and Rhema to get the horses. Then Cal stares out at the bleak expanse of the wintry field, at the morning sky that already seems heavy with snow. These long vistas in Montrice are still foreign to him. For all their perils, he still prefers the swampy forests of Renovia. There’s a blankness to this place; it’s hard to feel at home.
“Come on.” Cal stands over Jander, sounding more gruff than he intends. In all his relief about thwarting the threat to Lilac, he let his guard down. He should never have encouraged Jander to have so much hope that they would find the demon. When they return to Mont, they can go to the tower together to talk once again with the nervous scribe. Perhaps he saw or heard something last night when Lady Marguerite helped him back to his chambers.
They ride back to the too-quiet city, a subdued procession. Cal notices Rhema tending her injured leg, rubbing at it when she thinks no one is looking. She had been brave last night and leaping at the door may have jarred the leg, or even reopened the wound. She doesn’t complain—aware, perhaps, of Jander’s profound gloom and of their failure, once again, to destroy the threat to the kingdoms.
There’s a feeling in the air of the pregnant stillness that precedes snow, and the citizens of Mont scuttle about, tending to animals or lugging provisions. Cal wonders whether news has spread of the events at the castle, and what people are saying. He doesn’t wear livery, so nobody sees him as a castle denizen; in his drab cloak and dirty boots, he could be a groundskeeper for one of the aristocratic families, or a hunt leader. The name of Caledon Holt is famous in all the kingdoms of Avantine, but his face is quite unknown. That’s the way he’s always liked it, as long as he wasn’t invisible to Lilac.
He’s not sure that she sees him anymore. They’ve been kept apart so thoroughly since he returned to Mont. With every passing day he realizes that he and Lilac might never be intimate again. The pain of that thought wallops him in the gut, a harder punch than any Aphrasian could deliver.
After they dismount in the castle yard, a page approaches Rhema and mumbles something in her ear. Without another word she disappears into the main building. Perhaps Lilac has summoned her, Cal thinks, trying not to feel the sting of jealousy and disappointment. Rhema had certainly helped save the queen’s life last night. Jander leads the horses away, and Cal pauses to observe the captain of the guard. He’s trying to assemble the last batch of recruits for the march north: They’re clearly jittery this morning, and there are fewer of them than Cal remembers from yesterday. He wonders how many of them have run away overnight, spooked by the body of Lady Cecilia smashed on the cobbles and the wild story of a would-be murderer in the queen’s chambers.
The captain doesn’t look like he’s had much sleep. He barks orders to the young men shambling about in loose formation, their faces either scared or mutinous. If these are the men Cal’s supposed to be riding north with, he doesn’t fancy their chances against an Aphrasian enemy. The frights of last night at the castle are nothing compared with the dark magic he faced in the Renovian mine. They should have set off by now as well, because at this time of year there are too few hours of daylight.
He walks over to the captain, frowning at the ineptitude of the new soldiers. They’re hopeless. Some of them will desert, he’s sure, before they arrive at their destination.
“If we’re moving out today,” he says, “there’s little time to waste.”
The captain shakes his head.
“No one’s going anywhere,” he tells Cal. “Orders of the Small Council. They’ve changed their minds again, after what happened last night.” He sounds exasperated and rubs his face, clearly exhausted.
“Makes sense, I suppose,” Cal says, though he grasps the captain’s frustration. A military campaign fraught with danger needs preparation and execution, not endless postponements. For all the duke’s bluster, he’s never fought in a military campaign, and Lord Burley doesn’t look as though he’s ever got his hands dirty with anything. The Chief Scribe has never lived anywhere but this castle.
“I fear we’ve lost control of this place that should be our stronghold,” the captain tells Cal. He lowers his voice, glancing around to make sure no