And put the Trees back together, thus freeing the valkerax to roam upworld, and simultaneously freeing the beneathers from the spiral. She doesn’t say it, but it lingers between us and only us. She promised them freedom, and it worked. She managed to convince the council. Of course she did—she’s Fione. And the beneathers have been fighting in the spiral for so long—they no doubt jumped at the chance to shuffle the valkerax responsibility equally onto the rest of the world, where it belongs.

“Revoked?” Malachite’s pale jaw goes slack. “That’s never—that’s never happened in the history of—of ever.” He pauses, thinking. “What exactly did you say to them, Fi? We ain’t getting rid of all the valkerax—we’re just putting ’em back where they belong.”

I tame my frown, unsure if it’s my rational human thought or my valkerax blood making me bristle at his words.

“What does it matter?” I ask. “We have forces enough to make a stand at Pala Orias. Let’s focus on preparing for the impending bloody confrontation, shall we?”

Fione doesn’t sneak looks at me anymore. Probably for the best—Yorl and Lucien don’t need more fodder to doubt.

“She’s right,” Fione backs me up. “The council gave us a stipend—we’re to take it to the quartermaster in this building.”

“Fine. When do we depart?” Malachite sniffs.

“By the tenth-half. They said the battalions will meet us at the River Gate.”

“Spirits,” the beneather swears. “We better hurry, then. River’s across town.”

“I’m going to need somewhere to lie down and take a quick one,” I say. “Eventually. No hurry.”

“No hurry indeed,” Yorl agrees. “We must be absolutely sure every last one of our defenses is ready in Pala Orias before you lure her.”

“And you gotta do it well,” Malachite presses. “Make her real mad, so she just comes for us and not anybody else.”

Not Pala Amna, not his city. I nod reassuringly. “C’mon, Mal. When have I ever let you down?”

“Constantly?” he offers.

“And lovingly,” I tease.

Our shuffling footsteps resound as Malachite leads the way down a corridor and into a huge saferoom reinforced with bars of what look like sparkling diamond. The light’s so fractured and pure, it hurts to look at it directly.

“Metal in short supply down here or something?” I ask with a wince.

“The valkerax destroy a lot of it with their fire breath,” Malachite points out.

“And the digging of the valkerax routinely unearths large deposits of gemstones otherwise inaccessible to mortals,” Yorl adds. “Making it the primary source of the beneather’s wealth in upworld trade routes.”

“It all goes to the spiral, anyway,” Malachite huffs. “Every last piece of gold.”

“And it seems to be the main selling point of their architecture,” Fione marvels under her breath at the gems glittering in the ceiling.