Mare Barrow is in there. The lightning girl with a knack for survival.

I thought her a delightful curiosity in Archeon. The Red girl leashed to a Silver king who seemed just as trapped by her as she was by him. I won’t pretend to understand why she bewitches Maven in such a way, but it must be his mother’s doing. No person of sound mind carries such obsession. And it cannot be love. No person capable of love acts the way he does.

I never thought I would marry for love. I’m not naive enough for such daydreams. My parents grew to love and respect each other through their arrangement, and I hoped for that at least. Of course, Maven makes that hope impossible. I’ve had only small glimpses into his heart, and they are enough to know that his heart is dead.

If the Bracken children were not our objective, if I actually hoped to maintain my Nortan crown, I might entertain the idea of killing Mare Barrow. Not for spite, but to hopefully give Maven some clarity. She is a motivation now, a carrot for him to follow, but she is a weakness too. And I need him weak. I need him distracted.

As Mother said, Maven Calore will face the flood.

They all will.

The military contingent left ten minutes ago, their transports screaming up the mountain. I can still hear the echoes coming down the slope, reverberating through the streets and allies of the Montfort capital. The rest of the city clangs with alarm bells and warning signals. Just as planned. I blink, still shrouded in Sentinel Haven’s impenetrable shadow.

The observatory guards abandoned their posts to assist the city, leaving behind a skeleton shift of two Montfort soldiers. At night, their green uniforms seem black. They stand out against the polished moonstone columns holding up the spangled dome of stained glass.

Without a singer or a whisper to wipe the memories of both guards, we have no choice but to slip by them instead. It isn’t difficult, but I hold my breath as we do, weaving through the observatory columns.

They flank the entrance, still and steady, accustomed to the clanging alarms. Raider attacks are common, I’m told, and of little threat to the capital.

“On the plain?” one says to the other, turning his face.

His compatriot shakes her head. “On the slopes. They hit the plains twice last month.”

The male guard grins, shoving his hand in his pocket. “Plain. Bet you ten coppers.”

“Don’t you get tired of losing your money to me?” she replies.

As they laugh, grins wide, I press my hand to the lock of the door. With my other hand, I flick open the canteen holstered at my side. Under Sentinel Haven’s power, I can’t see what I’m doing, and so must rely on touch. It complicates things, but only enough to slow me down.

The water swirls around my wrist, kissing my skin, before worming between my fingers and into the keyhole. It fits to the mechanism, filling the space as I exhale. Through the water, I press along the tumblers of the lock, touching each one, forming a key of my own making.

I nudge sideways with my foot, reaching for Jidansa. She nudges back.

Some yards away, a tree branch cracks under her ability, crashing to the paved stone. Perfectly masking the sound of a turning lock.

“Raiders in the city?” the female guard says, her laughter replaced by panic.

“No bet,” the man responds.

They rush to investigate, leaving us to slip into the observatory undetected, unseen, unlooked for.

Wary of any kind of security cameras, Sentinel Haven keeps us shrouded as we enter.

“Laeron, through,” whispers the Nortan nymph. We sound off in turn, unable to see one another.

“Jidansa.”

“Rydal.”

“Niro.”

“Iris.”

“Delos,” says the Haven Sentinel.

Grinning, I ease the door shut behind us.

Infiltrate the observatory prison. Done.

I don’t allow myself a sigh of relief. That won’t come until I’m on the ground at home, with Bracken’s children safely returned. And even that is premature. As Mother would say, no use sleeping while there are wars to be won. And we certainly have a war exploding around us.

Jidansa’s footsteps echo slightly as she rounds the room. Her search takes several long minutes, enough to put us on edge. The tension ratchets with the passing seconds, until she returns. I can hear the smile in her voice.

“They’re truly foolish,” she says. “No cameras. Not one.”

“How can that be?” I hear Laeron mutter.

My teeth grit together. “Perhaps they don’t want a record of the children being here,” I reply, giving the only explanation I can think of. It shouldn’t affect me. Horrible things are done in war, even to Silvers. I know that firsthand. “Or what they’ve done to them.”

The realization settles over us, another curtain of dread upon the pile.

I raise my chin, smoothing my unseen hair, tucking pieces behind my ears. “Sentinel Haven, you may cease.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” I can hear him bow, and then I see it.

We bleed into vision, all of us at once, as if a window has suddenly been wiped clean. Most look at their own limbs, examining themselves, but Niro is staring at me. He looks paler in the dim light filtering through the glass dome, which dapples his face in sickly green. His gaze feels like a challenge or perhaps an amusement. I dislike either option.

“This way,” I tell them, focusing on the task at hand. They fall into line, even Niro, and I’m glad to have Jidansa on my heels. The Sentinel too. I’m the queen of Norta, and he is sworn to protect me as well as Maven.

We round a massive telescope, pointed at the domed roof, made of tubes of brass and glass fixtures. A waste, I think. The stars are well beyond the reach of anyone, even Silvers. They are the realm of gods and gods alone. They are not for us to fathom. To try is to squander time, resources, and energy.

Several chambers lead off the round central room, but we ignore them. Instead I cross the floor, searching the marble beneath my feet for visible cracks. I don’t expect any, and loose the canteen again. With a nod at Laeron, I have him do the same.

Our water spreads around our feet and across the marble, expanding to the thinnest of covers. It prods and puddles over the stone, working into grooves and seams between the slabs.

“Here,” Laeron says, taking a few steps toward the wall. His own water bunches up like a giant droplet. As I approach, squinting, I can see tiny air bubbles trailing up through the water.

There is open space below.

Jidansa makes quick work of the slab, drawing it up and out of place with a wave of her fingers. Beneath, darkness looms, but not blackness. There are lights in the chamber below the observatory, somewhere farther down the passage. Enough to see by, but not to bleed through the tiny seams of the trapdoor slab.

Stairs lead downward, as if beckoning.

Rydal goes first, according to our plan, with Niro behind, one hand on his holstered gun should Rydal meet opposition. Sentinel Haven follows. I notice that his hands seem to darken, pooling with shadow like curling smoke. I keep close on his heels, with Jidansa at my side and Laeron bringing up the rear.

This is the easy part, I tell myself. And I’m right.

The passage curves, tracking below the observatory and beyond its bounds. There are no guards, no cameras. Nothing but the dim lights and the echo of our own feet.

I wonder if this place was made specifically for Prince Bracken’s children. Somehow I doubt it. The stone is old, though the walls are freshly painted the warm color of butter. It has an odd, calming effect I wouldn’t expect for enemy prisoners.

The Montfortans are strange indeed.

About a hundred yards on, the passage widens into some kind of receiving chamber walled by a bank of windows. I balk at them, looking out onto the glimmer of the city. The windows must be thick, because I can’t hear any alarms, though I still see the lights of them flashing up and down Ascendant.

I exchange a confused glance with Jidansa, who looks just as puzzled as I feel. She shrugs and jerks her chin to our right, where the chamber dead-ends at a single door.

It is unremarkable, not even reinforced that I can see.

When I lay my palm against the lock, intending to key it open again, I realize why.

“Silent Stone,” I hiss, drawing back as if burned. Just the distant ache of the ability-smothering weapon makes my skin crawl. “Torturous bastards.”