The miracle at the Well had rehabilitated Adare in the eyes of many, but Lehav had been laying on anti-imperial propaganda with a trowel for a long time—it was the chief reason so many citizens were so ready to take up arms in the first place—and it took a concerted effort to reverse the message, to explain to scores, then hundreds, then thousands, that Adare was, in fact, a victim of the same vile treachery that had taken down the Intarran Church. Every morning and every night Lehav and Adare appeared in a small plaza before a new group of hardened faces, explaining that the conflict between them had been a misunderstanding, that both longed fervently for a strong empire in which the worship of Intarra would play a central part, that Ran il Tornja, kenarang turned regent, was their common foe.

“He knows we’re coming,” Lehav said one night, as the two of them sat picking over the bones of a fried carp. Despite his burns, Fulton had resumed his duties, but he waited just outside the door, leaving Adare and the soldier alone for the meal. “The palace has spies here, same as everywhere else, and there’s no way to disguise what we’re doing.”

Adare nodded wearily. “Not that we have much of a choice.”

“There are always choices.”

She looked up from the fish, studying the man. Despite their common cause, despite Fulton’s pardon and Adare’s own sudden rise in stature among the Sons of Flame, Lehav still made her uneasy. He accepted her, worked with her, but she had no feeling at all for how he felt about her, and she had not forgotten that day in the Perfumed Quarter when he almost left her to the canal rats. She didn’t question his devotion to the goddess, and Adare hoped that devotion might be enough to keep their paths running parallel, but there was no way to be sure. Unlike the others, Lehav referred to her as a princess still, not a prophet.

“Are you having doubts?” Adare asked.

Intarra knew she was having plenty of her own, but that didn’t mean she was ready to lose the Sons of Flame. Without them, her defiance was dead, as she would be, when il Tornja finally caught up with her.

“I have questions,” he said, setting his knife down, the blade disappearing into the thick sauce in the bottom of the platter.

“All right then,” Adare said. “Ask them.”

For a moment, he remained silent, studying the carcass of the fish. After a few heartbeats, he pulled off one of the ribs, sucked on it a moment, then tossed it back onto the tray.

“What is he like?” he asked finally. “The kenarang? What kind of man is he? What kind of soldier?”

“Why don’t you tell me? You’re the one who served under him.”