Under my guidance, it attacked the outposts first. The watchtowers crumbled, and I forced myself not to think about the casualties, of how many unsuspecting soldiers had been there when the attack commenced. I could not think about it; the stakes were higher now.
The azi still waged bloody war above us, and the whole palace shuddered whenever it flew too close, striking the top of the battlements with its tail, destroying centuries-old architecture in one heavy swipe. I had no fear that any attacks Odalia might mount in retaliation would injure the azi, so for the moment, I was content to let it move independently, leaving a cautious note in its head to increase its distance to the city, to prevent any more citizens from being harmed. The daeva had the easier task; all it needed to do was distract the soldiers from us.
Our entrance into the city was a lot less conspicuous than my azi’s, and Zoya wouldn’t shut up about it. “Whose brilliant idea was it to use a hay wagon of all things?” she sputtered as she crawled out from underneath the bales. Kalen was the first out the wagon, helping me to my feet. We were dressed like Deathseekers: black breeches and long-sleeved shirts further camouflaged us in the approaching evening. “Why didn’t we use a fruit wagon or one of those covered wagons Yadoshans seem to be so fond of—”
“We could have a wagon made from goose pillows, Zoya, and you’d still be complaining.” Polaire had recovered rapidly almost as soon as we had entered Kneave, nearly returning to her old self again. The color had returned to Mykaela’s cheeks, and she no longer needed Polaire’s help to move about, climbing down from the wagon with her old agility after Altaecia.
“Wasn’t it your idea, Zoya?” Khalad asked pointedly, squirming out of the wagon after her. Fox, his face hidden underneath a dark cloak and hood, was the carriage driver, leading the horses. The Illusion rune I had woven around us had been most effective, and we had managed to enter the city unmolested.
“Perhaps I am slowly losing my mind like the rest of you. Among us, I’m practically the only one not on the duke’s wanted fugitives list.”
“We all have a part to play in this enterprise, Zoya,” Polaire said sweetly. “And as you said, you have the least important part to play. You can stay in the city until we return if you’d like.”
“And miss out on all the fun? Not on your life.” Zoya brushed what straw she could off herself, making a face.
“A little less talk,” Kalen said. “The entrance to the crypts shouldn’t be guarded. Few soldiers keep watch there.”
“Tea knows,” Fox said with a sidelong glance at me, and I snorted.
The royal catacombs were as I had remembered them—gloomy and stale smelling, with the same statues and marbled columns. Kings of ages past loomed over us as we walked down the narrow stairway. Kalen brought up the front and Fox guarded our rear.
I could see the familiar shape of King Vanor’s tomb looming before us and watched as Kalen took the initiative. Fire combined with Mud, and the stone and dried bricks crumbled from the vault where the king’s body lay, the sound muffled by the ongoing chaos above us. Zoya and Polaire added their strength to Kalen’s, and heavy currents of Wind drew the coffin out into the open.
“Your turn, Tea,” Polaire told me.
As before, it was easy enough to compel the dead king to rise—much more difficult to compel him to speak. King Vanor showed the same stubbornness from when we had left off at his last raising. No sound issued from his lips, though his eyes remained trained on Mykaela as if the rest of us did not exist. It was clear that his presence pained my sister-asha. Pain and grief were evident on her face, and the anger inside me burned again.
“I can’t do anything if he’s not willing,” Khalad reminded us.
“Where is Lady Mykaela’s heartsglass?” I demanded of the corpse. As before, he made no reply.
Polaire frowned. “Perhaps we are asking the wrong question, Tea.”
“What other question is there but that?” Zoya wanted to know. “We must be quick about it. I don’t like exposing Mykaela to this royal degenerate any longer than is necessary.”
“No,” Mykaela said quietly. “I have been silent enough at previous raisings, despite my own doubts and fears. Many of my fellow asha tried to be kind. They thought my presence would motivate him to speak but also worried what toll his nearness might take on me. Not anymore. Do not treat me like glass—I am stronger than that. What must be asked are questions I was too afraid to have answered, questions that none of you dared ask out of respect for me.” She looked back at her former lover. “Vanor. Did you love me?”
The silence ticked by. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Twenty.
“Yes.”
I jumped, for I had not expected a reply. Death had made King Vanor’s voice harsh, but a strange contrite note laced it, modulating his anger but also imbuing his voice with unspoken emotion.
“Did you love me when you died?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a bald-faced lie and you know it, Vanor,” Polaire began heatedly. “You don’t hide the heartsglass of the person you love for more than a decade and then refuse to disclose its location long after your death.”
King Vanor said nothing, his eyes still on Mykaela. It was as if Polaire had never spoken.
“What do you think, Khalad?” Zoya whispered.
“I’m not sure. The lack of a heartsglass makes him harder to read.”
“Other than stating the obvious, I mean.”
“The dead can’t lie, which means he isn’t lying. But that doesn’t mean he can’t hide the truth,” I said.
“I’m a prime example of that, I guess,” Fox murmured.
“Maybe we’re going about this the wrong way. We say that he hid her heartsglass because he didn’t love her. But what if he hid her heartsglass because he loved her?” I suggested.
“That doesn’t make much sense either,” Zoya said.
“But it does,” Althy broke in, frowning. “What if he was hiding her heartsglass to protect her? What was he doing in the days leading up to his death?”
I struggled to remember my history lessons. “King Vanor was visiting the emperor of Daanoris when he was attacked. That was Emperor Undol—Emperor Shifang’s father. Daanoris was lifting the closed-border policies of its kingdom, and Odalia was trying to negotiate more lucrative trade agreements. It was at first suspected that Daanoris was responsible for King Valor’s murder, but the investigations King Telemaine ordered could find no proof. Daanoris had everything to lose and nothing to gain by assassinating King Telemaine’s brother. The last thing they would want at that point was to gain notoriety by killing the first king to offer a trade alliance with them.”
“There were some theories that circulated, of mercenaries from Tresea killing King Vanor to shift the blame on Daanoris,” Althy said, remembering. “But there was no proof to support that either.”
“Well, why not ask the guy directly while he’s here?” Zoya demanded.
“We did. He’s never responded to that either.”
“Don’t any of you understand? Why? Why answer Mykaela when she asks if he still loves her but not answer anything else? Fox, what are you doing?”
My brother ignored Zoya, stepping toward the dead king. “King Vanor, who first suggested the idea of a trade agreement with Daanoris?”
“It was I,” came the expressionless reply.
“Were you and Emperor Undol on cordial terms?”
“Yes.”
“What did you have for breakfast that morning?”
“Bread and cheese.”
“What is the point of all these questions, Fox?” Polaire asked him. “I don’t see what bearing they have on the questions we wish to ask him.”
“Exactly. Don’t you see? He seems quite capable of answering questions as long as they have nothing to do with his death or as long as you don’t ask him where Mykaela’s heartsglass is. Don’t you see anything wrong with that? The dead don’t lie. I speak from experience in that regard. But if he does love Mykaela, then why wouldn’t he help us?”
“Because he doesn’t trust us?” Zoya suggested. “But Mykaela’s here too.”
“Or,” I said with newfound understanding, “it’s because someone was controlling his heartsglass and compelling him against his will before he died.”