The Deciregus considers. He studies each of my companions, his gaze lingering a moment on Mula. At last he says, “The Frozen Waterfall Mourns Her Raging Youth, please prepare quarters for our guests.”

Storm’s sister is the only one still on her knees. Her eyes shift to avoid his gaze, and her voice shakes as she stands, saying, “Yes, Honored Father,” and then sweeps from the room. I stare after her, wondering if I have read her terror correctly.

I’ve been in this situation before, and I expect to be placed under house arrest. I listen for the sounds of drawn weapons and marching feet. But no one makes a move. The Deciregus says, “What knowledge, exactly, do you seek?”

I don’t hesitate. “I want to know why you have pursued me so doggedly. I want to know where the gate of darkness leads. And I want to meet the other bearer.”

If he is surprised that I know even that much, he does not show it. “And what do you offer in return for this knowledge?”

“Knowledge for knowledge, of course. And . . .” I wave a hand nonchalantly. “A few other minor concessions. If you tell me what I want to know, I will reveal the location of the zafira.” The fact that it lies buried beneath a mountain of rubble will have to wait for another time.

His Godstone flashes bright blue as he launches to his feet. “How do I know you speak the truth? All Joyans are liars.”

“So everyone keeps telling us,” Hector mutters under his breath.

“I have seen it with my own eyes,” Storm says. “I passed beyond the gate and tasted its power for myself. This is why my sister agreed to lead us here to speak with you—she sensed the growing power inside me. And Queen Elisa would be dismayed to discover that harm had come to someone who aided her.”

Is that why he sent Waterfall away? To be punished or killed?

But upon hearing Storm’s words, something in the Deciregus’s face changes. He steps down the dais, arms outstretched. Hector shifts into a defensive stance beside me, but the sorcerer has eyes only for Storm. “My son,” he says, and they clasp arms. “The only Invierno in thousands of years to pass the gate that leads to life. If the zafira let you live, then you are truly an animagus now.”

I eye him warily. His change of heart seems too sudden, and his smile does not reach his eyes.

The Deciregus turns to me. “All three of your questions lead to the same place. Rest. Eat. Tonight, while the city sleeps, I will take you to the Temple of Morning, where you shall have your answers.”

The seneschal signals, and a gaggle of barefoot Inviernos surrounds us and herds us away with the press of their frail bodies. We leave the audience hall and its massive sequoia behind for a dank tunnel that smells of algae and rat urine. After a few turns and a single flight of steep stairs, we come to a doorway that opens into a small stone chamber. There are several windows, but they are high up, making it impossible to see in or out. Tapestries covering the walls and rich rugs the colors of sunset can’t keep the place from feeling tight and cold.

“I apologize for the accommodation, Your Majesty,” the seneschal says. “But it’s the best we can do for now. We dare not put you somewhere prominent. Crooked Sequoia House has many enemies, and I would not place bets on your survival should it become known that we have offered you hospitality.”

“Thank you,” I say. “The room is fine.”

“I suggest that you and your party refrain from doing any magic. Every animagus in the city would sense you, if they have not already.”

“We have no intention of using magic while enjoying the hospitality of Crooked Sequoia House. Except to defend ourselves, of course.”

“Of course. I’ll have refreshments sent. The door will remain unlocked—you are not prisoners here. But my strong recommendation is that you stay out of sight.” The seneschal bows and departs, swinging the heavy door closed behind him.

“Well,” says Mara, staring at the door. “That went better than expected.”

“It went too well,” Storm mutters. He runs his fingers through his near-white hair and stares off into the distance. “I knew my father would jump at the chance to help us, but . . .” Doubt lines his beautiful features.

“Waterfall was sure he would too,” I remind him. “You must have had good reason.”

He nods. “He is one of only two Deciregi who believe that making war against your people is a shameful waste of resources and an evil in the sight of God. And allying with Joya’s queen and bearer would be a great coup against his enemies. Still . . .”

“I did not like him,” Mula says. “I did not like his eyes.”

“We will be wary,” I promise.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to tell them where the zafira is?” Mara asks. She and Belén sit side by side on a narrow cot, their shoulders a finger’s breadth apart.

I let out a breath of frustration. “No,” I admit. “I’m not sure. But if what they believe is true, that our people stole it from them thousands of years ago, along with their land and livelihoods, then it’s the right thing to do.”

“Also, it’s buried under a mountain of rubble,” Hector adds. “It would take time and considerable resources to mine through to it.”

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “Exactly. I like the idea of the Inviernos being thus occupied for many generations. I have a navy. They don’t. If they misbehave, we’ll simply cut them off from the island.”

Hector regards me with open admiration, and my face flushes. The moment passes too quickly. “We should be prepared for an ambush tonight,” he says.

“When they come for us,” Storm says, “they’ll divide us. They’ll insist that only animagi enter the Temple of Morning.”

“I will insist otherwise.”

“They’ll be quite firm,” Storm says. “They might allow you a personal attendant.”

“Belén will accompany me.”

Belén nods, but Hector says, “No. I’ll go.”

“Your ribs! Your broken—”

“Belén only has one eye.”

I glower at him. Hector is a better man than that.

He grabs my hand, and even though everyone is watching, he pulls me toward him and brings my fingers to his lips. His gaze on me is fierce. “Don’t make me watch them take you away.”

I swallow hard, realizing I don’t want to let him out of my sight either. “All right.”

Dusk is turning to night, and the high stained-glass windows cast jewel-like shadows across the walls. Oil lamps are set in alcoves around the room, and Mula takes it upon herself to light them all. Waterfall brings a tray with food and drink—an aromatic bread filled with pine nuts, hard-boiled duck eggs seasoned with basil and sage, and a large steaming pot of tea. I give a quick thought to poison, but Storm falls upon the food without hesitation, and I follow his lead. Everything is too dry for my taste, and savory rather than sweet, but still satisfying. Mula mewls like a kitten when she tastes the duck eggs and promptly shoves two more into her mouth.

