“Princes Olive!” a voice cries behind me. I turn, already raising fists, and see guards and my spear brothers tense. But then Lanna throws her arms around me and presses her soft mouth into mine.

  Faseek laughs, clashing his spear against his shield. “Olive!”

  My spear brothers and Selen join the cheer, clashing their spears and chanting my name. They are joined by the folk on the bleachers, and soon almost everyone in the plaza is roaring and clapping. Lanna giggles at the sound, but does not pull back until she’s left me breathless.

  “Still shy?” Her eyes glitter as she watches my face turn red. All I can do is smile dumbly, but the response seems to please her.

  Oskar is more formal approaching Selen, dropping to one knee and punching his chest in a salute befitting their respective ranks.

  “Core with that!” Selen cries. “If Olive gets a kiss, I’m getting one, too!” She hauls him up and kisses him as boldly as Lanna did me. Everyone is watching now, and again the crowd roars. I glance at Darin, but he’s stomping and hooting along with everyone else. Selen told me they worked things out, but I didn’t really believe it until now.

  Even Rojvah has joined in the merriment, cheering and then grabbing Darin, planting one right on his lips. I know the look when Darin tries to turn slippery, but he’s got no powers here in the sun, and flails helplessly in her embrace as everyone cheers a third time.

  I spare a look at Selen. She’s cheering, but it hasn’t reached her eyes. Maybe Darin’s worked things out, but I’m less sure about her.

  But then the festival begins in earnest, and there are games and entertainment to hold our attention. Gared Cutter proves he can still split wood faster than anyone in Hollow, and swings the sledge on the strength test so hard he knocks the bell off the pole and it takes an hour to repair. He gets a kiss from his baroness anyway, as Grandmum glares at them and my grandfather pretends not to see it.

  Darin and Arick take over the sound shell, though the other Jongleurs remain onstage, instruments ready to support.

  They aren’t needed. Boosted by the shell’s acoustics, Arick’s kamanj lays down a steady rhythm as Darin’s pipes weave their spell over the crowd. I wonder where Rojvah has gone, but then a voice from backstage heralds her appearance.

  My niece has changed from her frilly and rather conservative festival dress into what the Krasians would call pillow silks—thin, colored robes that flow about her like smoke.

  In Krasia, pillow silks are reserved for the harem, where no men are welcome, or the privacy of a marital bedchamber. To wear them in public would be a scandal, and even in Hollow, where female Jongleurs often dress in revealing clothes while they perform, they are daring.

  Rojvah plays tiny cymbals bound to her fingers in rhythm with her song, and a lattice of warded coins around her waist jingles as she sways and spins across the stage, taking folk’s breath away with each snap of her hips.

  When her performance is over, the crowd explodes in cheering and applause, and Rojvah bows, basking in the attention. Oskar has an arm around Selen, but she seems to have forgotten he’s there, staring at Rojvah like a spider eyes a fly.

  “I am told it is tradition for Princes Olive to lead the first dance!” Rojvah needs no magic to carry her voice with the bandshell at her back. “Shall we invite her out of hiding?”

  “Ay! Ay!” the crowd bellows, clapping hands and stomping feet.

  Rojvah isn’t wrong. I’ve led the first dance for years, but it was always in twirling skirts, on the arm of Uncle Gared or Darin Bales or some hopeful young nobleman. Now I stand in a man’s armor, and cannot conjure that girl again.

  I turn instead to Lanna, holding out a hand. “Dance with me?”

  Her face is aglow as I lead her out into the plaza and Darin begins a slow soulful melody, doubtless delighted to make someone else the center of attention. I have to concentrate, not used to leading a dance, but Lanna and I have done this before. I look in her eyes, and the months melt away to that night not so long ago when my biggest worry in life was whether or not we would kiss.

  Soon we are joined by other couples from the royal section, and then the guards let others in. Lanna beams at me, holding my gaze, making her my world, if only for the short while before Darin strikes up a reel that has everyone laughing as women spin from one partner to the next.

