Ayla stood before her, waiting.

“Little spy,” said Junn. “I have a job for you. It’s very simple. All I want you to do is observe.”

Ayla narrowed her eyes. “What exactly will I be observing?”

“The monsters. At the border between my country and yours.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am always serious,” said Junn. “But there’s no need to worry. You will not be in danger. You don’t actually have to get anywhere near the monsters. Or the Tarreenians killing them. My guards will accompany you the whole time, and you need only speak to the heartstone traders at the border, perhaps a nearby village. Really, all you have to do is stop at a local tavern, get a drink, get someone talking. See if you can glean any information about our friend the Scyre. You seem to understand him, after all.”

Ayla ignored that last bit, as it felt like an insult. “And how am I getting there?”

“In a carriage, obviously.” Junn’s lips twitched. “I heard you’re not much for horses.”

Damn you, Storme.

Ayla scowled. “I suppose there’s nothing I can do to get out of this.”

“Not if you prefer your head attached to the rest of you,” said Junn, eyes glinting, though by now Ayla knew it was a joke. Probably a joke. Almost definitely a joke.

She longed to refuse. She didn’t want to leave Storme or Benjy, she didn’t trust Queen Junn’s assurances that she wouldn’t be in any danger, and she sure as all hells didn’t want to sit in a carriage with the queen’s guards for the few days it would take to travel to the border and back. But . . . the blue smoke Storme had mentioned. This new weapon. If there was anything that could help her defeat Kinok, wouldn’t it be something mysterious and powerful like that?

People had been using it to defend against the monsters. If Ayla could track them down, if she could get her hands on that weapon. . . .

“I want a knife,” she told Junn. “A good one. Fit for a royal. Freshly sharpened.”

“That can be arranged.”

“One more thing.” Ayla crossed her arms over her chest, studying the queen. “In case you forgot, I’m Storme’s sister. If this turns out to be a trap and I die, he will despise you.”

And she had the immense satisfaction of witnessing Queen Junn taken off guard, if only for a moment. The queen’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in her eyes.

“Understood,” she said, a bit stiff.

“Good,” said Ayla. “When do I leave?”

Junn glanced at the window, at the risen sun, the sunlight falling in gleaming yellow panes across the floor. “Now.”

The last time she’d been in a carriage, she’d watched Rowan die.

This time, she was haunted twofold: by memories of Rowan, swaying, falling, and then by imprints of Crier. A palimpsest of Crier overlaying reality. Crier on the green velvet seat opposite Ayla. Crier gazing out the carriage window, chin propped in her hand, one eye gold and the other brown.