I send for Harristan. If Captain Blakemore’s claims are going to turn to talks of secret spies sent by my father, I feel as though the king should be present.

When my brother appears, he’s trailed by his personal guards, followed by two servants bearing a heavy wooden crate with a large padlock, on top of which is a folded length of faded blue-and-purple fabric and several slim leather-bound booklets.

Rian and his lieutenant rise immediately, bowing to Harristan with as much royal deference as they offered me. The servants ease the items onto the table, and I’m surprised when the crate lands lightly. The booklets are placed beside me, revealing the fabric to be a Kandalan flag with tattered edges. Everything smells like the sea, with hints of salt water and something faintly sour.

Harristan’s expression is cool and unreadable, and after a moment of tension, Quint leaps to fill the silence.

“Your Majesty,” he says, “allow me to introduce Captain Rian Blakemore and his first officer, Lieutenant Gwyn Tagas.”

The last syllable has barely left his mouth when Harristan says, “You’re not an emissary at all, Captain

Blakemore.”

I have no idea how he knows, but Harristan never throws tiny barbs. He throws spinning daggers and waits to see if others will catch them or end up impaled.

Rian doesn’t flinch. “Ah. Yes. I’m glad to hear that we’re all caught up.”

“Yet you told the dock agents in Artis that you were.

That is how you secured passage to the palace.”

“As my father’s mission was rather covert, I didn’t feel it would be prudent to introduce myself to a dock agent as a spy, Your Majesty.” He pauses. “I set the record straight with Prince Corrick rather immediately.”

“Do you really feel it was immediate?” I say.

“I do. And you’ll find your proof inside that first log there.”

I reach over and lift the cover of one of the booklets. The leather cover is soft and worn, the first page covered with an elegant script. I don’t recognize the handwriting.

There’s a thick, folded parchment just under the cover as well, and I slip it free. As soon as my fingers touch it, I realize I have everyone’s attention, most notably my brother’s.

“Read it,” he says to me, and from his tone, I can tell that he already has.

I unfold the parchment carefully. The creases are well worn, and there’s a dark stain near the bottom. Before I even read the words on the page, my eyes freeze on the signature and court seal. It’s my father’s, right down to the minuscule initials he used to print inside the slope of the S to prevent forgeries. I’ve seen it on a hundred different documents I’ve handled over the years, and my heart jumps to see it now. The date at the top is from six years ago.

I hereby declare Captain Jarvell Blakemore to be an agent of the Kingdom of Kandala, working in the service of His Majesty, Lucas

Ramsay Southwell, King of Kandala, acting with full authority of the Crown. Whosoever bears this letter in the name of Captain Blakemore in conjunction with the ring displaying the sigil

below shall be presumed to be acting by the

grace of His Majesty, the King of Kandala, with the full rights and authority granted under the Crown.

Below my father’s signature is the kingdom seal in dark blue wax, which only Harristan and I have, along with a separate seal in a lighter purple that’s a bit cracked, but still legible.

I glance up, inhaling to ask for the location of the ring.

But Rian is already holding up his left hand. A gold ring bearing an identical sigil is on his index finger.

Well then.

It’s not proof, not quite, but it’s close. A letter granting the full authority of the Crown carries a lot of power. To my knowledge, Harristan has never offered it to anyone. As his brother, I don’t need it. And until now, the only person I’ve known to be granted such power by my father was Micah Clarke, the former King’s Justice. He was killed when our parents were.

I reach for the flag from the top of the chest and unfold it a bit. The edges are frayed and worn, the blues and purples long faded. The steel grommets have gone rusty, and when I run my fingers over the seams, I can feel the effects of exposure to the ocean air.

“We don’t have an established relationship with Ostriary,” I say. “Why was your father’s journey a secret?”

Rian hesitates, and there’s a lot of weight in that hesitation. His eyes shift from me to Harristan and back like he’s taking measure of our reactions. “You don’t have an established relationship now, Your Highness. But you once did.”

“I have no recollection of any communication with Ostriary,” says Harristan. His tone is unyielding.

Rian spreads his hands, but his eyes are equally unyielding. “As I said, we may be at an impasse. I only have my logs and my crew.” At his side, Lieutenant Tagas is silent, stony-faced and steadfast in her demeanor.

