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Ryon catches her eye. He says silently what the rest are clearly convinced of:Ruby.

But Dawsyn shakes her head. She won’t believe it so easily. She can’t.

“The spells I cast around this clearing merely obscure us in shadow,” Baltisse says. “Shadows are easy to walk through. We are not in plain sight, and there won’t be any clues to lead the guards here, but we can quite easily be stumbled upon if they look hard enough.”

“So then, time is against us,” Ryon proclaims.

Tasheem’s wings extend, vibrating with agitation. “If you’ve got a plan to save your Ledge people, Dawsyn, you’d best share it now. It’ll be awful hard to save them wearing chains.”

Baltisse clicks her tongue. “If you think the Queens will let us live, you have more faith than you ought to. If we’re caught, it means death.”

Dawsyn laughs at that. It is without a trace of humour, just cold, dead certainty. It roots everyone in their place. It calls their attention, sends a shiver scuttling across their skin. “Kill us? Mixed-bloods? Ledge prisoners? A mage?” Blood pounds behind her eyes. “Ifthey catch us,” she says, eyes glinting. “Death will betheirs.”

CHAPTERFORTY-EIGHT

The road beneath the wagon becomes more forgiving with time. Still, Ruby winces at each bump. If she had to guess – and she must, for the wagon bed is enclosed and the slats press too tightly to see through – she’d guess they were passing through the fringe of the Mecca. The wagon bounces precariously over potholes, but this part of the road is well travelled, smoother. A welcome relief.

The captain’s mind clangs against her skull incessantly. She hadn’t realised the distance between Baltisse’s patch of forest and the Mecca, but it has been hours in this wagon that smells like urine and horse shit. She is tired. Desperate to arrive and be done with the indignity.

Soon after, the horses are called to halt. They whinny and clip their hooves on the cobblestones. There are shouts, orders given by voices she recognises. The clanging of iron keys, and then brilliant sunlight. She raises her hands to shade her eyes.

Ruby scoots her much-abused backside to the opening of the wagon hold, cursing the Mother for the damage to her tailbone and the cramping in her legs. Hands take hold of her forearms. They bring her to standing.

“Good morrow, Captain,” says a voice. And when Ruby finally manages to blink the white light from her eyes, she sees the Queens, Alvira and Cressida, before her. They stand on the palace steps in their royal garb, despite the lack of spectators.

“Your Majesties,” she answers, bowing. They appear delighted, jubilant even.

“But where are your weapons, Captain? Your armour?”

“It’s been an unusually hot season,” Ruby answers. “And I couldn’t tell you where my sword is.”

“Well,” says Queen Alvira, descending the steps to Ruby’s level. “I’m glad to see you.” Her smile is brilliant. Promising.

Ruby smiles back, the bleakness of these circumstances notwithstanding. “I’m afraid, Your Grace, I cannot say the same.”

Alvira gives a small huff of laughter and taps the irons on Ruby’s wrists once. “To the keep, if you please,” she says to the guards at her shoulders, and then to Ruby, “I’m sure you recall how these things go.”

The lump on Ruby’s temple continues to drum its obstinate beat, but despite it, Ruby keeps a straight spine. She will not squat on the floor of this stone cell with defeat in her posture. She was once their captain, after all.

Two guards stand at the keep entrance, guarding the gate. She must look unrecognisable to them. Her dark hair is matted in places. She smells of sweat and smoke. Without her armour, she looks like a peasant.

The discomfort of her wardens is obvious. She trained them when there was no hair on their chests or chins. Now they avert their gaze. They say nothing to one another. When Ruby asks them for water they flinch, hesitate.

Scared.Ruby thinks.This whole kingdom runs on fear.

She leaves them be. Her grievance is not with them.

When she was seventeen, Ruby guarded this keep while a cell full of drunken louts bleated and bellowed about corruption in the palace. They’d fumbled a half-cocked plan to storm the castle after spending what little coin they had on whiskey. Their army of a dozen hadn’t even breached the gate.

That night had dragged endlessly. The insults were constant. But past the anger, there were accusations.

Took me only son! Me only son, a soldier at thirteen!

Doubled the taxes? As if they weren’t high enough!

Sabar would turn in his grave, rest his soul.

A permit for a tomato bushel and some potatoes? A fucking permit, they ask of us!