The main courtyard, like the servants’ quarters and the orchards and the fields, had been repurposed for battle. There were a dozen cloth tents dotting the grass, horses tied around the perimeter, Automae and humans hurrying around between the tents. All of them were suited for battle. Some, like Ayla, were in padded wool or what looked like riding leathers. Some were more heavily armored, in shimmering chain mail or chest plates of solid metal, swords at their hips. Many of the Automae wore the white masks of Varn, and it was eerie, all those blank, empty faces, featureless except for eye slits, like statues come to life.

As Crier made her way across the courtyard, everyone who saw her stopped and stared. Some of the humans shrank away from her, frightened. She wanted to tell them there was nothing to be afraid of, but that could come later. For now, she had one mission. She would not stray.

Only two people didn’t shrink away. Ayla’s brother, Storme, was standing by one of the campfires, conferring with Ayla’s curly-haired friend. Benjy. Their heads were bent together, Storme’s hand on Benjy’s shoulder. They both looked up when she approached, and their eyes widened.

“What . . . ?” Benjy started.

“You,” Crier said to him. “Go to the music room. Ayla needs you.”

“What? What’s wrong with Ayla? Is she hurt?” Storme demanded, even as Benjy gave Crier a nod, clapped a hand on Storme’s shoulder in farewell, and took off back toward the palace in a long-legged sprint.

“You,” Crier said to Storme. “Go to the queen. Tell her to give me half an hour with Scyre Kinok. Just half an hour.”

“You’ve gone mad,” said Storme. “No, no way. Ayla will have my head on a pike if I let you get yourself killed.”

“Adviser Storme. Please.”

She looked at him steadily, waiting out his deliberation. “Fine,” he said at last. “Fine. I’ll tell her.”

“Thank you,” said Crier. “After that, go to the music room. Ayla needs you, too.”

Kinok’s army was easy to spot. Even from the courtyard she could see them. The sovereign’s palace was seated where gentle, grassy hills flattened out to meet the cliffs of the Steorran, and Crier could see it: a fuzzy yellow light on the western horizon, at the crest of a hill, close and coming closer. The slow burn of torches. And there, floating above the light, she could make out the tallest war flags. Most of them were black, like the robes of a Scyre, like the armbands so many people had worn to Crier and Kinok’s engagement ball. Like Nightshade. But some of Kinok’s followers were marching under their own colors. Crier saw more than one family crest belonging to a member of the Red Council. Shen, Yaanik, Paradem. It was one more pang of betrayal. They hadn’t just turned against the sovereign—they had turned against Rabu itself.

She squinted. They were definitely still moving. At this rate, they’d reach the edge of the sovereign’s estate by nightfall.