out past the guards, who didn’t look sorry to see the back of me, and took me back up yet another different staircase—I’d seen half a dozen in the castle already—and showed me to a tiny dark cell of a room on the second floor. It had a narrow window that looked out on the stone wall of the cathedral: a rainspout shaped like a wide-mouthed and hungry gargoyle sneered in at me. She left me there before I could think to ask her what to do next.
I sat down on the cot. I must have slept, because by the next thought I had, I was flat on the cot instead, but it wasn’t a deliberate choice; I didn’t even remember lying down. I struggled up still sore and weary, but too conscious that I had no time to waste, and no idea what to do. I didn’t know how to make anyone pay attention to me, unless I went to the middle of the courtyard and began to lob fire spells at the walls. I doubted that would make the king any more inclined to let me speak at Kasia’s trial.
I was sorry now that I’d given the Dragon’s letter away, my only tool and talisman. How did I know it had even been delivered? I decided to go find it: I remembered the guard captain’s face, or at least his mustache. There couldn’t be many mustaches like that even in all Kralia. I stood up and pulled the door open boldly, walked out into the hallway, and nearly ran straight into the Falcon. He was just raising his hand to the latch on my door. He flowed deftly back out of my way, saving us both, and gave me a small, gentle smile that I didn’t trust at all.
“I hope you’re feeling refreshed,” he said, and offered me his arm.
I didn’t take it. “What do you want?”
He turned the gesture neatly into a long inviting sweep of his hand towards the hallway. “To escort you to the Charovnikov. The king has given orders you’re to be examined for the list.”
I was so relieved that I didn’t quite believe him. I eyed him sidelong, half-expecting a trick. But he kept standing there with his arm and smile, waiting for me. “At once,” he added, “although perhaps you’d care to change first?”
I would have liked to tell him what to do with his mocking little hint, but I looked down at myself: all mud and dust and sweat-stained creases, and underneath the mess a homespun skirt that stopped just below my knee and a faded brown cotton shift, worn old clothes I’d begged off a girl in Zatochek. I didn’t look like one of the servants; the servants were far better dressed than me. Meanwhile Solya had exchanged his black riding clothes for a long robe of black silk with a long sleeveless coat embroidered in green and silver over it, and his white hair spilled over it in a graceful fall. If you had seen him from a mile away, you would have known him for a wizard. And if they didn’t think me a wizard, they wouldn’t let me testify.
“Try and present a respectable appearance,” Sarkan had said.
Vanastalem gave me clothes to match the mood of my sullen muttering: a stiff and uncomfortable gown of rich red silk, endless flounces edged in flame-orange ribbons. I could have used an arm to lean on, at that, trying to negotiate stairs in the enormous skirt without being able to see my feet, but I grimly ignored Solya’s subtly renewed offer at the head of the staircase, and picked my way slowly down, feeling for the edges of the steps with my tight-slippered toes.
He clasped his hands behind his back instead and paced me. He remarked idly, “The examinations are often challenging, of course. I suppose Sarkan prepared you for them?” He threw me a mildly inquiring glance; I didn’t answer him, but I couldn’t quite keep myself from dragging my bottom lip through my teeth. “Well,” he said, “if you do find them difficult, we might provide a—joint demonstration to the examiners; I’m sure they would find that reassuring.”
I only glared at him and didn’t answer. Anything we did, I was sure he’d take the credit for. He didn’t press the matter, smiling on as though he hadn’t even noticed my cold looks: a circling bird high above waiting for any opening. He took me through an archway flanked by