“Who?”

Enver emerged from his tent. “King Zachary. It appears he was taken by the aureas slee shortly after we left Sacor City.”

“What? How in the hells? Where is he?”

“I do not know,” Nari said. “The slee battled the gryphons and carried him off.”

Estral half-stood, sat back down, assailed by dozens of thoughts all at once, and none of them good. What would they do? Return to Sacor City? Would that do King Zachary any good? Was he alive? Then she thanked the gods they’d a queen, but how would Estora handle the responsibility of the realm? And she in the precarious position of carrying twins . . . They needed King Zachary in this time of unrest, with Second Empire exerting itself.

“Little cousin?” Enver said.

She shook herself. “Yes?”

“It is ill news. I believe it should be withheld from the Galadheon for the time being. I mean, until after she regains her full senses. The blow could be a detriment to her healing.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” It occurred to her to wonder if he knew of the feelings between Karigan and Zachary, or if he believed that just the fact it was her king who had been taken by the aureas slee would cause Karigan a setback.

“It was clear,” Nari said, as if reading her mind, “that he possessed strong affection for the Galadheon. It was in his demeanor, if not his words.”

“Yes,” Enver agreed, his expression inscrutable.

Estral looked from Nari to Enver. Eletians were perceptive . . . “So, what now? Where do we go from here?” She still had not found her father, and the one who had stolen her voice was in the middle of Second Empire’s encampment. And speaking of her voice, it remained hoarse. Was Idris’ gift waning?

“I believe it will be for the Galadheon to ascertain,” Enver replied, “once she is well enough to receive the news.”

“Are we just going to hide until then?”

“We are well hidden. Nari helped put in place an illusion in addition to my wards. It will give us the time we need to regroup and make decisions. And, of course, the Galadheon should not be moved until she is well enough to do so on her own.”

Everything, it seemed, had fallen to pieces. She stood and headed back to her tent and crawled beneath her blankets. Sometimes sleeping and forgetting was the best way to cope.

THE SPIRIT AND SOUL OF THE REALM

In the courtyard between the curtain wall and the keep, a platform was erected with a stout post at its center. To this, Second Empire had tied King Zachary. Fiori shifted nervously from one foot to the other. He stood assembled with the other slaves to view their king, he assumed, being humiliated. A larger group of Second Empire’s citizenry thronged before the platform like vultures ready to spring on carrion.

Captain Terrik stood on the platform identifying the king, though by now, all knew who he was. Word had spread more rapidly than a Coutre clipper that the slave known as Dav Hill was actually Zachary Davriel Hillander, king of Sacoridia. Oh, how Grandmother had exulted at the discovery.

Zachary did not look very kingly at the moment, but beaten and starved, the ropes all that held him up. His clothing, of some earlier era, was turning to rags, and was stained with blood and grime. His hair hung lank and shaggy, his beard untrimmed. His work digging out Grandmother’s special passage, the beatings he’d received, and, Fiori thought, whatever had happened to him before he ever came into Grandmother’s clutches, had taken their toll on him.

“I know you are keen to see this man executed,” Terrik was saying, “torn to pieces. I am, too, but Grandmother has grander designs for him, so he will not die this day.” His pronouncement was met with grumbling. “Be assured,” the captain continued, “of what a great blow his capture will be to his people, one which Grandmother means to exploit for the glory of God and the empire.”

He was answered with shouts of “God and empire!” and applause.

“Grandmother knows your hatred for this man and all he stands for, and so she is offering you this opportunity to express yourselves. Remember, throw nothing too hard—Grandmother wants him alive.” Terrik then jumped off the platform.

The people of Second Empire had come prepared: from toddlers to the elderly, they carried refuse, rotten eggs, entrails, slops, mud. All of these were hurled at the king. He averted his face, but it was the only sign he was conscious of the proceedings. The people jeered, cursed him, and laughed when a particularly well-aimed missile slapped against his body.

Fiori grimaced. Most of the slaves looked away. A few maybe wished they could join in. An older man, the one the king had befriended, grew red in the face and practically quivered with rage. Binning, Fiori recalled, was his name.

Inevitably, someone threw a rock despite the orders not to, and it hit the king’s chest with an audible thunk.

Oh, no, Fiori thought.

There was a pause, and then like a wave, more rocks were flung at the king.

“Hold!” Terrik cried, but a madness gripped the assembled, and people cast about themselves for rocks and stones. Someone lobbed a large block from the crumbling wall, which, thankfully, fell well short of the king.

Fiori looked desperately about for some miracle, for a flying cat to arrive and rescue the king as Karigan was rumored to have been rescued, but he saw only the bloodlust of the crowd. A stone clipped the king’s shoulder.

“No, no, no,” Fiori murmured.

But then, to his wonder, Binning broke from the group of slaves and ran—he ran for the platform and jumped up before the guards could stop him, and wrapped his arms around the king to shield him. He was hit in the back with projectiles.