“Ruya? What is the meaning of this?” Sleep lines crisscross the man’s cheeks and his voice is still rough.
I wait for her to snap at the servant to run and fetch the king, but she brings her fist to her forehead and bows.
“Pardon the intrusion, Your Majesty.”
Your Majesty?
Shocked whispers ripple through our company. What sort of king answers his own door? And in his dressing gown! I take in his scruffy robe and drooping socks. The dim light of the room behind him shows a modest fireplace and a simple desk littered with books.
“These refugees arrived unannounced and wish to seek asylum in our city,” Ruya resumes. “I knew you would want to address the issue yourself, since there are so many of them. It seems overtly suspicious.”
“Yes.” The Marsh King eyes us. “Especially when they look so … menacing.” He studies our dirty faces and threadbare clothes and the lambs wriggling in the shepherds’ arms.
“Precisely,” Ruya says.
King Ihsan bites back a smile and pats Ruya’s shoulder. “Excellent work. You may go. I’ll determine what’s to be done with these intruders.”
Ruya hesitates. “Don’t think me impertinent, Your Majesty, but—”
“I’d only think you impertinent if you suggest I cannot handle this matter on my own.”
“Of course not, my liege. Forgive me.” Ruya bows and leads the other soldiers back across the bridge.
King Ihsan leans against the door frame and raises a silver brow at us. “Well?” It’s the least formal, most unkingly action I’ve ever witnessed. “Have you come to lay siege to my kingdom? Or steal my jewels? Or perhaps you plan to attack me with your rabid sheep?” He chuckles at a little lamb, bleating as it totters across a bridge.
Serik steps forward, and a swell of pride fills my chest as he wets his lips and pulls his shoulders back. “We mean you no harm,” he says in a practiced, official tone. “We are humble refugees from Ashkar, simple—”
“Wait, let me guess,” Ihsan cuts in. “Shepherds?”
“How could you tell?” Serik asks, so focused on impressing the king that he seems to have forgotten the frightened animals literally knocking around our feet.
King Ihsan laughs and slaps Serik on the shoulder. “I like you. You’re funny. Come, let’s chat in the dining hall. Minerva will fix you all something to eat. It looks as if you’ve been through a lot.”
More than a few of the shepherds break down with tears, and Serik blurts out, “You’re receiving us, just like that?”
“Is there a reason I shouldn’t?” For the first time, the king’s eyes flash with a spark of warning. It’s visible only for an instant before a jolly grin takes its place. But it was there, like a leopard crouched in the treetops.
Ever hungry.
Ever ready.
Serik’s throat bobs and his eyes flit toward Ruya and the soldiers, standing in rigid lines a few trees over.
“Oh, don’t mind Ruya,” King Ihsan says. “She’s a bit overzealous, but I indulge her. No harm in letting our enemies believe we’re fiercer than we are.”
His quip is charming and self-deprecating, and it makes Serik and the others laugh. But it makes my hackles rise and my palms grow slick. Because the Namagaansarefierce. They must be, to have commanded such respect and independence from the Sky King. Weneedthem to be fierce if they’re going to be of any help liberating the Protected Territories and defeating Zemya. Yet here we are, speaking to the king in his dressing gown. Receiving a warm welcome without a hint of hesitation or suspicion.
I don’t like it.
You’re doing it again,Serik’s voice cautions.Creating trouble where there isn’t any.
But being overly kind is its own form of warfare, and while the rest of our entourage cheers and rushes into the palace, I systematically catalog each bridge and platform and ladder. Locating every potential exit—just in case we need it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ENEBISH
KINGIHSAN’S PALACE IS ENORMOUS,WITH VAULTED CEILINGSthat seem to soar higher than the canopy, even though I know there are still dozens of floors above us. We pass sitting rooms hung with garlands of embroidered leaves, the colors changing to mimic the four seasons, and a ballroom made of wood so dark, I can see my awed reflection staring back. It all feels too large and grand to be suspended from branches.
