His mouth twisted into a joyless smile. “I despise my father, but I have to admit, he gets things done. Soon we will be in a position to drive the southerners all the way to Bruinswallow.”

“Soon? How soon?” Raisa said. “After Karn and his thugs have knocked the walls down? I do hope they’ll send word to me in the dungeons of Ardenscourt.”

Micah scowled down at his hands for a long moment. Finally, he released an exasperated breath and looked up at her. “My father holds the Armory of the Gifted Kings.”

The armory? Han had said he knew where it was. That he was going to find it. Had he meant to take it from Gavan Bayar? Was that why he’d gone to Gray Lady?

“Raisa?” Micah said.

“What?” she snapped.

“Do you understand what I’m saying? There’ll be no opposing him now. You’ll see the squabbles on the council die away as the other members rally behind him. The copperheads will be rendered impotent. Their monopoly on flashcraft will be irrelevant.”

“Have you actually seen it?” Raisa asked skeptically. “The armory?”

“I have proof.” Micah unfastened the buckle on the flap of the bag, lifted out a glittering object, and set it on the bench between them.

It was a crown, heavier even than the ceremonial coronation crown of the Gray Wolf queens, made of red gold and platinum, studded with fiery stones.

It glowed, illuminating the hard planes and angles of Micah’s face. Raisa reached for it, then hastily snatched her hands back. Beware of Bayars bearing gifts.

“It won’t bite,” Micah said dryly. “There’s no flash in it.”

Raisa studied the crown. It was hauntingly familiar, though not immediately identifiable.

“What is this?” she asked, wrenching her gaze away to look up at Micah.

“A wizard would recognize it at once,” Micah said. “It’s the Crimson Crown—the Crown of the Gifted Kings. Lost for a thousand years—since the death of the Demon King. Until now.”

The story came back to her. All traces of wizard rule had been erased from the palace and the temples centuries ago. But the old paintings still enshrined the memory of the gifted kings.

In the ballroom at Aerie House, portraits of Bayar ancestors lined the walls. Those that had married into the Gray Wolf line had fancied themselves kings. In the paintings, some wore that crown, or displayed it in the background. Some of the portraits were coronation scenes, in which the captive Wolf queens crowned their gifted husbands.

She’d seen paintings of the Demon King, in a flaming rage, the Crimson Crown on his head. A pretender—as all of the gifted kings had been.

Hope kindled in Raisa’s heart. If it was true—if the Bayars had truly uncovered the armory—might it be possible to drive out the southerners? Could it pose a way out of this terrible dilemma?