Everyone is being polite and cordial, but something about this feels like a standoff. I can’t tell if that’s on our side or his.

“You have quite a bit to review,” Quint says. “Perhaps now would be a good time to serve the tea. I’m certain our guests could do with some refreshments.”

I look to my brother. He was unnerved before. I wonder if he still is, or if this letter from Father has given him a bit more confidence. There’s a part of me that wants to separate Rian from his crewmate, to see what she would say if he weren’t in the room.

It’s the same part of me that used to force answers out of thieves and rebels.

No one trusts the King’s Justice when he’s not wearing a

mask.

I promised Tessa I would do better. I told Lochlan my goal was to change that.

I hold my tongue. It takes more effort than it probably should.

“Yes,” Harristan finally says. He holds out a hand to the table. “Be seated.”

We do. While the food is being served, Rian leans over to murmur something to Lieutenant Tagas, and she nods. The

sound of dishes and cutlery is just loud enough that I can’t catch the words, and I’m sure it’s intentional.

“Is there an issue?” I say.

The servants have laid out a dozen pieces of cutlery in front of each person, and I know from Tessa that the rules of palace etiquette can be an unfair maze for the uninitiated. But Rian picks up the correct fork, then holds it between his fingers as he waits for the king to eat first. “No, Your Highness.”

“Then share your comment.”

“Gwyn worries for the rest of our crew,” says Rian. “Have they been allowed to remain with the ship?”

His voice is calm, lacking tension, but it’s the second time he’s mentioned his crew. Again, I don’t know if the tension is on our side or his.

“Yes,” says Harristan. “I’ve sent guards to the shipyard to ensure they’re left in peace.” He doesn’t touch his food, but he takes a sip of tea.

“And so they cannot leave,” says Rian.

It’s another tiny barb, but Harristan isn’t one to be baited. “Yes.”

“You still haven’t offered much by way of explanation,” I say to Rian. “I feel as though our definitions of immediate would be in conflict.”

He smiles, though there’s an edge to it, then stabs his fork into a bit of pork that’s been rolled with sliced ginger and a sliver of cheese. “I’m determining where to start. I did not arrive prepared to lecture the king of Kandala on his country’s own history.”

Harristan sets down his cup and traces a finger around the rim. “We have that in common, then. I did not arrive to hear a lecture. You say we once had a relationship with Ostriary.” His gaze falls on Rian’s crewmate. “Perhaps a

representative from the country itself can speak for her countrymen. Is this true, Lieutenant?”

“Your Majesty,” she says, and now that she’s not hissing warnings at her captain, I hear a faint accent to her words. “I am of the understanding that Ostriary once had a trade agreement with Kandala that went sour.”

“When?” he says. “It was not during my lifetime.” “In fact,” says Rian, “I believe—”

Harristan puts up a hand. “I asked the lieutenant.”

For as quiet as she’s been, she doesn’t back down either. She meets Harristan’s gaze evenly. “Before Captain Blakemore’s ship docked in Ostriary six years ago, we had not seen a ship from Kandala in over thirty years,” she says. “I was only a girl then. I still remember the last ship.” She reaches out and taps the tattered flag. “I remember the colors strung from her main sail.”

That would be thirty-six years ago, at least. I try to do the math in my head. My grandfather was still ruling then. On the other side of the table, Quint is scribbling notes. He’ll be calling for dock records the instant we’re done, I’m sure of it. Artis is close, so we’ll have them quickly, but if ships sailed out of the other two ports, it’ll be a matter of days.

Still, thirty-six years isn’t very much time. I’m nearly

twenty, so I feel like I would remember stories of ships that made it across the river. Surely there would be sailors who would remember.

But then I consider the ring on Rian’s finger. The letter we knew nothing about.

Maybe not. Maybe that ship thirty-six years ago was sent under clandestine means, too.

“What happened to that ship?” says Harristan. Lieutenant Tagas hesitates.

“It was set ablaze,” Rian says, and his voice is not without weight. “The entire crew perished.”

At that, Quint looks up from his writing.

“There were disagreements,” says Lieutenant Tagas. “Between our kingdom and your own. Again, I was young. My mother was a quartermaster on a merchant ship. We were not privy to all of the court gossip. But I remember that ship sailing into our waters, because our naval fleet set upon it so quickly. They shot flaming arrows into the sails. The fire rained down on the sailors below. Anyone who jumped into the water was shot.”

