Crier had never been to Lake Thea before, had only seen it in maps and illustrations, a small patch of blue. Logically she knew it was huge—a hundred leagues across, almost big enough to be considered a sea. But still, in her mind she’d always pictured it as that small patch of blue nestled between Rabu and Varn, feeding into a branch of the River Merra. So when they crested a hill and saw nothing but blue before them, stretching to the horizon and as far as the eye could see in all directions, it took Crier a few seconds to realize what she was looking at. The view looked like a mirage: sunlight glinting off an endless expanse of blue, a shattering of light that made everything look false and wavery—but then she saw the seabirds swooping high above the surface, the white-capped waves rolling in to the shore. . . .

The hills dropped off into short shelflike bluffs at the edge of the lake, and farther along the shoreline they dropped away entirely, flattening out into the banks Crier had seen in Leo’s memories, the pale color of crushed seashells. Gods, there was so much water. It reminded Crier of home, of the Steorran Sea, though this water was calmer, these bluffs gentle and grassy instead of sharp black rock. On the other side of all that water was Varn. Gazing down at the lake from her position on the hills, Crier felt closer to Varn than ever. But she knew the Varnian shoreline was heavily guarded and—yes, there on the bluffs, maybe a league away: a lighthouse. It was sure to be full of Rabunian border guards. They’d have to be careful.

“Ayla? You coming?”

The others had passed her. Bree was looking back at Crier over her shoulder.

“Yes,” Crier murmured, and urged Della forward. Onward.

The nine of them kept to the hills, riding parallel to the shoreline but maintaining their distance. Crier wasn’t sure exactly where Leo’s old village would be, but she remembered the position of the smoke-obscured sun from Leo’s memories: when she was facing the cottage, she’d been facing the sun. Facing west. So west they rode. A strong wind came off the lake, carrying a clean, brackish smell, rustling the yellow grass. Crier found herself relaxing, the tension in her shoulders fading away. It had been sixteen years, but she had this feeling. She was going to find answers here. She was so close, the sky was clear, the lake water Tourmaline blue, the seabirds crying out overhead. The rebels kept a steady pace, not hard enough to tire out the horses but definitely quicker than was necessary. Maybe they felt it too, that frisson of anticipation.

It was another hour before they found the village, and if Crier had been alone, she would have missed it entirely.

“There,” said Hook, the first any of them had spoken for a long time.

Crier looked in the direction he was pointing. But she didn’t see anything that looked like it had once been a village. She’d been looking for . . . ruins, like those in history books, stone foundations and crumbling walls. She knew the village had been raided and burned, so . . . where were the ruins?