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Lawrence exhales sharply as his stony expression softens and his mouth twists in a frustrated smile. “I won’t force you, nor will I deny protection for your people. You are free to leave.”

Audra turns to her intended, her eyes dewy in the sunshine that streams in from the skylights. But Lawrence doesn’t look at her or anyone else. He presses his hand to his forehead, staring at the table as if scrambling for a new plan. He’s a broken king, too young to wear such an expression.

His kingdom is fragmented, and his first act as our ruler has failed to bear fruit. For the first time, I feel sympathy for the spoiled, headstrong prince who lost everything and became king before he was ready.

* * *

The assembly wasn’t a complete loss. The High Vales are with us, as are the Boermin. Gruebin, however, is being frustratingly stubborn.

The jarl of Crevershim Hollow refuses to budge on his demands, nor will he stay in Cabaranth. The gnomes have made camp outside the city, where they said they’ll wait until Lawrence changes his mind.

I’m not sure a handful of gnomish warriors will be all that helpful to our cause, but losing another group is demoralizing.

Clover and I stand side-by-side as the Woodmores say their official goodbyes. They’re preparing to leave the city to return to Dulane. Ayan’s grandmother clings to him, a tiny Woodmore holding her tall High Vale grandson. There’s something touching about it, and when I glance at Clover, the sheen in her eyes tells me she feels it as well.

“Take care of yourself,” Daphne says. “And promise me you’ll visit.”

“I will,” Ayan responds. “And you’ll have to come see me in Revalane.” He drops his voice to a loud whisper. “Not to brag, but I’m pretty important these days.”

“I know you are,” she answers with a watery laugh. “Oh, my dear boy. I love you.”

“I love you too,” he says without hesitation, as if he finds it easy to speak his heart. Perhaps it’s a product of being raised by Woodmores. He bows his head in respect to the woman who raised him. “Safe travels.”

As Ayan and Daphne say their goodbyes, the Woodmore spokesman steps up to Lawrence, bowing with reverence. “We thank you for respecting our decision.”

“You’re still free to change your mind,” Lawrence says.

The man nods, but his eyes say they won’t.

We watch the Woodmores walk out of the courtyard, refusing mounts just as Pranmore so often does.

Ayan sighs when the last of the delegates pass through the gatehouse, and then he turns to Pranmore. “I guess it’s up to you.”

Pranmore nods, looking pensive.

“But how will Pranmore find Camellia?” Bartholomew asks. “We have no idea where she might be.”

“She’s controlled two necromancers here in Cabaranth,” Audra muses. “Surely that means she’s in the city somewhere?”

“We can’t even guess how far her magic can reach,” Clover says. “For all we know, she’s holed up in a fishing shack in Ryddleport.”

“We need to speak with someone who knows more about the concoction she was taking,” Lawrence says. “Someone who can tell us how it works and how powerful Camellia is.”

“The apothecary knew enough to guess what she was creating,” I say. “But we don’t know where he is either.”

“Maybe we could talk to the arrested necromancers?” Bartholomew suggests. “Someone might know where he went. I bet they’d be willing to exchange information for freedom.”

“You’d let a murderer loose?” Lawrence asks, more amused than upset.

Bartholomew winces. “I didn’t think about that.”

“Pranmore.” Clover turns to the Woodmore. “You knew the name of the concoction. You must have heard it somewhere. Do you have any idea?”

He shakes his head. “I read a book that mentioned it in our library in Evervale, but it gave no more detail than the gnomes’ history.”

“I studied extensively when training for my command position,” I say. “And I’ve never stumbled across a mention of it.”

“Unless we can find a necromancer willing to divulge secrets, I suppose we have no choice but to wait for Camellia to make her next move,” Clover says with a sigh—a statement which doesn’t settle well with me.