Serker was a wasteland. Cracked earth, dead stumps of trees, and not a speck of fertile land as far north as the eye could see. Worse still were the piercing shrieks that sliced at Froi’s ears.

“Can you hear that?” he shouted to Gargarin, who rode with him that day. Lirah was riding ahead on Beast. It was only fitting that she entered her province on a Serkan horse.

“The wind has a bite in these parts,” Gargarin said.

“It’s not the wind I hear.”

Froi dismounted, his knees buckling, fatigued by the sounds of the damned that called to him. He took in his surroundings, unable to fathom the horror of what had taken place in Serker nineteen years past. Low ruins of cottages burned to the ground. Other dwellings so intact — an even crueler reminder that a people once existed here. Skeletal remains lay where people had been slaughtered. The once-thriving town void of breath. Even the air seemed to have stilled to nothing.

“The land is so flat,” Froi said, looking up at Gargarin. “How can an army possibly be hiding here?”

“You know better than to ask that when you’ve spent so much time living as a trog these past months,” Gargarin said.

But there was doubt even in Gargarin’s voice. What were the chances of an army and their horses hiding in this strange place? The only army Froi knew of was the one he had glimpsed in a valley between Sebastabol and Serker earlier that morning. He hadn’t told Gargarin and Lirah. He saw no reason to alarm them.

“How could they not have seen the king’s army coming?” Froi asked.

Gargarin didn’t respond, and Froi could see he was watching Lirah up ahead as she followed the road to the colossal theater they had glimpsed the moment they entered Serker.

“The Serker army was too busy attacking up north,” Gargarin said. “They were lied to and misinformed by a spy that the northern province of Desantos was set to invade. That was Serker’s weakness. They’d fly into any skirmish at a moment’s notice, always to prove their power. Later, when the people saw the horses approaching from the north, they believed them to be their own returning soldiers. They didn’t realize it was the king’s men who had circled the province. And by the time the real Serkan army returned home, they didn’t realize they were walking into a trap and that most of their people were already slaughtered.”

Froi continued to walk alongside Gargarin in silence. He tried to remember Arjuro’s song calling the dead so he could sing it in his heart and perhaps stop the shrieks of the spirits that only he could hear, but it would not come to mind. And then finally they reached the place once called Il Centro, an open-air stage surrounded by tiered steps reaching so high that they disappeared beneath the low, filthy clouds. It was as if Serker had built a way to touch the gods.

“I’ve never seen anything so mighty before,” Froi said.

“As young men, Arjuro, De Lancey, and I traveled here to listen to great lectures about the planets and the philosophy of the ancients,” Gargarin said. “It wasn’t rare to meet a Lumateran here, and if you ask your priest-king and the priestesses of your cloisters, you’ll find they’ll all have visited Serker in their day.”

Froi wondered if Tesadora’s mother, Seranonna, had come to this place and lain with a Serkan.

“It’s where most of the people of this province died,” Gargarin said.

“How did they all come to be there?” Froi asked.

Gargarin put a finger to his lips as they approached Lirah and Beast. She had slowed down and seemed in her own world.

“The census,” Gargarin said quietly. “The provincaro called one, which meant that every Serkan had to travel to Il Centro. The seneschal had recorded the name of every soldier who had gone off to fight, so what better time to complete the task of a province-wide reckoning? The people of Serker were all assembled in this great place of learning, waiting to have their names recorded. But it never happened, and those names are lost. Almost the entire population was annihilated. It’s been said that those who survived later crawled out from under the bodies of their loved ones and have been hiding ever since.”

They listened to Lirah crooning to Beast.

“Nineteen years ago, we had children and babes in Charyn,” Gargarin said.

Froi wanted to smash his head with a fist to keep the images from entering his mind.

“It’s what happened in Sarnak to the River people of Lumatere,” he said quietly.

“We heard the stories of the Sarnak slaughter,” Gargarin said. “Is it true that your queen bore witness and demands that the Sarnak king arrest the men responsible?”

Froi nodded. “Those River folk belonged to Trevanion. He and Lady Abian are the last of their village. Only now have the queen and Finnikin allowed others to live in Tressor. The land is too fertile to waste, but there is a signpost with the name of every man, woman, and child who ever lived there. When Princess Jasmina was born, the queen and Finnikin had her blessed and titled Jasmina of the River in honor of her pardu. Her grandfather.”

But Gargarin’s attention was again drawn ahead to Lirah. “See to her, Froi,” he said, his voice low.

“She’ll not want me there.”

Lirah was weeping. It twisted Froi up inside to see Lirah the strong, Lirah the fierce and cold and unbreakable, weeping.

“Go,” Gargarin said.

Froi hurried to catch up with her, but the moment she saw him, Lirah wiped her tears fiercely, her attention on the bridle of Beast. Froi didn’t know what to say. He glanced around, trying to think of something. Everything was dead. Or so it seemed at first. But what he had come to understand in his travels with the Lumaterans and Charynites was that nature chose to defy man’s will to destroy. Close by, wild pink and purple flowers peppered the landscape on the road beside them.

