She went back to her sharpening, and I went out of the room, sore and more unhappy than before I’d asked. I thought of my brothers growing old, of my little nephew Danushek bringing me his ball with his frowning little serious face; that face becoming an old man’s, tired and folded and worn with years. Everyone I knew buried, and only their children’s children left to love.

But better that than no one left at all. Better those children running in the forest, safe to run there. If I was strong, if I’d been given strength, I could be a shield for them: for my family, for Kasia, for those two small children sleeping in the bed and all the others who slept in the shadow of the Wood.

I told myself that, and tried to believe it would be enough, but it was still a cold and bitter thought to have, alone in the dark hallways. A few of the lower maids were just beginning to get the day’s work under way, creeping quietly in and out of the nobles’ rooms to stir up the fires, just the same as the day before, even though the king was dead. Life went on.

Solya said, “We don’t need the fire tended, Lizbeta: just bring us some hot tea and breakfast, there’s a girl,” when I opened up his door. His fire was already up and mouthing a pair of fresh logs in a large stone fireplace.

No small gargoyle-haunted cell of a room for him: he had a pair of chambers, each three times as large as the one they’d crammed me into. His stone floors were covered in piled white rugs, soft and thick: he must have used magic to keep them clean. A large canopied bed, rumpled and untidy, was visible in the second room through a pair of open doors. Along the broad wooden panel at its foot, a carved falcon flew, its eye made of a single large smooth-polished golden stone with a black slitted pupil staring out of it.

A round table stood in the middle of his room, and Marek was sitting at it next to Solya, sprawled long and sulky in a chair with his boots up, in a nightshift and fur-edged dressing-gown over his trousers. A silver stand on the table held a tall oval mirror as long as my arm. After a moment I realized I wasn’t looking from some peculiar angle and seeing the bedcurtains; the mirror wasn’t showing a reflection at all. Like some impossible window, it looked out into a tent, the swaying pole in the middle holding up the draped sides, and a front opening in a narrow triangle-slice looking out onto a green field.

Solya was looking into the mirror intently, a hand on the frame and his eyes nothing but black wells of pupil, absorbing everything; Marek watched his face. Neither one of them noticed me until I was at their elbows, and even then Marek barely glanced away. “Where have you been?” he said, and without waiting for an answer added, “Stop disappearing before I have to put a bell on you. Rosya must have a spy in this castle to have learned we were going for the Rydva—if not half a dozen of them. I want you by me from now on.”

“I’ve been sleeping,” I said tartly, before I remembered he’d lost his father yesterday, and felt a little sorry. But he didn’t look much like he’d been mourning. I suppose being king and prince had made them something other than father and son to one another, and he’d never forgiven his father letting the queen fall into the Wood. But I still would have expected to find him a little red-eyed—from confusion if not from love.

“Yes, well, what else is there to do but sleep?” he said sourly, and glared at the mirror again. “Where the hell are all of them?”

“On the field by now,” Solya said absently without drawing his eyes away.

“Where I should be, if Sigmund wasn’t a lickspittle politician,” Marek said.

“You mean if Sigmund were a perfect idiot, which he’s not,” Solya said. “He couldn’t possibly hand you a triumph right now unless he wanted to hand you the crown along with it. I assure you he knows we’ve got fifty votes in the Magnati already.”

“And what of it? If he can’t hold the nobles, he doesn’t deserve it,” Marek snapped, folding his arms across his chest. “If I were only there—”

He looked longingly at the unhelpful mirror again while I stared at them both in rising indignation. So it wasn’t just Sigmund worrying the Magnati would give Marek the throne; Marek was trying to take it. Suddenly I understood the crown princess, why she’d looked sidelong at me—I was Marek’s ally, as far as she knew. But I swallowed the first ten remarks that came to my tongue and said shortly to Solya, “I need your help.”

That won me a look from one of those pit-black eyes, at least, with an arched eyebrow to go over it. “I’m equally delighted to help you, my dear, and to hear you say so.”

“I want you to cast a spell with me,” I said. “We need to put the Summoning on the queen.”

He paused, much less delighted; Marek turned and threw me a hard look. “Now what’s gotten into your head?”

“Something’s wrong!” I said to him. “You can’t pretend not to have seen: since we came back there’s been one disaster after another. The king, Father Ballo, the war against Rosya—this has all been the Wood’s design. The Summoning will show us—”

“What?” Marek snapped, standing up. “What do you think it will show us?”

He loomed over me; I stood my ground and flung my head back. “The truth!” I said. “It’s not three days since we let her out of the tower, and the king is dead, there are monsters in the palace, and Polnya’s at war. We’ve missed something.” I turned to Solya. “Will you help me?”

Solya glanced between Marek and me, calculations ticking in his eyes. Then he said mildly, “The queen is pardoned, Agnieszka; we can’t simply go enchanting her with no cause, only because you’re alarmed.”

“You must see something’s wrong!” I said to him, furiously.

“There was something wrong,” Solya said, condescending and complacent; I could have shaken him with pleasure. Too late, I had to be sorry I hadn’t made a friend of him. I couldn’t tempt him: he knew perfectly well by now that I didn’t mean to make any regular occasion of sharing magic with him, even if I’d suffer through it for something important. “Very wrong: that corrupted book you found, now destroyed. There’s no need to imagine dark causes when we have one already known.”

“And the last thing Polnya needs now is more black gossip flying around,” Marek said, more calmly; his shoulders were relaxing as he listened to Solya, swallowing down that poisonously convenient explanation. He dropped back into his chair and put his boots up on the table again. “About my mother or about you, for that matter. The Magnati have all been summoned for the funeral, and I’ll be announcing our betrothal once they’re gathered.”