“They are suffering already,” Amon said. “They’ll suffer whether you survive or not. But if you remain free, you and the Demonai can lead a counterinsurgency against Montaigne.”

“I am done with being a fugitive,” Raisa said. “We are in this fix because we have been splintered as a people since the Breaking. If we all worked together, we would have a chance. I intend to win this thing or die trying. If we can’t come together and defeat a flatlander army, then maybe we don’t deserve to exist as a sovereign nation.”

Someone tapped on the door of the audience chamber.

What now? Raisa grumbled to herself, but called out, “Come!”

The door swung wide, revealing Mick and Hallie, and, behind them, a familiar tall figure. Raisa’s heart stuttered.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Your Majesty,” Hallie said. “But when this one found out the council was meeting, he insisted on being announced.”

“Micah!” Raisa said, taking a step toward him.

“Bayar!” Lord Hakkam surged to his feet, visibly brightening. “Do you bring news from Gray Lady? Is the council intending to offer us any relief?” He peered past Micah as if hoping to see an army of wizards behind him.

Micah Bayar bowed low, his stoles brushing the stone floor. “Your Majesty,” he said, ignoring Hakkam’s outburst. “I meant to be here sooner, but it is more difficult than ever to get in to see you.” He straightened, his intense gaze sweeping Raisa from top to toe.

“Really?” Nightwalker said, tilting his head back so he could look down his nose at Micah. “Some of us have never left the queen’s side.”

Micah’s gaze flicked to Nightwalker. “Some of us have other roles and responsibilities,” he said.

“How did you manage to break through the perimeter?” Hakkam persisted, perhaps hoping to take the same road out.

“I used a glamour,” Micah said. “I think they are less concerned with people slipping in than slipping out. Still, I had to kill two sentries.”

If Micah had swum the moat or tunneled underground to get into Fellsmarch Castle, he’d cleaned up for his appearance here. The linen shirt under his coat was pristine, his trousers freshly pressed, and his mane of hair shone under the light from the torches. And yet—Raisa squinted at him—yes. He’d taken a blow to the face. There was a bruise on his cheekbone, and his nose was slightly swollen on one side.

“I do bring news from Gray Lady—unfortunately, it is mostly bad,” Micah continued. He gestured toward the table. “May I sit?”

“Please do,” Raisa said, recovering enough to motion him to a vacant seat. She resumed her seat at the head of the table.

Micah settled into a chair. He seemed jittery, haggard, taut as a bowstring.