And all at once, the grief and confusion that had stalked her for days on silent feet took her by the throat. She stood helplessly as the door swung shut behind her, staring at the two men who had watched over her since she was a child, horrified by what Lehav had done to them. No, a grim voice reminded her, what you did to them. Whatever role the Sons of Flame had played, it was Adare herself that had brought the two men to Olon. Tears mixed with rain on her cheeks.

“My lady,” Fulton began, then broke off with a hacking cough, body shuddering. When the fit passed, he spat onto the floor: phlegm or blood, it was hard to tell in the lamplight. “Pardon, my lady,” he said, “but just what in the sweet name of Intarra is going on?”

She had hoped, even prayed—though she was not given to prayer—that the two Aedolians were in league with il Tornja; it would be so much easier to see traitors fed to the flames. Facing them, however, the notion seemed ludicrous, petty, stupid. They weren’t the kenarang’s men, they were her men. Her guards. A part of her had known that even when she fled from them in the plaza by the Basin.

“You’re not part of it,” she said, shaking her head hopelessly, voice little more than a whisper.

“Part of what, my lady?” Fulton demanded. “Are you in danger?”

It all spilled out then, il Tornja’s treachery, Adare’s terrified flight, her need for an alliance with the Sons of Light. She crossed to them as she spoke, tugging futilely at the chains in an effort to make them more comfortable.

“You should have told us,” Fulton said, when it was all finished, shaking his head.

“I know,” Adare said, slumping to the ground, the life vanished from her legs. “I know. I wasn’t sure who to trust.”

“Although,” Birch said, raising his eyebrows weakly, “I’ve always wanted to visit Olon in the summer.”

“What now?” Fulton asked.

Adare trembled. The truth was a rusted dagger, but she owed them the truth. “Lehav, Ameredad—it’s the same guy—he wants you dead. Justice for the Sons you killed trying to rescue me.”

Fulton’s lips tightened, but he didn’t speak.

“Well, for a religious man, that’s just downright inhospitable,” Birch said. The joke was typical, but the words came out weak, as though rusted, corroded.

“I’ve tried to get him to relent,” Adare said, speaking fast, trying to drown out the guilt and shame with the sound of her own voice, “but he won’t. His people, the Sons of Flame and all the rest, they want you burned, and he won’t refuse them.” She fell silent. The words were useless. Worse than useless. Insulting.

“Without the Sons, I’ve got nothing. Il Tornja wins. Even if I refused Lehav—”