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For Erida most of all.

Her ladies had outdone themselves in styling her, even so far from Ascal. Her braids were heavy, hanging to the small of her back, woven with gold pins and red silk ribbons. Erida’s cheeks blushed the softest pink, the rest of her skin pale white, flawless as the finest Ishei porcelain. She knew she contrasted beautifully with her golden armor and red skirts, the edges embroidered with rose vines in green, gold, and scarlet. The Gallish lion snarled over her crimson cloak, the folds thrown back over her horse’s flanks. Even Erida’s mare looked the part, her red leather tack oiled to a high sheen, with gold buckles and a rose-patterned blanket beneath her saddle.

While most of Erida’s jewels were still locked away in the treasury, she’d known to bring the crown of her father for this very purpose. It was hardly her most beautiful treasure, but certainly it was the oldest. A masterwork of black gold and rough-cut gemstones in every color, worn by the first Gallish king. It had been altered to fit her head, and sat snugly. The ruby at the center of her brow warmed against her skin, big as a thumb. The gem was older still, dating back to the Cor emperors, and the empire she sought to rebuild.

Her appearance was better than the green flags flapping over her army. None would mistake her for anyone other than the victorious Queen of Galland.

She swayed in the saddle as they approached the bridge and main gates of Partepalas. A thousand of her legionnaires were already stationed inside the city, welcomed in ahead of the queen’s retinue.

The Ashlanders hung back, the corpse army unneeded. They loomed on the horizon, a dark ribbon over the hillside on the opposite side of the river. Their numbers fell long and black, heavy across the land. Far enough away for her lords and their discomfort, but close enough for Erida to summon; close enough for the corpses to intimidate any who might cross her. Even so, Erida was glad for their distance. The decaying bodies poisoned the air, the corpses stinking and sickly as they marched through the countryside.

Taristan watched them too, with cool satisfaction rather than disgust. He cut a sharp silhouette in his armor and red cloak, his face raised to the sun, though the light somehow never seemed to reach his eyes. They remained black and consuming, immune even to daylight.

Ronin, on the other hand, only looked increasingly agitated with every day of the march, the dust clinging to his robes and face. He sneered at the city ahead.

“What if the King of Madrence has a change of heart?” he hissed, his white fingers clawed on his horse’s reins. The mare shuddered beneath him, wary of the wizard.

Erida twitched a smile. “I wish he would.” She extended a hand to point, her long sleeve trailing. “There’s your archives, Wizard. As promised.”

The Library Isle was not an island, not truly, but a tower at the far end of a bridge, the river current breaking around its base. It rose like a sword set on end, taller than a cathedral, withsilver-tipped ramparts and a domed observatory at its crown. The Library Isle was known the Ward over as an unparalleled seat of knowledge. If there was any clue as to whereabouts of the next Spindle, Ronin would certainly find it there, among the spiraling shelves and dusty scrolls.

The red wizard eyed the great archives of Partepalas with relish. Erida half expected him to lick his pale lips.

“What realm will it be next?” she said, dropping her voice. Thornwall and the others rode only a few yards away, her Lionguard around them all.

Taristan tore his eyes from the Spindle army to meet her gaze. As always, his stare felt like a sword through her chest. “I do not know.”

What more could come?Erida wondered, gritting her teeth. Even with the crown of another country in her grasp, she still felt herself at a disadvantage.What more could there be?

“How many does What Waits need?”

Taristan only looked to the Spindleblade, then to Ronin. “I don’t know that either.”

“We have two still open, and one lost. More must come. Soon,” Ronin urged, his expression going sour. “And Corayne must die. We can’t afford to lose another Spindle to her.”

“She will be dealt with,” Taristan ground out.

“My bounty has brought no leads, for Corayne or Konegin.” Erida sighed in frustration.We can overthrow a kingdom but not find a single Corblood girl or my scheming cousin.“And the Amhara are so far unsuccessful.”

“She will be dealt with,” Taristan said again, every letter cut sharp, his teeth on edge.

Strangely, his feral focus was almost reassuring. Erida wondered if he had some sort of plan already in place, but the gates of Partepalas rose up before she could ask.

The drawbridge of the city passed beneath her mare’s hooves, iron shoes ringing on wood and nails. It felt like entering Rouleine, multiplied a thousand times. She feared her heart might burst, every emotion in her mind rising to the surface. Joy, pride, worry, relief, and regret too, everything steeped in an odd bitter sense. She wanted to laugh and weep in equal measure. But she was a queen—she kept her head high and her expression placid as she emerged from the gate onto the streets of the foreign capital.

Her legion lined the way. They shouted in unison, a mighty cheer to greet their queen and her prince. The people of Partepalas who hadn’t been able to flee the city watched Erida’s procession too. They stared out from every door, window, and street corner, tracking her movement. Most were silent and blank, their true feelings hidden, their children squirreled away. A few, the bravest, looked down on the conquering queen and her army with disgust. But none raised a hand against their conquerors. No one shouted or threw stones. No one moved at all, frozen to the spot as Erida rode deeper into the city.

“They hate us,” Thornwall said, a raw edge to his voice.

Erida looked back to her commander. “They fear us more. And that is victory too.”

The Palace of Pearls echoed, its great polished courtyard of white stone and pearl inlay quiet as a mausoleum. Lionguard armor clanked and cloaks swished, boots rapping across the square. The river lapped at one side, the walls open to the water. It threw off wavering sunlight, dappling the procession in gold and blue as they walked.

“No guards,” Erida murmured, noting the emptiness of the palace. She glanced between Thornwall and Taristan. “No soldiers in the city either.”

“Whatever army King Robart assembled is long gone from here,” Taristan replied, his eyes narrowed.

Thornwall dipped his head. “The legions have their orders. The watchtowers are manned and ready; our scouts are ranging the countryside. If Robart means to catch us unawares, he will have to try very hard indeed.”