We took the hour’s walk to the village of Colombey as an opportunity to discover information, the four of us ranging up and down in pairs to listen to the guards and prisoners. But we learned little other than that the islanders had been roused from their hamlets and told they’d either swear fealty to the rightful ruler of the Isle or find themselves on the sharp end of a sword. Most had capitulated. Some had not. Those who had not hadn’t survived long.

The village had a thousand times its usual population, many milling about aimlessly, while others sat in the mud, their eyes distant. The armed men bullied townsfolk, farmers, and fishermen into a ragged line leading into the tavern. Men and women. Children, some so young they had to be carried by a parent or older sibling. The only people I saw none of were the elderly and infirm, and a sickening suspicion filled my gut that it was because Lessa had already ordered them killed.

They shoved a woman holding a child wrapped in blankets toward the line, but she resisted, asking, “Who is he? And why does he need the oaths of children barely old enough to speak? My boy’s sick – he can’t be out in the cold like this.”

“He’s Prince Roland de Montigny,” one of the men replied, hand drifting to the blade strapped to his waist. “Heir to the throne and soon to be King of the Isle of Light.”

“What of the Regent?” She looked bewildered, and I wanted to warn her, to tell her to be silent. “The Isle has no King.”

“It does now,” the man replied. “And His Highness has been wont to take off the heads of those who say otherwise, so best you keep those pretty lips of yours sealed unless it’s to swear allegiance to him. As for your boy…” He ran a finger down the edge of his sword. “He swears or he dies, so he’d best muster up his strength while you wait.”

The woman paled and pulled the blanket-wrapped form closer. Then she stepped into line.

There were too many people for us to risk going closer, the chances of one of them stumbling through Marc’s illusion growing by the second.

“It’s too bright! Shut the door!” Roland’s voice cut through the noise of the crowd, and I instinctively edged closer to Marc. “Can you see him?” I whispered. “What’s he doing?”

“He’s taking their oaths.” Marc drew me backwards, and we retreated into the barn where the twins waited.

“No sign of Lessa, but Roland is inside with two of Angoulême’s lackeys,” he told them. “Roland, it would seem, has developed an intense dislike for the sun.”