None. Nowhere. And Iseult knew what magically healed skin looked like—Evrane had healed her before. This was not it.

But there was no reason for Evrane to lie to her. No purpose in tending wounds that were not real or locking Iseult in a healing sleep. Surely, Iseult was wrong. Surely, she was missing something. A key piece of information that would align all the thoughts now banging around inside her mind.

The healer kit.

She spun away from the mirror, running—easily, easily running—to the table. She tore open the kit’s latch and then dumped the contents onto the bed.

But there was nothing to see. Empty bottles, empty jars, and rolls of fresh linen. These weren’t even real supplies.

“What are you doing, Iseult?”

Iseult’s throat clenched shut. Moon Mother save her. In her panic, she hadn’t been checking the weave around her. Now Evrane was here, the door was creaking open, and the monk’s Threads shone with alarm.

With heart-thudding slowness, Iseult angled toward the monk. This woman saved you, she told herself. There must be some explanation here. Yet when her eyes locked finally on Evrane’s, she knew there was no explanation. At least none that could end well for her.

The darkness was back, throbbing off Evrane like heat waves. She was not Cleaved—this was different, this was unknown—but the monk was also not herself. All this time, Iseult had believed she was imagining the shadows, that they were from her nightmares, carried into this world by exhaustion and flames. But she was awake now, and the shadows still enveloped the woman who had saved her.

“Wh-what is wrong with you?” she tried to ask, but her words were muddled once more. Several languages all at once, or maybe no languages at all.

“Iseult,” Evrane said calmly. “You are not well. You should be in bed.” With elegant steps, she crossed the room. Her expression—and her Threads, too—was as serene and compassionate as Iseult had always known it to be. “You need to sleep,” she went on. “Sleep, Iseult. Sleep.”

The shadows charged off her body, a hundred black wings taking flight. They flapped toward Iseult, then against her and over her and finally inside. A hundred thousand wings to beat within her skull.

There was no fighting it. Whatever Evrane was, she was not the monk Iseult had once known and cared about.

Iseult’s knees turned to water beneath her. She fell.

And the wings dragged her down.

FORTY-THREE

Safi awoke to voices in her room. Two maids had come to bathe her and dress her. Safi knew them. She had interrogated them before, and the shorter one had made her laugh.

These young women had nothing to hide, so her magic purred with contented truth at their presence. Safi let their chatter buzz around her—who had arrived for the party, who was wearing what, and how the nobility had reacted to strict security protocols.

It felt good to be clean. It felt good to have slept. And it felt good to don new clothes. Safi’s silk gown was a lovely one, if impractical. Loose long sleeves, a plunging neckline, and filmy skirts that hung against her ankles. It revealed more of Safi’s chest than she liked, not enough of her legs, and the sleeves would hinder her in a fight.

“But it’s the latest style in Dalmotti,” the taller girl insisted, which left Safi to wonder why such a gown was also popular here.

At least, though, it had a pocket. The perfect size for her Truth-lens, which she plunked in, her chest puffing with triumph. She couldn’t wait to give it to Vaness.

Once the maids departed, Rokesh appeared. His shoulder was no longer bandaged, and he moved more easily as he ushered her from the room, where her Adder guards moved into formation. No one spoke, and Safi welcomed the silence.

Tonight, she would have noise enough to deal with. Tonight, she would be on full display, for every member of the Sultanate, military officer and adviser, every noble relative, and every lead bureaucrat too. All would be assembled in one place to gape at the Truthwitch and know they were being tested.

Safi expected to be brought straightaway to the throne room. Or perhaps to Vaness’s office, or even her imperial quarters. Instead, she was brought once more into the bowels of the Floating Palace, to another part of the island she’d never seen before, a vast storage area with shelves and crates—and at the far end, a doorway that fed onto Lake Scarza.

Habim met Safi and the Adders at the door. He was in full regalia tonight, a hundred colorful sashes draped across the brilliant gold and green of his uniform. Each one for a different honor awarded to him; each one as foreign to Safi as everything else she’d learned about him in the last day. Behind him waited a long row of servants and soldiers, all with chins high as if awaiting orders.

Habim did not acknowledge Rokesh, who offered a small bow, and if Habim harbored any ill will toward Safi over the Hell-Bards, he did not show it. Instead, he gestured broadly at the room behind.

“Does all look well to you, Truthwitch?”

Safi frowned, confused, and rubbed at the scar on her thumb. “Does what look well?”

This earned her a sigh. “The fireworks.” Habim pointed at the nearest crate. “Those boxes are about to be carried onto the lake for detonation, and those boxes”—he motioned to smaller cases beyond—“contain personal spark-candles for the guests. I must ensure they are safe.”

Safi glanced at the boxes. Nothing in her magic reacted. No hum of truth, nor any hiss of lies either. She approached the closest crate and pried off the lid. A perfectly normal display of clay plots stared up at her, exactly as she knew fireworks ought to look.

Rokesh slid into position beside her. “Say something,” he murmured, his voice rougher than usual. She glanced his way, blinking. Surprised. “Say something,” he repeated.

So she said something. “They are safe.”

“Good,” Habim barked, spinning toward the servants and soldiers. “Distribute them and move to your assigned stations.” He offered no more words for Safi, so Rokesh led her from the room.

Up, up, they returned the way they had come, except this time, the Adders escorted her into the main palace gardens. They hit two rows of soldiers before reaching the top level of terraces. Music lilted on the breeze, carried over murmuring voices. Some tense, some happy, all hushed and low.

Then the soldiers parted and the full gala spanned before Safi. Vaness and her own contingent of Adders waited just ahead upon a stage. Lanterns hung from decorative iron chains draped from tree to tree, and elaborate floral arrangements doused the space in rose and daylily.

Six musicians performed on the level below the Empress’s, flutes and harps and a single, hollow-throated drum. And on the lowest level waited the guests. A sea of figures, dressed in their finest. Silk and satin and velvet and taffeta twirled across a dancing circle surrounded by ornate iron posts with Firewitched flames.

The guests were nothing compared to what waited beyond the Floating Palace, though, for the lake was covered in boats. White-masted or with oars extended, nets flapping or with sailors crawling, no matter the ship, they were all kept at a distance by prow-to-prow naval ships. The Azmir shore, meanwhile, writhed like an anthill. Hundreds upon thousands of Marstoks gathered to watch the imperial fireworks take flight.

The attack on the Well had kept no one away.

Vaness turned at the sound of Safi’s footsteps. She glowed at the center of her stage, her gown a fiery red crepe fit for the Empress of the Flame Children and Chosen Daughter of the Fire Well. Her hair, coiled atop her head like a torch, was woven through with matching ribbons, while her manacles had stretched into thin bands spiraling up her arms. Instead of iron at her waist, she now wore a belt of gold.

At the sight of Safi, her chest deflated ever so slightly. A subtle exhale of relief, and Safi couldn’t resist tossing her a grin. Vaness waited until Safi fell into place just behind her—and then for Rokesh to fall into a matching place on her other side—before she turned to face the crowds.

Before she turned to face the tens of thousands of Marstoks who loved her, yet didn’t know her at all.

Vaness lifted her arms. The people of Azmir roared. It was a sound to topple storm clouds and swallow thoughts. The noise bellowed against Safi, gyrated in her lungs, her legs, her skull. So many people, so near and so far, all screaming their approval—and all of them screaming true.

No sign of disapproval now. The Azmirians wanted to be dazzled, they wanted to be entertained. So Vaness gave them what they asked for. Her wrists flicked up, her fingers pointed to the sky with palms out …