Her voice is quiet, and, like Rian’s, not without weight.

Harristan is staring at her. “Why?” he says.

“My mother said there was a scandal between our king and yours. But there was talk around the docks about a trade agreement that went sour.”

“A trade agreement,” says Harristan. “For what?”

She inhales, but Rian lifts a hand. It’s a tiny movement, just a bare lifting of his fingers, but she stops.

Rian looks at Harristan, and then at me. “I am sensitive to the fact that this room is not very private.”

Harristan glances across the table. “Quint,” he says. “Clear the room.”

All of the servants exit without any urging. Most of the guards leave, but four of Harristan’s personal guards remain. Rocco and Thorin stand along the wall behind the table, close to my brother and me, while Kilbourne and Grier stand closer to our guests.

Quint pulls the door closed behind him when he goes. He’ll learn everything from me within the hour, if he doesn’t hear it from Harristan himself. There’s nothing that goes on in the palace that Quint doesn’t hear about.

The room is very silent once the door clicks shut.

Rian doesn’t look away from Harristan. “Do you trust your guards, Your Majesty?”

“I do.”

“And do you trust your brother?”

“I do,” says Harristan—but the question pricks at my thoughts and lodges there. It takes me a moment to figure out why.

I’m remembering a moment in the Hold with Allisander, when I’d been locked in a cell after being caught as the outlaw Weston. Allisander was threatening me, saying anything to get under my skin, but he poked at my relationship with Harristan. I’d always thought my brother and I were close, but there was something Allisander said that has sat with me for weeks.

Look at the way he left you in prison for an entire day.

Harristan clears his throat, and I’ve heard him do it often enough that I know he’s covering a cough. I blink and focus on the matter at hand.

“Explain the purpose of the trade agreement,” I say.

“I need to explain the kingdom of Ostriary first,” Rian says. “Most Kandalan maps show the eastern side of Ostriary is over two hundred miles of marshland that leads into dense vegetation. And I’m sure the Flaming River is still considered a challenge to cross.” His eyebrows go up.

“Yes,” says Harristan. “But you didn’t cross it. Not if you docked in Artis.”

“No,” Rian agrees. “If you sail past the southern point, Ostriary can be approached from the western side.”

“The southern point is uninhabited,” says Harristan. “We have records of ships that have tried that route. From the south, the western coastline is a bare strip of sand that goes on for hundreds of miles. The northern point is comprised of cliffs. I have dozens of logs that speak of uncrossable current or dense fog that seems never-ending.

Even for sailors who can get through the current, it would be impossible to dock.”

“I’ll challenge your definition of impossible, Your Majesty, because I’d wager that Kandalan sailors are mostly used to the open water in the stretch from Artis to your ports in Sunkeep and Trader’s Landing, and a child could navigate that.”

“Forgive our subpar sailors,” I say flatly. “So you sailed past the southern point to find … what? More sand?”

“No. A chain of six islands. Three are separated by less than a mile of water at certain points, and are connected by bridgework. One longer bridge reaches the mainland, but only one.”

Harristan sighs. “We have no record of islands, Captain Blakemore.”

“I’ve spent six years in Ostriary, Your Majesty. I’ve walked the bridges myself.” He reaches out and taps the log that belonged to his father. “You can read my father’s accounting of the territory.”

“The weather patterns that create the fog over the sea have kept the kingdom rather isolated,” says Lieutenant Tagas. “And protected.”

“Protected from whom?” I say.

“Anyone,” she says. “The islands bear a surprising amount of—”

Rian lifts his hand again, and she stops.

“This room is as empty as it’s going to get,” I say.

He smiles, but the look in his eyes is less jovial and more regarding. “When we left Ostriary, their rulers were unaware that Kandala had a new king in power.” He pauses. “Their government is a bit shaky. There were many years of corruption. Political infighting. Squabbles over the throne that led to all-out civil war. It’s part of the reason it took me six years to return. There are many Ostrian

citizens who did not want a trade agreement with Kandala.”

“Why?” says Harristan.

“Because your grandfather was seen as conniving and dishonest, a man who did not honor his agreements. Once your father took the throne, those views did not change.”

