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That was my worst-case-scenario theory. But of course he is.

“Where are you right now?” I ask.

“Outskirts of Eisvale, at the border of the Ancient Forest.”

“How many soldiers did you take with you?”

“I have a regiment of twenty.”

“That will have to do.”

“What are you thinking?” Bron asks.

“I’m going there.”

“Now?” Bron rises to his feet and his sword resettles against his hip. “You can barely stand upright.”

“I’m feeling better.”

“You just took a dose of milk. Of course you feel better.”

“I’ll be healed in under an hour and we have no time to waste.”

“Why?” he asks. “If this Blue is a Cardinal God, and he’s been hiding there this entire time, what’s a few more hours?”

“I need a fresh shirt. Amwell! I need a shirt.”

Amwell, one of the servants, comes racing into the room. “Yes, Your Eminence. Right away.” She scurries out, quiet as a mouse.

“Dorothy Gale is the West’s daughter. And if the West brought Dorothy here to kill Cardinal Witches, and then sent her on a quest to find a Cardinal God, what do you think that means for the rest of us?”

I realize I’m on shaky ground with the twins. Their village has been dancing for years trying to bring the gods back, and now here one is, drinking ale in a tavern not far from their childhood village.

But they are loyal to me and I’ve promised them and everyone else in Oz that I will save them from this dark cloud hanging over us all, the desert sealing us in, and the rampant plague of Great and Terrible Curses.

All of it because the gods abandoned us, and worse.

They don’t deserve to reign again.

I don’t want to think about what happens if Dorothy and Silas side with the gods. My grip on Oz may slip through my fingers, best-case scenario. And worst-case scenario? They paint me as a fraud and soon I will be dead.

TWENTY-EIGHTDorothy

Blue takes us to a one-room log cabin tucked into a grove of pine trees a half mile or so outside of town. For a Cardinal God who can make coins out of thin air, it’s an awfully humble home, but cozy and well cared for.

When we enter, there’s a chill on the air, but the wood stove immediately flares to life and heat radiates out. Six ivory candles trapped in a glass lantern over the small dining table light up, the wicks crackling as if an invisible match has caught them.

In the opposite corner, a twin bed is pushed against the wall with a thick navy blue blanket over it, and a handcrafted quilt folded at the foot.

There is no decoration on the walls. No knickknacks or keepsakes.

There are several bottles of liquor on the counter of the kitchenette and two cases of ale stacked on the floor by the front door.

“What do you prefer?” Blue asks, going to the counter. “I have ozrum, brandy, corn liquor, honey wine, poppy wine, and a new blend called”—he picks up the bottle and reads the label—“Crook’s Rum.”

“I’m good,” I say.

“I’ll take some rum,” Tin says.