Waterfall leans over to gather everything back onto her tray. Her breath catches, and her hand flies to her side.

Storm grabs her forearm. “How many?” he asks in a near whisper.

Waterfall wrenches her arm away. “He was merciful. Only five lashes.” She grabs the tray and sweeps from the room without looking back.

I stare after her, my skin crawling.

“You think my father treats her unfairly,” Storm observes.

“Are all Inviernos so harsh with their own?”

“Oh, no. My father is considered lenient and softhearted.”

I gape at him.

“We uphold discipline and loyalty to the house above all things,” he explains. “My sister agreed to help us without consulting the house prince. She should have gone to him first.”

Mara says, “Then why didn’t she?”

Storm shakes his head. “She could not have gained audience until this evening. She would have delayed action, increasing the risk that you would be discovered. Or worse, giving another house a chance to make a move. If she had spoken to him without acting, she would have received at least thirty lashes.” At our horrified looks, Storm shrugs. “We have a saying. My people call it ‘choosing the path of fewest lashes.’”

“That’s terrible,” I murmur, half to myself.

“You mistake ‘terrible’ for ’different,’” he says. “You have a similar saying, do you not? ‘The lesser of two evils’? How many times have you found it necessary to choose between bad and worse? Many, I think, in just the short time I’ve known you.”

It’s different, somehow, to be physically punished for such a thing. I’m not sure how to explain, so I just nod. But my heart is sinking, for we have such a long way to go toward understanding each other.

Dusk turns to night, and still no one comes. The others stand aside to give me room to pace, accustomed to the habit by now.

I’ve been in this situation before. Was it a year ago—less?—when Conde Treviño used the auspices of hospitality to place us under house arrest? When his soldiers came for us, Humberto was the one to accompany me, only to be brutally murdered moments later.

I sense Hector watching me as I pace. I turn to face him, to soak up his presence, to memorize his features. Unbidden, the image flashes in my mind—a knife sliding across Humberto’s precious throat, his life blood spilling out onto my hands.

His gaze turns quizzical. “What is it?”

I stride toward him, fling my arms around his waist, rest my forehead against his chest. His arms wrap my shoulders. “I don’t want anything to happen to you,” I whisper.

“Ah. I see.”

I wait for the ensuing platitude. Ximena would have offered one. Everything will be fine, my sky. The back of my throat suddenly stings to think of her. Sometimes, maybe, she is just what I need.

But that’s not Hector’s way. I look up to find his gaze as intent as always—with love, I see now. And honesty.

“It’s my duty to ensure something happens to me instead of to you,” he says. “It’s an eventuality you must be prepared for. And if it does, I want you to fight through it. Promise me, if something happens to me, you will stay the course.”

And sometimes what I need is for my fear to be addressed forthrightly. I nod up at him, feeling a little stronger. “I promise.”

A knock sounds at the door.

Everyone jumps to their feet, hands to weapons. I glance around and see readiness in the eyes of my companions. “Enter!” I call out.

The seneschal opens the door. “Your Majesty,” he says with a slight incline of his head that would never suffice as proper deference in Joya d’Arena. “His Eminence the Deciregus requests your company and that of his son. He bids you come quickly and with all possible quietude.”

“Of course.” I gesture for Hector to follow.

The seneschal raises a hand to stop me. His fingers are long and spidery and as pale as the moonrise. “Only animagi may pass through to the Temple of Morning.”

I almost roll my eyes at the sheer predictability. Before I can respond, Storm says, “But each animagus may bring a personal attendant. It is the law, and you must allow it.”

The seneschal’s blue eyes narrow. “Attendants are slaves. They come only to serve.”

Hector glares him down. “I am my queen’s to command. In everything.”

They size each other up for a moment, and finally the seneschal shrugs. “As you wish.” He turns to Storm. “Will you bring an attendant as well?”

Storm looks to me, and I consider. It would be nice to have Belén’s blade with us. But I mentally divide our strength and realize I dare not leave Mara with only a little girl to fight at her back. “Mula will accompany Storm,” I say.

Mula steps forward quickly, her golden eyes bright.

As the four of us follow the seneschal out the door, I glance back, expecting a final good-bye or a wish for luck. Mara gives me an encouraging nod, but she can’t hide the concern in her face. Belén snakes a hand over to grab hers, and she squeezes back fiercely.

The seneschal leads us deep into Crooked Sequoia House, through narrow corridors dimly lit by torches. We reach a door made of pine so old it is dry and cracking. He pulls a large brass key from his pocket and inserts it into the lock.

The door opens to a small, windowless room. Its gray stone walls and floor are completely bare—save for the large tapestry hanging on the opposite wall. The seneschal shifts his torch, and the light reveals the tapestry to be a woven masterwork in stunning colors. An animagus stands atop a high promontory, overlooking a green valley. He is different than the Inviernos I’ve encountered—taller, as thin and wispy as a stalk of grass, with blue eyes so large they seem to engulf his face. He has only three fingers on each hand, and I cannot tell if the differences are the result of a primitive style of art or if they represent an accurate depiction.

The animagus raises his staff to the sky, and blue lightning streams from the tip, colliding in a shower of sparks with a giant insectlike creature the size of a small building. The creature’s gossamer wings are stretched wide, and its gaping black mouth screams its death throes.

The door slams shut behind us, and I jump. “That tapestry is ancient,” the seneschal offers. He speaks softly, but his voice echoes. “It illustrates a great victory, the details of which are lost, alas. But we keep tapestries like this in good repair, hoping we’ll someday know more.”