Valeri’s face fell. Andry wished he could tear the sickness right out of her chest.

“Madero, you know I can’t—”

“I won’t hear it, Mama.” Already he saw her hacking coughs on the deck of the ship as they fled, putting the Long Sea between themselves and a Spindleborn army. “We go together, or not at all.”

There was no fear in Valeri Trelland, a lady born of Kin Kiane. She flattened her palm against her chest to steady her own breathing.

“Then we go.”

The Hill of Heroes basked in the sunlight, green and gold as the Gallish flag. It was another island in the river delta, walled like the palace. Countless tombs and headstones marched in endless rows: knights and great lords fallen for Galland. The graves of the kings crowned the Hill, marked by statues and flowering trees. The capital of Ascal was home to more than half a million people, but one would never know it from these still, green lawns.

Andry saw the Hill’s shadow every morning from the training yards of the New Palace, the silhouettes of the stones like fingers against the sky. They reached for him now, white marble and black granite, their grip unbreakable. With me, they hissed in a thousand weaving voices. With me, Sir Grandel moaned, dying again.

His breath came hard and fast as he walked, his pulse thrumming in his ears. Sweat dripped through his short-cropped hair. He tried to think not of Sir Grandel’s corpse, but of his tombstone. It was already waiting, flanked by headstones for the Norths, surrounded by a forest of graves for dead knights. The funeral would be a large affair, with even the Queen in attendance. It had somehow taken weeks to plan, though the coffins would be empty.

He passed through the gates of the cemetery with the rest of the squires, wellborn boys in service to the great knights of the kingdom. The knights themselves were all on horseback, in gleaming armor with cloaks of all colors. Behind the squires came the pages, some as young as seven, dressed in light summer tunics to match their knights. Andry glanced back to see a pair shoving each other silently. In jest or rivalry, he did not know. Most squires grew out of that sort of thing.

Most.

An elbow dug into Andry’s ribs. He barely felt it. There was far more to think about—getting his mother out of Ascal, the festering army at the border, the empty graves ahead, the sword hidden, the Spindle torn, the whispers that greeted him every morning.

“I’m talking to you, Trelland,” someone said harshly. The elbow struck again.

Andry clenched his jaw. He did not need to look to know it was Davel Monne, who the boys all called Lemon for his name, his yellow hair, and especially his sour disposition. Like the rest of the squires, Lemon’s hair was cut short, but it sprouted like horrible weeds.

“I deserve to know what happened, same as you,” Lemon hissed, his pale face spotted with freckles. His red surcoat flapped in the breeze, the falcon sigil of the North family worked in eye-catching silver. Andry’s own was gray quartered with sky blue for Sir Grandel. “I was Sir Edgar’s squire. It’s my right to know.”

Andry kept silent. Even stupid Lemon knew the story being passed through the halls of the palace, the falsehoods born of the Queen: Jydi raiders, a slaughter in the hills of the border. Other rumors were being woven too. The most popular was a Treckish ambush meant to look like the Jydi, soldiers disguised in furs with axes instead of swords.

“You have the right to be quiet, Lemon,” he said. “Show some respect to our lords.”

Lemon bared his teeth. They were yellow as his hair. “There’s our Andry, too good for the rest of us.”

He didn’t flinch. It was a familiar gibe, easy to ignore, following him from his earliest days as a page. And a compliment, even if Lemon is too stupid to know it.

“Is that why you’re still alive? Too good for the Jydi wolves to howl over?” Though Lemon was a head shorter than Andry, he was far broader and used his bulk well. He shouldered his way past, knocking Andry aside. His voice rose, loud enough for the other squires to hear. “You wouldn’t see me on the Hill, with my lord dead and me still walking the Ward. That’s for certain. Can’t imagine the shame of it.”

Andry flushed darker than Lemon’s surcoat. Lemon did not miss it, leering at him, goading him to respond.

I feel that shame every day! he wanted to shout back. But he kept silent, his teeth locked tight, his feet still marching in time with the rest. He’s never seen true battle. None of the squires have, Andry knew, glancing around at his fellows. Though they marched together, the others felt so far away. They don’t know what it’s like.

Lemon glared, dagger-eyed.

He’s only jealous. I rode with the knights while he stayed behind.

The envy goes both ways.

Again Lemon knocked his shoulder, and again Andry did nothing.

There are worse things in this world than you, Davel Monne, and they’re coming for us all.

The procession reached the sector of the Hill reserved for knights of the Lionguard, who spent their lives protecting the royal family of Galland: Sir Tibald Brock. Sir Otton of the Castlewood. Sir Konrada Kain, the only woman to serve in the Lionguard, who fell defending her king at the Battle of the Lanterns. Andry wondered if their ghosts would be here to welcome their brothers and guide them into the realm of the gods.

But the ghosts of Sir Grandel and the Norths are far away, if they even exist at all.

A pavilion looked over the grave sites, its chairs empty, shaded by a canopy of green silk. The Queen and her own entourage had not yet arrived.

While the knights dismounted, their squires moved in a flurry to grab reins and tend horses, allowing the lords to line up in their ranks. The pages kept out of the way, shunted to one side. Of the squires, only Andry, Lemon, and Sir Raymon’s boy, Karl Daspold, had no one to serve. Karl was as kind as Lemon was cruel and kept himself between the two. A dog trailed at his heels, a shaggy yellow hound. It looked up with baleful eyes, waiting for a master who would not return.

Three wagons brought up the empty caskets, each hung with silk. Red with the silver falcon for the Norths, gray and sky blue check for Sir Grandel. A detachment from the palace garrison escorted each wagon as it was wheeled into place aside the pavilion. Even before the arrival of the Queen, Andry guessed there were near a hundred men and boys gathered to pay respects. Sir Grandel would have liked that, he knew. Sir Grandel had flourished under attention.

The Queen arrived with a somber call of trumpets. Andry glanced over her entourage—Lord Konegin and his trollish son were easy to recognize, and Lord Thornwall was known even to the pages. As the supreme commander of Galland’s great army, he lived in a grand set of rooms in the palace barracks and visited the yards often. Knights and squires alike bloodied each other hoping for his attention.

Right now, Andry only wanted to be forgotten and overlooked. He lowered his eyes, praying the rest of the great lords and ladies passed without paying him any mind.

But it was impossible to ignore the Queen herself. When she dismounted her horse, everyone knelt. Andry glanced up through his lashes, glimpsing Erida of Galland. His jaw clenched again, this time with frustration.

The Lionguard surrounded her, their armor like the sun, their cloaks catching the warm breeze. Andry saw the faces of Sir Grandel and the Norths beneath every helm, their eyes unfocused, dark, dead. As all will be if we don’t do something.