He writes out two copies of his report. It’s too crowded outside to risk calling the crows, so I call them to my window as soon as I return home that night. Scrawny pecks at my table as I tie the message to his leg, and Slicewing sneaks glances at Diadem’s cage.

“Fly fast,” I tell them. “Don’t dawdle.”

I count every passing hour over the next days. In good weather, the crows can cover in two days the distance it took us a month to hike, but still there are storms and predators. And that’s simply how long it would take for the message to get there. After that, Gatha and Tal need time to decide on a response.

Six days later, I come home to see Scrawny and Slicewing on my windowsill. I fling myself at them and unravel the parchment from Slicewing’s leg. I read the note once, and then again two more times as equal parts anticipation and dread take hold. Perhaps the crows sense the change in my mood, because they stop hopping around. I fold up the parchment and tuck it into the secret pocket of my apron.

Scrawny comes to perch on my shoulder.

“Do you miss the old Dineas?” I ask him. “He may be coming back soon.”

I can see Dineas’s jaw working as he reads. I’d summoned him back to the compound with some odd story of how the last batch of potion had used improperly dried herbs. Now, with his memory restored, Dineas reads the note several times over. I fidget with my mortar and pestle as I wait for him to speak, but he simply stares at the parchment.

By now I’ve memorized the contents of the letter. We need to stay in the capital, get proof of Kiran’s wrongdoing, and expose him. But before we can do that, we must buy time by delaying the invasion of Monyar. Meanwhile, our peoples are making preparations for the worst. Tal is directing construction of shelters in the mountains, while Gatha is sending messengers to Shidadi warlords in nearby lands, in hopes they might join the fight.

“An army can’t move without its supplies,” Dineas says. “That’s the most obvious way to delay things. I’ll have to find some way to destroy their supply wagons and food stores.” He looks up at me. “Unless you have something up your sleeve. Can you do anything useful with your potions? Poison the army or something?”

My pestle falls still. “I can’t.”

He lifts an eyebrow.

“I took vows when the Goddess’s knowledge was passed to me. I can use my skills only to heal, not to harm.” I wonder if I can still justify this refusal, after all the compromises I’ve already made, but deliberate infection feels like a clear step too far.