“And as my first act as the ambassador to the Traveling Reach,” Zofi said, “I offer our aid with this crop blight. I have sent messages to the leaders of thirteen of the largest Traveler bands. I’ve received agreements from six already, but I anticipate all of us will come together in this time of need.”

“Agreements to do what, exactly?” Lord Rueno interrupted.

“To distribute the cure to the outer Reaches,” Zofi answered. “The agricultural guild has already produced enough curative potions to cover half the crop fields in Kolonya. My riders will take these existing potions to the outermost Reaches while the guild produces more here in Kolonya. We expect to bring the cure to all the fields in the Reaches within the next month.” In reality, Zofi thought they could do it faster, but this was the conservative estimate she’d settled on. Just in case.

Still, all around the table, jaws dropped.

“A month.” Ambassador Ghoush fanned herself. “But it takes most trading caravans three weeks just to journey from the Northern Reach to Kolonya, never mind all the way down to the Southern Reach.”

“Traders don’t travel like we do.” Zofi grinned. “Doubt me if you like, but at least give me a chance to prove you wrong.” She noticed more than a few others stifle smirks at that.

“I, for one, am eager to work with the Traveling Reach.” Danton flashed Zofi a wink. “I have a feeling there’s a lot we could learn from our fellow countrymen.”

Zofi’s chest swelled.

She knew this was only the beginning of what would be a long, difficult road. Neither the regional council nor the rest of Kolonya would like everything she had to say, as the speaker for a group that hadn’t had a voice of their own for centuries.

She wouldn’t be offering them favors every time they sat down in this solarium.

But for the first time in a long while, hope stirred in Zofi’s heart. Hope for change. Hope that her people might reclaim the power they’d once had.

Hope that despite everything she’d just gone through, she might achieve her dream after all.

32

Florencia

Ren clutched her sisters’ hands as they gazed down at their father’s body. Encased in a clear glass casket, dressed in his formal wartime uniform, he looked as though he were merely sleeping. His face seemed years younger than it had in his final days. The lines and creases had melted away, thanks to the menders’ exacting care.

Outside, the distant strains of flute music coupled with the roar of excited voices.

The mourning period had ended. And unlike Yasmin’s rainy, tearful procession, today they’d planned a parade, in joyful recognition of everything King Andros had accomplished in his lifetime.

He’d made mistakes. Just like the daughters who surrounded him now. Just like the sister who preceded him to the grave.