“Let me up,” he said.

Lirah made room, and Froi climbed onto Beast behind her. He pointed over her shoulder. “Bronshoi.”

She looked up and then nodded. Then she pointed to another. “Sajarai.”

And Froi understood Lirah’s passion for her prison garden. She had planted the Serker that she couldn’t forget.

They continued riding through the province, mostly in silence. Froi couldn’t help but think of Lumatere. It was less than a day’s ride from Isaboe’s palace to Lucian’s mountain. Here, it was more than a day’s ride from one end of Serker to the other.

Lumatere had never seemed so vulnerable.

When they reached another barren settlement of half-standing cottages, a murder of crows swooped close by. Froi dismounted and walked toward whatever had drawn them to the ground.

“What is it?” Gargarin asked, pulling up beside Lirah’s horse.

“Someone’s here,” Froi said. “Those birds would have nothing else to scavenge otherwise.”

Gargarin looked around and then struggled off his horse.

“We’re out here in the open,” Gargarin said. “If they want me dead, they’d have killed me by now. Let’s set up camp and wait for whoever it is to politely come calling.”

“I haven’t exactly been trained to wait for attackers to reveal themselves,” Froi said, irritated.

“Wait, I say.”

The three of them found refuge in a half-standing cottage that at least protected them from the wind. Gargarin built a small fire, and Froi watched him cover Lirah with the robe he had borrowed from De Lancey, and for a short while at least, she slept.

“You asked before about the sound,” Gargarin said later. “If it’s not the wind, what is it?”

Froi shook his head. He didn’t want to say the words.

“You’ve got some of my brother’s gifts. That I’m certain of,” Gargarin said. “Do you hear the Serkan dead?”

Froi felt Lirah’s eyes piercing into him.

“I sense nothing,” he lied. Because the truth was that he sensed agony and despair and unrest.

Something moved outside the shelter, and Froi crept toward the sound. Gargarin gripped his arm, held him back.

“Wait until he chooses to reveal himself.”

“No,” Froi said firmly. “We do this my way.”

He stepped outside and stared into the darkness. He could hear the sound of shallow breathing. It was a human sound, unlike the shrill whistle of the dead that he couldn’t block out. Froi knew they weren’t dealing with an army. It was one person, perhaps two. Good at staying concealed, but not good enough. Or perhaps their intruder wanted to be found.

Froi retrieved his dagger. “Reveal yourself!” he called out. There was no response, and he called out again.

“Are you armed?” came the response.

Froi recognized the voice and sighed with relief, regardless of its hostility.

“Of course I’m armed,” he said, irritated.

Gargarin was suddenly at Froi’s side.

“Get back inside,” Froi ordered.

“Perabo?” Gargarin called out. “Is that you?”

Froi heard the sound of something being lit, and then a flicker of light appeared as a figure with a large bulk and craggy face and oil lamp in hand crawled out of the shadows.

“You know each other?” Froi asked. Perabo ignored him and held out a hand to Gargarin.

“It’s been a long time,” the keeper of the caves said as the two men shook hands.

“And sad days in between,” Gargarin responded. “Our boy always spoke highly of you.”

Froi was confused. He had never mentioned Perabo at all, but then he realized with a wave of gut-deep envy that Gargarin was referring to Tariq. He felt Perabo’s accusing stare on him. Even after everything that had happened in the Citavita with Quintana’s rescue, Perabo would never forgive him for not getting her out sooner.

“What are you doing here in Serker, Perabo?” Gargarin asked. “On your own, at that?”

“Waiting and hoping,” Perabo said. “And here you are.”

Gargarin ushered Perabo into the shelter.

“Tell me there’s an army here,” Gargarin said. “One gathered in Tariq’s name.”

Perabo shook his head. “I’ve found nothing here but old ledgers hidden by a moneylender, and the town gossip’s chronicles.”

“You have them?” Lirah spoke up.

Perabo looked beyond Froi and Gargarin and stared at her, his expression showing appreciation at what he was seeing. He retrieved the chronicles from his pack and reached out to give them to her.

“Lirah of Serker,” he said, not needing to be told who she was. “This must cause you great pain.”

“What in Charyn doesn’t?” she said in a flat tone.

Perabo’s attention was back on Froi. “I heard it was you who lost her,” the keeper of the caves said bluntly.

Froi bristled but didn’t respond.

“You’re being followed,” Perabo finally said. Froi nodded, glancing at Lirah and Gargarin with a shrug.

“I saw something when we rested in the valley of Sebastabol,” he said.

“Can you keep us informed of the ‘somethings’?” Gargarin said sharply.

“I reveal information when it needs to be revealed,” Froi responded.

“There is no army for us here,” Perabo said, and Gargarin gave a sound of frustration. “But I can take you to one.”

“Where?”

“North,” Perabo answered. “Two days’ ride beyond the great lake of Charyn.”