At the name of Ahtraeyed, Duke Khuldara stepped backwards as if he had been struck, and he grimaced, as one does when smelling rot. His expression was naked, and I can only call it historical. Years passed within his eyes. Not the years of his life, but of the kingdom’s life. All of the days of conquest, when Ahtraeyed the First had come out of the woods with his bandit band and descended upon the river communities. Striking Rahasabahst first, and then north to Nhadtereyba and Taokeihla, then south to Taeltaht and Saharavin. Conquering, killing, raping, and stealing. Not a wise king, just a vicious one. And then the rebuilding in the generations after. The qualities of patience and generosity in the conqueror’s son. The charm of his grandson, who loved the arts, and loved women, and sired a hundred bastards, or so the story goes. The canny business sense of his great-grandson, who turned Rahasabahst into the envy of its neighbors. Generation after generation, exerting civilization as if it were an apology for the dynasty’s initial brutality. And it could all be threatened by a name said in a darkened throne room, as the sky poured down rain.

  Duke Khuldara blinked and blinked again. He wiped at the discharge from his eyes, and those who didn’t know him would assume that he was wiping away tears. His gaze traveled across the faces of the White Cats, and I could read the calculation he was making on his face. He could stay and try to support his brother, but Prince Dasuekoh and the Deadfalls were still nearby, maybe only a few miles from the city, and most of the army was out chasing them. Chahsaeda was willing to act as regent, and seemed to have some control over the White Cats. And the duke had just put down a revolt in his own city of Nhadtereyba, and was no doubt eager to get back. But first he had to capture Dasuekoh, and put an end to his rebellion.

  Oesair watched the duke with a tight expression. Papermaker fidgeted behind them. I had a feeling that something hung in the balance. Some hidden plot could be undone in that moment, if only Duke Khuldara could make the right decision. Setrabohst stepped forward to stand beside his father, as if he were sensing the same thing.

  It was Poritifahr who ended the impasse. “Truly, brother, I am myself. Fit to rule, although happy with the allies that I’ve found. These fine people from the Singing Woods have come to my aid, and the kingdom is saved.” He said all of this in his cranky, specific voice. He sounded so much like his old self that Khuldara visibly relaxed.

  “I am glad to hear it, my king. And I am surely grateful to the White Cats for effecting your rescue. Can your guard be exorcised, as you have been?”

  All eyes turned to Hahnteyn, who was still kneeling beside Martiveht. She seemed very pleased by the question. Her voice, when she answered, sounded less dusty, as if her self-importance was wiping the grime off of it. “If they are possessed, they can be exorcised. But why the spirit stone in Rahasabahst Shrine should have failed, I do not know.”

  I cleared my throat. “Martiveht said that it was a lace hole. That they were in it for much longer than five days. Although,” I added lamely, feeling the stares of everyone in the room, “not long enough for them to starve to death.”

  Silence, as they considered my words. “I am very hungry,” the king said.

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  Hahnteyn said, “Even so, the spirit stone should have held the dead in place.” She frowned, thinking, and there was something unreal about it. As if she had rehearsed her expression in front of a mirror. She let it linger a moment too long before she stood. “Your majesty,” she said, “with your permission, I would like to take the princess’s companion to the Weaver’s House. She has freed you of Ahtraeyed’s spirit, but he rides her, and she is in distress.”

  I looked towards the throne. The king was surrounded by the Abandoned Maidens. One of them had produced an apple from the sleeve of her robe and given it to him. He held it at his mouth, about to bite into it. His benefactress watched him with great satisfaction on her aged face. She was wearing a strange little napkin on her head. She had no doubt been a princess or duchess once, sent from some far-off land to win his hand, then left to molder among his entourage of rejected brides. There was a kind of smug possessiveness in her expression, and it unnerved me for a moment. It seemed to tilt the world. Suddenly I saw us all, standing there, just people who ate and shit and wanted and grieved and lost and strove for the smallest and most insignificant victories. Just people. And the fate of a kingdom sat in our hands. The old woman with the apple was missing half of an eyebrow. I made note of it, not knowing that it was important.

  “Go,” the king said, and bit into the apple.

  Vaenahma lifted Martiveht up in their arms. They were very tender with her, which surprised me. But they had spoken their regret as we waited in that courtyard in Nhadtereyba. They carried her prone body with the gentleness of one who wants to make amends.

  Iyedraeka turned to follow and Chahsaeda said her name. She turned back to him and said, “I will stay with her at the Guild House. Find me there.”

  I fell into step beside her, but Duke Khuldara grabbed my arm as we went past. “Captain,” he whispered, “can I rely on you?”

  I paused, then nodded. Although I didn’t know why he needed my reliability. I was tired, and afraid for my family, and confused by the many plots that seemed to swirl around in the rain-laden air. It was a relief to step free of the throne room, out into the muddy courtyard. I hunched my shoulders against the rain. Vaenahma walked forward with their head raised high, and a servant came skittering out of the darkness to hold an umbrella above Iyedraeka.

  We went to the Weaver’s Guild. Every step I took wanted to turn and lead me west, towards my own home, my sons and Grandahlae, and my grandchildren. Vaenahma was walking in front of me, but they seemed to be aware of my distress. When we arrived at the Guild House, they turned and said, “Captain, I will guard her. You must go home.”

  I protested, of course, and insisted on at least going into the Guild House, where Martiveht was handed over to the weavers. They took her away into a secret room and began to conduct some esoteric ritual. Iyedraeka was settled in a small and modest sleeping chamber. She lay down on the bed and didn’t move, either from exhaustion or grief. Vaenahma stood in the door and faced me. “It is my watch, Captain,” they said. “You must go home.”

  So I went home. The city was strangely quiet. I saw a few White Cats, strolling through the streets, but no one else. And it was corvee time, and the city was full of people. But I came to my door, a bedraggled traveler, carrying a sense of great loneliness from the empty streets. Grandahlae opened the door and let out a cry of relief. She took my sodden body in her arms, and then my grandchildren were there, clinging to the skirts of my robes, and Nolio called from an interior room, and Thaeto came out and embraced me. Home, and the rain poured down behind me, and thunder rolled over the city.