“Made it out of there alive, eh?”

Some heads turned, and several voices leapt to greet him at once. North’s face brightened when he realized he was among friends.

“Why is everyone out here?” I asked, standing on my toes.

“The queen went down to address the wizards on the banks,” Owain said. “It’s her first state outing now that the mourning period for the king’s death is over. People are curious to see her.”

Another wizard took North’s arm. “All that rot aside, tell me straight, North—is what Owain told us true? A wizard poisoned the king?”

“Yes,” North said, and a few of the other wizards began to groan and mutter. “Not that it matters. I tried to give the information to Oliver and the Sorceress Imperial, and they practically threw it back in my face.”

“What in the seven hells for?” the other wizard demanded.

“They’ve wanted to fight the war all along, to grab power from the queen,” North said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I don’t know who’s worse,” someone else said. “Our leaders or Auster’s.”

“The Sorceress Imperial is taking advantage of the situation,” said North. “Of the queen and all of the Salvalites.”

“I was wondering if it was just a coincidence that they want to invade this year,” the first wizard said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“This is the year the worshippers of Salvala believe the goddess will return,” North explained. “I’ve read their scripture and so has Hecate. When they ‘align the tribes to destroy the heathens,’ they’re supposed to be granted a ‘great weapon’ to take the world back from Astraea. That’s what Auster is counting on in this dispute: help from its goddess.”

I turned toward him, surprised and curious. “Does it really say that?”

Why does it always have to come to this? I wondered. Time and time again the differences between the sister goddesses had been fought in wars, most of them unnecessary. Would the goddesses themselves have wanted that, and would they have kept up their rivalry if they had known how long its consequences would last?

North opened his mouth, only to be cut off by three loud knocks and the great groan of the gate’s doors as they were dragged open. An instant hush fell over the crowd. Four guards rode out in front of the ornate white carriage, followed by another four at the rear. The horses were brought to a halt just short of the stairs; Oliver and the Sorceress Imperial seemed to materialize out of thin air, making their way through the courtyard to greet the queen on her return.

Two attendants appeared and announced, “Her Majesty, Queen Eglantine.”

My heart was racing with so much excitement I thought it was in danger of leaving my chest. I stood on my toes, leaning forward to catch a better glimpse of the queen. North held out his arm to steady me.

The Sorceress Imperial met a prim-looking man as he came down the marble stairs. He was a lean man, well into middle age, his expression as sharp as the tip of his nose.

“That’s Pompey, one of the queen’s human advisors,” Owain whispered to me. “He’s the head steward of the castle.”

Oliver opened the door to the carriage, offering his arm to the queen.

All girls, at one point or another, have fancy dreams of becoming princesses, but few have the poise and grace required for such a title. Queen Eglantine’s enormous, diamond-studded dress didn’t weigh her down in the slightest, and it seemed to me that she glided rather than walked, almost floating past the crowds. She held her head impossibly high, and her silky golden hair—so fair it was practically white—shone in long tendrils down her back.

She didn’t even glance our way. Her eyes were on the ground as Oliver leaned over to whisper something in her ear. The wizard looked pleased with himself, with the queen’s arm tucked beneath his own as he led her along.

At the stairs, she turned around, looking as if she wanted to say something to the crowd. Instead, the Sorceress Imperial took her other arm. She, Oliver, and the queen spoke in low voices as they began their ascent, turning only at the top of the staircase to look back over the crowd.

“Ah, it seems that you’ve been noticed, lad,” Owain said.

He nodded toward the stairs. Oliver and the queen were both staring in our direction, heads bent together. Oliver was speaking into her ear—I didn’t miss the way his hand rested intimately on top of hers—but the queen said nothing. She nodded, her face tense. Pompey stood nearby.

North muttered something under his breath and kept his eyes down until the queen at last entered the castle and the crowds began to disperse.

“I’m heading back to the inn,” Owain said. “You folks coming?”

North shook his head, nodding at Pompey.

“I believe that’s our minder for the evening,” North said. The man’s eyes widened in recognition, and he waved us forward.

“Good luck with that,” Owain said, clapping North on the shoulder. “Come find me tomorrow, and we’ll have a chat.”

The steward reached us just as Owain disappeared into the sea of men and wizards.

“Pompey,” North greeted him.

“It’s been so long, Mr. North! Your mother has asked me to escort you to your chambers, but I’m sure you remember the way.”

“Remember the way?” I repeated, looking up at him.