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“He was weak, though. His workings only have a very short life, and he ordered me to go do his dirty work for him when I got there, like I was his servant.” She gritted her teeth. “I was his better.”

“The mayor of Bartolo,” Luc said. “This spell caster was the one enspelling her with the charms?”

Haslia truly was shocked now. He felt her go still.

“Ava saw you. She reversed it.”

“I thought I caught a glimpse of her in the alley . . .” She shook her head. “That’s how the Rising Wave took Bartolo so easily.” She sounded resigned. Then she lifted a shoulder. “After I did that . . . errand . . . for the general’s Bartolo spell caster, I had a good, hard look at my prospects. And didn’t like what I saw. I decided it was time to go my own way.”

Above them, a big bell rang the hour, and Luc realized he was supposed to be meeting the guards at the gate.

He had promised Ava he would always come for her, and he always would. Dealing with Haslia would have to wait for another day.

“I’m going to let you go, Haslia. I don’t want to, but I’ve got more pressing things to do. I suggest you find a way to not be in Fernwell any more when this is over.”

“I was planning on taking a nice journey on a ship, as it happens.” Haslia jingled the coins in her coin bag. “I have heard the general is probably dead, killed with the Jatan Border Forces. The money he promised me certainly wasn’t waiting for me. But just in case he did survive, I’d prefer not to be here should he return.”

“Good. If I see your face again, you’re dead.” Luc stepped back and Haslia walked away from him, her step unhurried and slightly jaunty.

He made his way to the main city gate and leaned against it, listening to the guards as they stood nervously waiting for his knock.

“I heard he’s never been beaten in a fight.”

“That might be gossip.”

“Or it might be true. Hehasassembled an army and surrounded us. And has the ability to raze us.” The guard looked above the gate nervously.

“There’s someone approaching,” one of the guards above called, and while they all turned to look up, Luc slid off his scarf, put it in his pocket, and straightened.

“I think the queen is waiting for me.” He spoke normally, but the guards spun around as if he’d shouted.

“The Turncoat—” The guard cut himself off.

“Himself.” Luc smiled.

“How did you get in?” One of the guards gulped as he spoke.

“Most walls aren’t as impenetrable as we think,” Luc said. “The queen?”

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Luc crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

The guards looked at each other and eventually one stepped away from the gate and swept his arm toward the palace.

“This way.” There was a tremble in his voice.

They were afraid of him, and Luc was glad of it.

They had killed his mother. They had killed her without having the courage of their convictions, just as they planned to kill him today.

They’d pointed the finger of blame at some zealous officer off the leash of command when his mother had been run through on the Cervantes plains all those years ago, but she’d been targeted because she’d come to Fernwell to speak to the queen about ending the Chosen camps.

She was making too much noise and they wanted to silence her.

They planned to do the same to him today.

This time, they would regret it.