At Gretchya’s nod, Alma took the map and unfolded it toward the nearest lantern. “This is valuable.” She glanced up. “How did you get it?”

Iseult didn’t answer, and fortunately, she was saved from having to by Gretchya. “It does not matter if the Hell-Bards are far away. Corlant approaches, and so we must leave.” She snapped her fingers at the hunters. “Alert the tribe. We must move immediately.” She waited until the women were out of the tent before squaring her body to Iseult. Like before, her gaze roamed up and down.

And like before, Iseult’s parasite reemerged. “Three weeks we have lived here safely, Iseult. Then you shred our careful weave in a single morning.”

The heat spindled wider, mixed with a new heat: a Puppeteer’s heat. With outrage. After all, it wasn’t as if Iseult had come here on purpose. It wasn’t as if she’d known her mother and these Nomatsis were living in the middle of an acid lake.

But she got no chance to respond before her mother turned away. “Alma,” she said, “take Iseult and Dirdra to the healer. If you need me, I will be dealing with the prisoner.” Then without another word or even another glance for Iseult, Gretchya left the tent.

The reunion was complete. Iseult was dismissed.

Fourteen Days After the Earth Well Healed

Safi watches the dancers. Rich gemstone colors stream and streak, thin silks and satins intended only for dancing. Worn once, never worn again. A waste that Merik Nihar would have scowled at.

But Safi cannot scowl—not when so many might see. She sits on this new throne and watches, a tiny smile to grace her lips. A genuine smile for she has a secret, and tonight that secret will come thundering outward.

Her newly sewn pocket scratches against her right breast, where the square-cut bodice dips low. Poorly added, but sufficient.

“You look disgusted,” Henrick says. He shifts in his throne, the wood protesting.

And Safi realizes that perhaps her expression isn’t as poised as she thinks, but she has always been good at quickly conjured lies. She is the right hand after all, always there to distract. To display.

“There is a war on,” she replies, dipping her head toward the dancers. “Yet to look at them, you wouldn’t know that Azmir burns or raiders come this way.”

Henrick grunts, and several seconds drum past with only strings and footsteps to fill them. “You must understand, my Empress, that there is no war here. To these people, it is a distant thing fought by others—and I work hard to keep it that way.”

“So you lie to them?”

“No.” His forehead pinches, the skin reddened by the tightness of his crown. “The nobility are not stupid, and the common folk even less so. But as you will quickly learn, people take emotional cues from their leaders. If we are calm, then they are too.”