Morwenna shrugged. “Sunset means it is nearly sunrise in Chandigarl. I’ve found the timing to be quite opposite whenever I’ve gone there. This works well for two reasons. Firstly, the corridors will be mostly filled with servants, so we will not seem out of place. Secondly, I’ve just given Rucrius a sleeping draft. He’ll be unconscious for a long time. Some poisons impede magic. I’m sure you’ve probably guessed that. It would be better for us to leave while the potion is still working. Shall we go to the fountain, then?” She finished her words with an encouraging smile.

“Will you need to change your clothes?” Trynne asked.

Morwenna shook her head. “I have a ring that alters my appearance and radiates very little magic. There are so many treasures in the Forbidden Court, so many relics of the Deep Fathoms, ours will hardly stand out. Have you had any word from Lady Sinia? I do miss her guidance.”

Trynne had to breathe deeply to endure the stab of pain in her heart. She shook her head no.

“I pray to the Fountain she is well,” Morwenna said graciously. The two young women started down the steps together, and Morwenna linked arms with her as she’d done so often in the past.

It made Trynne cringe inside.

There was nothing in Morwenna’s demeanor or attitude that hinted she was about to perform trickery. After walking together to one of the palace fountains—each was guarded by Espion day and night—Morwenna stepped into the waters without any hint of ceremony, her arm still linked with Trynne’s. Trynne followed and they both stood together.

Into the cistern, Trynne thought, her stomach full of butterflies. It was a motto of courage she’d learned from her father. He’d feared heights when he was a child, but Lady Evie had grasped his hand and jumped into the water of the cistern at Kingfountain with him—an experience that had awoken his bravery.

“First, we go to Pisan,” Morwenna said. “It intersects the east-west ley line. Normally I would have brought us to Marq or Guilme, but both are controlled by Gahalatine.” She uttered the word of power in a low voice, “Kennesayrim,” and the magic pulled them away on the ley line. It was a familiar sensation now, and in an instant, they were standing in a small circular fountain at the poisoner school. Night had just fallen, and Trynne saw the torches on the walls, flickering orange light. The stone sconces were sculpted into the form of twisting snakes and the walls were made of wood and plaster. An old, mildewy smell of waterways and damp corners filled the air.

Morwenna wrinkled her nose, still clutching Trynne’s arm. “Have you been to Pisan before?” she asked.

“Never,” Trynne replied.