burst into his study, the mood in the room already heavy. Savedra breathed a silent blessing when Ashlin stepped forward to speak. The princess delivered the account like a reporting soldier, leaving out only their conversation before the demon struck. She would have searched the black tunnels herself, but Savedra had insisted they not do so alone.
Adrastos paled at the news. Captain Kurgoth, still wan from his encounter with Phaedra, swore under his breath. Mathiros’s hand tightened on the arm of his chair, but his expression didn’t change. He looked worse than Savedra had seen him since the queen’s death—ashen and sunken-cheeked, eyes dark with lack of sleep.
She ought to speak, tell him all she knew. It was treason not to, and her secrets and slowness had led Nikos into danger. Or worse. No, she told herself fiercely, digging her nails into her palms. Not worse. Never that. Then Ashlin stopped speaking and Mathiros began, and her moment’s resolve was lost.
“Mikhael, take men and search the tunnels,” the king ordered immediately. “Adras,” Mathiros continued when the captain saluted and strode from the room. “Bring me Kiril. No excuses, no delays—find him and bring him here.”
The chancellor nodded, but the crepey flesh of his throat worked as he swallowed. “As you wish, Majesty.”
“Sire,” Ashlin said when they were alone, “what can I do? My sword is yours.”
Mathiros tried to smile and managed a grimace. “I’m glad my son has you. But now I—and Nikos—need you safe. Stay inside. When I have some news I’ll let you know.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Ashlin couldn’t hide her annoyance at the dismissal, but Mathiros gave no sign of noticing, only stared into the distance. He hadn’t looked at Savedra since they first entered the room. It would have angered her, but at the moment she didn’t want that black gaze trained on her. When he didn’t speak again the princess gave a shallow bow and turned on her heel.
Ashlin snarled as soon as the door closed behind them. “I’ll be damned if I’ll pace my cage and wait for news. We have to do something, Vedra. But what, against demons and sorcery?”
“We’ll find him,” Savedra said, and almost laughed. She’d never thought she would have to reassure the princess when it came to Nikos. “And against sorcery we need a sorceress.”
Isyllt returned home to find a coach waiting outside her door and an unhappy soldier shivering beside it. Dusk was too close to be out on a dead day.
“Lady Iskaldur?” The soldier’s Celanoran accent made her name into something musical. “The princess sent me to fetch you to the palace. Will you go?”
His voice was mild, polite, but his posture spoke of trouble and haste, perhaps worse than what they might find being out of doors at nightfall. “Of course,” she said, saving her questions, and let him help her into the carriage.
“The princess sends for me?” she asked when they were underway. Purpose and motion were a ward against little spirits—misdirection was their most powerful weapon, luring travelers away from safe paths, tricking them into stopping. If they were set upon by a demon, they would need more protection than the walls of a carriage.
“The princess commands me,” the soldier said, pulling his scarf aside to bare a lean, chill-reddened face. “But in fact I believe it’s the pallakis Savedra who sends for you. I came because we heathens don’t have a healthy fear of your dead days.” He grinned, baring a chipped eyetooth. Isyllt smiled back, though the expression felt clumsy and stiff. “Although,” the man said, cocking his head, “I don’t like the sound of the wind.”
“You shouldn’t. However much superstition surrounds these days by now, the dangers at night are real. Most of the spirits you’ll see tonight are harmless, wildling things and tricksters, but they’re still hungry, and enough of them together may try more than tricks.”
He touched a charm nestled in the hollow of his throat—a bead painted with a red eye. The sign of Andraste, Celanor’s warrior goddess, if Isyllt remembered their legends aright. Saint Andraste, the politic would call her now—only years ago the Celanorans were spirit-worshiping heretics.
The soldier frowned, and she realized he’d said something. “I’m sorry?” she said, pressing her shoulders against the padded seat.
“I asked if you were well, Lady.”
“Underslept, is all.” Underslept, overextended. All the scars on her heart ripped fresh. But she had no time to indulge in grief. After the New Year, after Erisín was safe and this demon dead and