“It’s not going to matter if we’re all dead.”

“Look at you.” Musa shakes his head. “Half out the door, like you can just tear off for Antium this very instant.”

“The Grain Moon is little more than six weeks away, Musa. I have no time.”

“What do you propose?” Darin asks. “Laia’s right—we have no time.”

“Your face is known in the Empire. The Nightbringer can read your mind, and your invisibility ceases to work around him. You need people to back you in Antium,” Musa says. “People who know the city and the Martials. I can, of course, provide this. We let them come up with a plan to get you close to the Shrike. That way, it can’t be picked from your mind.”

“And it can’t be picked from theirs?”

“My people—well, person—is trained to keep out invaders. Mind like a steel trap and as quiet and clever as a wraith. However . . .”

“No however,” I say, alarmed. “Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it when I get back.”

“I’ve hardly asked anything of you yet, Laia.”

“Something tells me you’re about to make up for that,” Darin murmurs.

“Indeed.” Musa rises from his seat beside one of the forges, wincing as he does. “Come with me. I’ll explain on the way. Though”—he looks me up and down distastefully—“you need to visit the bath first.”

A sudden suspicion forms in my mind. “Where are we going?”

“To the palace. To speak with the king.”

* * *

Four hours later, I perch upon an overstuffed chair in a palace antechamber beside Musa, awaiting an audience with a man I have no wish to meet.

“This is a terrible idea,” I hiss at Musa. “We have no support from the refugees or the Adisan Scholars, no Resistance fighters at our backs—”

“You’re leaving for Antium to hunt down a jinn,” Musa says. “I need you to talk to the king before you die.”

“Just because he knew my mother doesn’t mean he’ll listen to me. You’ve lived here your whole life. You have a much better chance of persuading him to help the Scholars. Clearly he knows you; otherwise we never would have gotten this audience.”

“We got this audience because he thinks he’s meeting the famed daughter of his old friend. Now remember, you must convince him that the Scholars need aid and that there is at least a threat from the Martials,” Musa says. “No need to mention the Nightbringer. Just—”

“I understand.” Since this is the tenth time you have told me, I do not add. I take hold of the neckline of my dress—low enough to show the K the Commandant carved into me—and pull it up yet again. The gown Musa found for me is tight in the bodice and flows wide through the waist, turquoise blue silk overlaid with sea-green, gauzelike netting. The neck and hems sag with gold-threaded flowers, embroidered mirrors, and minuscule emeralds. The net deepens into a dark royal blue at the hem, which just brushes the soft fawn slippers Taure gave me. I’ve braided my hair into a high bun and scrubbed myself so hard my skin still smarts.

When I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirrored wall of the antechamber, I look away, thinking of Elias, wishing he could see me like this. Wishing he were beside me, dressed in his finest, instead of Musa, and that we were walking into a party or festival.

“Stop fidgeting, aapan.” Musa draws me from my reverie. “You’ll wrinkle the dress.” He wears a crisp white shirt beneath a long, fitted blue jacket with gold buttons. His hair, usually pulled back, falls past his shoulders in thick, dark waves, and he has a hood pulled low. Despite it, more than one head turned as we walked with Captain Eleiba through the halls of the palace. A few times, courtiers even tried to approach until Eleiba turned them away.

“I can’t do this, Musa.” My worry drives me to my feet, and I pace the antechamber. “You said we’d have one chance to convince the king to help us. That the future of our people depends on this. I’m not my mother. I’m not the right person—”

Boots clank beyond the door, and the entrance to the audience chamber opens. Captain Eleiba awaits.

“Good luck.” Musa steps back. I realize that he doesn’t mean to come with me.

“You get over here, Musa!”

“Laia of Serra,” Eleiba announces in a booming voice, “daughter of Mirra and Jahan of Serra.” She gives Musa a cold look. “And Musa of Adisa, prince consort of Her Royal Highness Nikla of Adisa.”

Only after my mouth has been hanging open a few seconds do I realize how foolish I must look. Musa shakes his head.

“I’m not welcome here, Eleiba—”

“Then you shouldn’t have come,” the captain says. “The king awaits.”

Musa remains a few paces behind me, so I cannot even glare at him properly. I enter the audience chamber, immediately awestruck by the soaring, jewel-encrusted dome above me, the mother of pearl and ebony inlaid floor, the rose quartz columns that glow with inner light. I feel, suddenly, like a peasant.

An elderly man who I assume is King Irmand waits at the north end of the room, a familiar, much younger woman at his side. Princess Nikla. The thrones they sit upon are fashioned from enormous, weathered chunks of driftwood, ornately carved with fish, dolphins, whales, and crabs.