“We’ve all heard rumors about magical weapons—devices to enhance magic, or perhaps even steal it. But of course no one dared investigate.”

If Chatham had truly created the butterfly, as she suspected, then had someone commissioned him to do so? Or was it just a toy? At Lena’s thoughtful, confused silence, Emris suddenly smiled.

“I’m sorry. I’ve frightened you. Rant over, I promise. Anyway, what I mean to say is that you really shouldn’t seek Chatham out. You’re better off here, learning how to control your powers in the proper way—and we’ll begin tomorrow.” He gave her a measuring look. “For now, it’s time you had some rest. Come on, follow me.”

He led her to a door half-hidden in an alcove beside the fireplace, unlocked it, and pressed the large brass key into her palm: inside was a small and sparsely furnished bed-chamber with a low pallet, a chest of drawers, and a bathtub in the corner.

“This is one of our guest rooms, but it’s yours until we get you settled. I’ll send a novice with hot water for the tub. You’ll find fresh clothes in the drawers. I’ll check up on you in the morning.” He walked back to the table, downed the rest of his wine. “I’ll need to make my report to the First Huntsman and set up your initial assessment and training as soon as possible. I’ve got a feeling he’d like to assess you personally.”

“That’s … reassuring,” Lena said, managing a weak smile. “And thank you.”

“What for?” He looked surprised.

She shrugged, embarrassed. “You know … I was dying from snake poison. And then I didn’t die. That’s because of you.”

He nodded, shifted on his feet but held her gaze. “Please don’t leave this room unless I fetch you, Lena. I still have so much to explain, but trust me, few of my fellow hunters will take kindly to a stranger—let alone a Rogue.”

“All right, I understand,” said Lena, although she did not.

The door shut, and she was alone once more.

EIGHT

The Burden of Rule

After a couple of hours’ restless sleep, Constance woke early in her mother’s bed, listening to the hounds howling and barking below. The south tower was above the kennels, and as a child she’d often woken to the sound of dogs preparing for the hunt. But they weren’t just hunting hounds anymore: they were executioners, and somehow the tenor of their howls had changed to the cold keening of a sharpening blade.