By the time I made it to my feet, there were others up, and they too were holding their heads, stumbling in pain and confusion. Many of the horses had run away, but not Snap. I called her with my fingers, but I couldn’t hear any sound and obviously neither could she. She looked as puzzle-headed as I felt. I reeled toward her and she shied a little. Unlike the other horses, who were dodging their staggering, injured riders, Snap was used to my awkward gait and swinging arms. If I was even more unsteady than usual, she didn’t back away, and I was able to catch her reins in my good hand. With that contact, we both were steadier. Snap’s eyes rolled, but she let me pull her to the body of the king’s horse. I climbed on top of poor Fryst and from there onto Snap’s back.

I hadn’t checked her for any injuries, but she gamely started off. I could feel some unevenness in her gait at first. Her hooves made no sound, or rather I heard none, only a roaring of wind in my ears. I couldn’t guide her; I could only cling with my good hand to the saddle, hunched over with all my weight in one stirrup. I hung on, tears streaming down my face, wailing, I’m sure, like a shade escaped from the underworld. The Medes looked back over their shoulders and mocked me.

The explosion had been heard for miles, and the Medes were racing away ahead of any pursuers. Snap couldn’t keep up, but she hammered on as best she could. Her gait got steadier as she recovered from the shock of the explosion, and I was able to pull myself better into my saddle and tighten the strap across my leg. I had no illusions that I would be of any use to the king. I only knew that I must reach his side if I could.

The Mede encampment, a city of tents ten times the size of our own, was well prepared to repel any attempt at a rescue. The men at the barricades saw me. They could have shot at me, they could have taken poor Snap’s feet out from under her; they did neither. They snatched at Snap’s reins, but she was having none of that. She galloped through the pickets, dodging and weaving as I clung to the saddle. It was no more than a game to the Mede soldiers, and once we were past, they returned to their positions.

Snap took me to the center of the camp, where I slid off her back and frantically made my way between the stamping horses to where the king lay on the ground. I dropped over him as if I could somehow protect him, only to be dragged up and tossed aside.

The king lived, it seemed, for they patted his cheeks and tipped a pitcher of water on his face. He didn’t move as a man bent over him, tugging at his hook. The man fell back, clutching his hand and swearing. Someone else brought a broad leather strap, and they buckled the king’s arms to his chest. I heard him groan as they rolled him over. When they lifted him to his feet, one of his legs couldn’t bear weight. As they walked him forward, his head hanging down, it buckled under him.

I tried to follow, meaning to stay with him no matter what, to be his support to the bitterest end, but just as we reached the open doorway of a tent, someone pushed me hard from behind and I fell heavily. The muffled uproar in my ears had faded, and as I lay on the ground struggling for breath, I heard it quite clearly when my grandfather who was Erondites said, “Welcome, Eugenides,” from inside the tent.

There was a stack of campaign trunks just inside the doorway of the tent. While there were still men standing between me and my grandfather, I scrambled toward them, fleeing like a mouse into the space between the trunks and the curving side of the tent. I hid myself there. I abandoned my king.

“You must be surprised to see me.” My grandfather sounded smug.

“What?” said the king, evidently still deaf.

My grandfather repeated himself, louder.

“No,” said the king. “You are no surprise, Erondites. You,” he said to someone else, “are Ion Nomenus?”

“Yes,” someone said softly.

“Yes?”

“Yes!”

“You are a surprise,” admitted the king.

Nahuseresh, impatient at being ignored, said, “Enough introductions, Thief.”

“King.”

“Bastard,” said Nahuseresh. “A sneaking Thief who has stolen a throne.”

“It was never yours,” said the king mildly.

“Why does he still have this?” Nahuseresh said, his voice as sharp as the blade on the inside edge of the king’s hook.

“Don’t!” one of the guards shouted from outside the open doorway. I heard Nahuseresh hiss.

The king mocked him. “The last man who tried that is missing a finger,” he said.

I hoped Nahuseresh’s fingers were gone, but he probably would not have remained in the tent if he’d been seriously injured.

Bu-seneth said, “You’ll sign a surrender and take an oath of loyalty to our emperor. You will accept Nahuseresh as your prime minister, and when your people have disbanded their armies, you will be returned to them.”

“What?”

Bu-seneth had to repeat himself.

“I will not,” said the king.

I cannot bring myself to describe what happened next. Crouching, head pounding, I listened to treason, torture, and betrayal. I would have fled then, giving myself away as I tried to escape the sound and the choking, sickening smell of irons heated in the fire. I would have left my king all alone. I know it and I have never forgiven myself.

All that saved me was the unexpected kindness of the traitor Ion Nomenus. I crept out from behind the trunk and locked eyes with him—a slim, serious-looking man standing on the far side of the tent. He had been waiting for me to appear, and with a glance at the men bent over the king, he gave a tiny shake of his head. With the slightest motion of his fingers, he waved me back.

So I stayed. I listened to Bu-seneth’s frustration growing as they could get nothing from the king, not even a sound. Peering out from my hiding place, I saw Nahuseresh bear down with all his weight on the king’s injured knee.

“Tell me again that you are king,” he said, lording over him.

The king broke his silence to oblige, saying in a conversational tone, “Annux, if you prefer.”

“Annux?” Nahuseresh said contemptuously. “You are a puppet, dancing for the queen. She will know her place when I rule over her.”

“When I am dead,” the king said, his voice breathy, “you will still have to fight my armies. And the Braels. And the Gants.”

At his words, Bu-seneth and my grandfather and Nahuseresh all straightened to share a smile with each other.

“Oh, Eugenides,” Nahuseresh mocked him. “The Continental Powers? Do you really think they are coming to save you?”

“I do, actually,” said the king.

“They sent you to your death,” said my grandfather.

“You lie,” said the king.

“I do not,” Erondites answered. “You think the Continental Powers are your allies. You are wrong. They do not fear the Medes. You are the danger. You took Attolia, subdued Eddis and Sounis. You summon ships—the Neutral Islands deliver them up. You control the passes and the sea roads. You threaten their trade routes, Eugenides. The Medes, the Continent, they cannot allow another power to grow on the shores of the Middle Sea.”

“You fool,” said Nahuseresh. “Who do you think put the bomb in the cairn?”

Bu-seneth said something contemptuous that I did not understand. To the king, he said, very seriously, “That you survived was our good fortune. The gods delivered you to us.”