I’m not sure of anything. I haven’t been for quite some time. But I nod all the same. “It’s the best chance we have,” I say.

“Speaking of the velastra,” Maile says, her voice already wary. “I’m going to go ahead and suggest the thing that no one has wanted to suggest. Instead of waiting for the Kalovaxians to create this magical alchemical weapon, why don’t we beat them to it? We have Jian—”

“No,” I say before she can get any further. “Brigitta was right not to trust us with that. A weapon that takes away a person’s will should not exist.”

“But if it has to exist, if it has to be used,” Maile points out, “better by us than by them.”

Heron shakes his head. “If we use the velastra, we become them,” he says.

Maile looks toward S?ren. “And you, Prinz? Your hands are already dirty; you know what war is. You can’t have these same moral hang-ups.”

S?ren holds her gaze for a few seconds. “Are you familiar with berserkers?” he asks her after a moment.

Maile’s eyes narrow. “You used them against my people. I would say I’m familiar enough with them.”

S?ren shakes his head. “From the one side of it,” he says. “But from my side of it…do you know how we got the berserkers to do what we wanted, to walk to their own deaths without a single protest?”

Maile doesn’t answer, but I do.

“You drugged them,” I said, remembering what Erik told me back at the palace, when he first explained to me exactly what berserkers were.

S?ren’s eyes cut to mine, and a flash of anguish crosses them, but he nods. “It was the only way to do it, to convince them to do what we wished, to destroy themselves for our gain. But it wasn’t convincing, not really. I saw their eyes go blank, saw how they moved like marionettes on strings, dazed and not of their own accord. To take away someone’s will is to take away their very soul. I did it before and I will regret it for the rest of my life. I won’t do it again, no matter the circumstances.”

For an instant, I think Maile will argue, but eventually she clenches her jaw and looks away. “So nothing’s changed,” she says again. “In the immediate sense, at least. We’re still marching toward the Air Mine. You lot still want to go through with this foolish plan at the Ovelgan estate?”

“You only think it’s a foolish plan because you didn’t come up with it,” Erik points out.

“That doesn’t change anything,” I say, ignoring their snark. “We’ll continue on our way as soon as we can get everything packed again. The sooner the better.”

The others take that as the direction it was, and they quickly file out of the tent, Heron last. He lingers by the entrance, watching me scratch at my arm only to wince in pain.

“Maybe Cress’s grand scheme is to drive me insane with this,” I say, looking down at my wound. It’s just as red as it was when I woke up, but at least it doesn’t appear to be getting any worse.

Heron walks back toward me, holding his hand out. I show him my arm, and he examines it closely, careful to avoid touching the raw parts.

“It’s definitely a magical wound,” he says after a moment. “But I can heal it.”

I pull my arm away from him. “I’d rather you use your gifts to heal the people who need it more,” I say. “It’s irritating, but it won’t kill me.”

Heron nods, looking a touch relieved. I’m sure with all of the healing he’s been doing, he’s feeling drained. “Put some salve on it and keep it clean and covered, and it should heal on its own in time,” he says.

“Thank you,” I say.

He lingers for another second. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” he tells me. “About your dreams. I should have.”

I shake my head. “It sounded insane—even to me. I almost didn’t believe it myself.”

“I’m going to make the dreamless-sleep potion,” he tells me. “You don’t have to drink it, but you might want the option one of these days. And if she does begin to realize…well, it’ll be good to have some on hand.”

I can’t disagree with that. “Thank you,” I tell him.

He nods, smiling tiredly before ducking out of the tent.

THE PEREA FOREST IS A dense expanse of olive trees and cypresses and a few other types of trees that I can’t put a name to. I remember my mother telling me about it, how when the gods made Astrea, Glaidi made the trees from her own fingers, pushing them up through the earth and leaving a bit of herself behind in the roots so that the forest would always grow strong and thrive.

As a child, I was perplexed by the idea that Glaidi could have so many fingers, but now that part of the story doesn’t bother me. It was only a story, and the truth of it wasn’t in the details—it was in the heart. Maybe the trees aren’t really Glaidi’s fingers, but there is a part of her in them, somehow. I feel it now as we pass through the forest. I feel her presence all around me like the comfort of a heavy blanket over my shoulders. I feel her watching over me—watching over all of us—and I feel safe.

The forest is also bursting with birds the deeper in we go, birds with wings in a jewel-box array of shades—from ruby to citrine, pearl to obsidian. When a group of them flies overhead, they are a watercolored blur.

“I used to hear them,” Artemisia says to me after an hour passes in silence. The ride is slower than I’m used to, but I’m grateful for it. The last thing I want to do is go galloping through a forest with no inkling of what awaits ahead. Artemisia clears her throat before continuing. “Across the lake, in the camp. I could hear their songs sometimes, early in the morning or late at night. I never really imagined what they looked like, or how many there were. I just thought their songs sounded sad. Like they were crying.”

“They don’t sound that way anymore,” I tell her.

And it’s true. The birds that fly overhead let out caws so loud that they hurt my ears, but they sound like shouts of joy. They sound like laughter.

“No,” Art says. “Don’t mention that to Erik, though. The last thing we need is some clever rhyme about how even the birds are celebrating our victory.”

Though I can practically hear her rolling her eyes, there’s a touch of affection in her voice as well, and I know that she’s glad to have him back. My arms are wrapped around her waist to help me stay upright, but the horse’s gait is slow and gentle, unlike the rides we took together in Sta’Crivero.

Behind us, S?ren urges his pitch-dark horse into a canter coming up beside our horse. He looks better than he did even this morning, though his arms and chest are still covered in bandages. His skin isn’t as sallow; the shadows beneath his eyes are less pronounced. It’s a wonder what food and sleep will do. When his eyes meet mine, he smiles, and I smile back like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Our horse—a mild-mannered dappled mare—gives a jump when his approaches, kicking her front legs in warning. I tighten my grip on Art’s waist.

“Did you want something?” she asks him. “Or are you trying to spook my horse?”

Chastened, S?ren steers his horse to the right, giving ours a bit of a wider berth.

“We’ll be at the estate by sundown, which means the Ovelgans will likely invite you and me to eat supper with them,” he says.

“Why would they want to eat with you?” Artemisia asks. “You’re their enemy, aren’t you?”

“Because diplomacy demands it, and the Ovelgans are more diplomatic than the Kalovaxian courtiers. They can afford to be, this far from court politics and schemes. They’ll take the chance to hear us out.”

I nod. “Good. How much do you know about them?”

He exhales, considering the question for a moment. “Lord Ovelgan was a commander in the war, but he hasn’t fought since the siege of Goraki. He was injured in combat and retired to the country with his young wife. They have four children. Their eldest will be fifteen now, but I don’t think he lives with them. He’s off training to follow in his father’s footsteps.”

“What about Lady Ovelgan?” I ask. “What about her family?”

That takes him a moment more to consider. “The Stratlans,” he says finally. “Do you remember them at court?”

“Vaguely,” I say, frowning. The courtiers seemed to exist on a wheel to me, always turning. One family never stayed on top for long, and it was often difficult to keep them all straight. But I remember Rigga Stratlan, a girl a little older than me who Cress was friends with but who never said more than a couple of terse words to me. She was pretty in the conventional Kalovaxian way, with pale blond ringlets and a round face with a nose that turned up sharply at the tip.