“The Third Huntsman of Faul—yes. Remember, you don’t necessarily have to pledge yourself to one temple exclusively. I was pledged to Faul as a novice, but secretly the masked god recruited me to the cause. Now I spend my days with Faul and my nights with Mythris. It’s how Constance and I first met.”

“What?” Lena blinked, confusion sinking under a kind of anger—at him, perhaps, but more at herself. It occurred to her how little she knew Emris, a man she had met a handful of days ago, a man she had nevertheless trusted. He had told her about the initiates of Mythris, their reputation as spies and assassins for hire. If that was true … She stared at his face, trying to figure out if another version of Emris was hidden beneath: a killer, a liar. Masks behind masks.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes grave. “Lena, I can see you’re struggling—and I can’t blame you. It’s a lot to take in. But I’m still me. I never wanted to lie to you. And now I have to tell you something important.”

His serious expression made her nod slowly, pushing away her shock. “What is it?” she asked, her voice quiet.

He ran a hand through the tight curls of his hair. “It’s Constance. I had it all wrong. I’ve spoken to her at last, and I finally understand.”

“Spoken to Constance?” She frowned, uncomprehending. “How?”

“When we were together, we spelled two mirrors, one of mine and one of hers, so that we could speak to each other in secret. That’s mine.” He gestured at the mirror hanging beside his bed.

Lena tried to ignore the tug in her heart at the intimacy this implied. “What did she say? What’s happening in Duke’s Forest?”

“Things aren’t going well. Constance said her father is dead, and the Justice has seized control outright, crowning himself Duke. Constance has been imprisoned in the dungeons. But, Lena, listen to me. I finally understand what she is trying to do.” His eyes had lit up with something like joy. “She’s not a necromancer at all. She was studying the storm spell, and she’s going to try and break it.”

“The storm spell?”

“The storm cloud over Duke’s Forest is … well, it’s a spell to raise the dead, Lena. And it’s starting to happen.”

“The Ancestors?” she gasped, her mind turning confusedly, remembering how dead bodies had reacted to her touch. Had it been the storm cloud all along, not her at all? It made no sense—she was a mage, wasn’t she? And who would want to raise the Ancestors anyway—to what purpose? “Where do I fit into this?”