at once. Privacy, silence, a hiding place, given over with no expectation of anything in return. Was that the first time some small part of Ayla had begun to trust Crier? Was it that early on?