I go very still. “You are speaking of your former king.”

“I was answering a question, Your Highness. There is a reason the first Captain Blakemore was sent as a spy and not as an emissary.”

“Maybe you’ve been in Ostriary for too long,” Harristan says. “My father was highly regarded among the people here.”

Rian spreads his hands. “Again, you asked why. I can only offer my own observations.”

Harristan looks at Lieutenant Tagas. “You’re an Ostrian citizen. What are your observations?”

She glances at Rian. “I am a sailor. I did not move in royal circles. But Rian is correct. In years past, the Kandalan king was not seen as an advantageous ally. Rumor said we were sent faulty materials in exchange for our …” Her voice trails off for a moment, and she casts a glance at Rian. “Resources,” she finishes. “The trade was bad. That’s why the final ship was attacked.”

“What resources?” I demand.

Rian lifts one shoulder in an unassuming shrug. “I’d rather not say.”

He’s either fearlessly brazen or just plain impudent. I raise my eyebrows. “You’d rather not say? You claim to be an agent of the king, and you’d rather not reveal what you’ve learned?”

His eyes flick to Harristan. “I wasn’t an agent of this

king.”

I draw myself up, ready to … to … I’m not sure what. Have the guards drag him out of here. Throw him to the ground and demand answers. Hold his feet to the fire, quite literally.

A dark light sparks in his expression, and I can tell he’s thinking of the moment he mentioned my reputation. His shoulders are tense, his eyes locked on mine.

He’s not afraid. He’s ready.

But I think of Tessa, how I promised to be better. My muscles are tight with a need for action.

If I were Weston Lark, I would fight. Demand answers.

Something.

But Weston Lark is dead. The King’s Justice can’t pick a fight over a few barbed comments.

Harristan speaks into my silence. “So you won’t say what Ostriary had to offer. What did Kandala?”

“Steel,” Rian says easily, as if we weren’t just staring each other down like men preparing for a duel. “Ostriary has very little access to iron ore. The mines here are plentiful. There’s an entire sector named for it.”

“Steel City,” I say.

He nods. “The inter-island bridges of Ostriary are constructed of Kandalan steel. Faulty steel, in many areas. They are beginning to fail.”

“So they need more,” I say.

“Yes,” says Lieutenant Tagas. “Quite a bit.”

Rian gives her a look, and she shrugs. “We do.”

“What is your goal here?” I say to him. “Have you become an agent for Ostriary? Is that the reason for all your secrecy?”

“I’d be a fool to say so, wouldn’t you think?” he says. “But I have spent six years there, and I can understand their caution. Their country is not without its problems.” His eyes don’t leave mine. “Neither is yours.”

No, I definitely don’t like him.

“Fine,” says Harristan. “Ostriary needs steel, yet they have nothing to offer. They haven’t sent an emissary of their own, just the son of a spy who doesn’t bear a clear allegiance to his home country. Regardless of the letter you bear, I have no reason to believe a word you’ve said. Tell me why I shouldn’t commit you to the Hold and send these Ostrian sailors back where they came from.”

“Oh,” says Rian. “I didn’t say Ostriary has nothing to

offer.” He stands.

All four of Harristan’s guards immediately step away from the wall. Two of them have hands on their weapons.

Rian freezes. He lifts his hands.

“I’m unarmed,” he says to the guards. His voice is quiet. “I have a key to the chest. Allow me to show you.”

The tension in the room has doubled.

“Set the key on the table,” Harristan says.

Rian frowns, but he pulls a key from his pocket and tosses it onto the table. The key rattles against the wood.

“Rocco,” says Harristan. “Open it.”

The guard takes the key and draws the chest away, toward the wall. He unlocks the padlock gingerly, as if expecting a trap, but the lock gives way with a click, and he lifts the lid.

Whatever he sees makes him gasp—and Rocco is one of the most stoic guards Harristan has. He’s not a man to gasp.

“What?” says Harristan. “What is it?”

Rocco turns the chest around. It’s packed full of white petals. Easily enough to supply the entire palace for weeks. Maybe even the entire Royal Sector.

“Moonflower,” he says, and his voice is hushed.

“Yes,” says Rian. “I’ve heard you might need some?”