  When the dancing is over, Darin’s trio performs more famous pieces, the ancient Song of Waning and The Battle of Cutter’s Hollow. There are wet eyes all around for that one. There are comparisons to the legendary trio of Rojer Halfgrip, but that was before my time, and I have no basis to weigh them against each other.

  Hary Roller joins them onstage, Darin and the others playing backup as my herald sings The Ballad of Princes Olive. I keep my back straight as folk turn their eyes my way, refusing to melt under the scrutiny. It only gets worse as Lord Arther takes the stage holding aloft a warded crown. He beckons and I kneel before him, voice amplified as I pledge myself to Hollow until Mother returns, or my death.

  “Olive Paper,” Arther booms as he sets the crown on my brow, “Duch Regent of Hollow!”

  The crowd’s reaction to Lanna’s kiss was nothing compared to the roar that comes in response.

  * * *

  —

  I shed the weight of my Tazahn armor after the coronation, feeling safe enough under guard to slip into something more comfortable—warm leggings under a silk peplum blouse.

  My new surcoat has pockets for armor plates in the Krasian style, but the plates themselves are made of Hollow warded wood—light, easy to shape, and hard as steel. The order helped restore my reputation with the Warders’ Guild, who were not pleased by my decision to keep my Krasian armor in active use.

  The day goes by in a bit of a haze. I used to wonder why Mother always had such a headache on festival days, but I understand it now. Even with the coronation done, there are endless duties. Each performer begs my permission to begin, and my favor at the end. Mother always set aside time on festival days to meet with locals from the crowd who would not otherwise have access to court. I wanted to beg off, but Arther was firm.

  “Festival supplications were a tradition your mother began to keep trust with her people, even as she became increasingly ensconced at court. This year, of all years, we must show the people that your mother’s commitments remain unbroken.”

  I don’t like it, but he’s right. So I sit as a line of supplicants come before me, asking for royal loans to start or save livelihoods, land bequests, property disputes, and in one instance a divorce. In most cases, Arther has already vetted the pleas and readied generous recommendations that require little from me save a ruling, though that last came as a surprise to everyone, including the husband.

  They were on Arther’s roster to ask for a loan, but the moment they entered, the woman ran to me, kneeling at my feet. “Please, Your Grace. I beg your protection, and a divorce. My husband told your minister we lost our crop to flood, but truer is he spent our seed money on drink and…”

  “That’s ridiculous!” the man shouts. “She’s lying!”

  The hanzhar at my belt has become almost part of my hand under Favah’s tutelage, deadlier in close quarters than my spear. My hand itched to twirl it in my fingers while petitioners gave evidence, made accusations, and begged for boons, but I resisted the urge.

  Now, when I see the husband ball a fist and the wife shrink back in response, even here in my presence, the knife finds its way into my hands.

  Arther clears his throat. “Your Grace, perhaps…”

  I ignore him, spinning the knife so fast it becomes a blur that draws every eye in the room. “Choose the words you speak in my presence carefully,” I say. “The investigator I send will not be a fool, and if you bear false witness before me…” The spinning knife comes to a sudden stop, ready to strike.

  Arther offers me leave after that, handling the remainder of the petitioners personally. I take the steps down into the platform, disappearing from view so I can enter unseen one of the private tents in the royal section, heated against the chill and stocked with refreshments.

  Lanna is waiting downstairs, and I don’t resist as she pulls me into an empty tent. “Alone at last.”

  Lanna does not seem interested in food or drink. She moves close, and this time I take her in my arms and kiss her. It’s impulsive. I feel like I have no control over myself, and for just a moment, the kisses let me forget all my fears and worries. I haven’t kissed anyone since…

  I see Chadan’s face in my mind and pull back suddenly.

  “Your Grace?” There is concern in Lanna’s voice. “Are you all right? Was I too forward? I apologize if…”

  “It’s nothing like that,” I say. “I like your kisses.”

  “Then what is it?” Lanna asks.

  “Master Roller’s ballad did not tell all,” I say before I have time to think better of it. “Out on the desert, I…”

  I swallow hard, and Lanna lays a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I was in love,” I blurt. “I was in love and he…died.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Lanna puts her arms around me, squeezing me tight, her body warm and soft. “I do not expect anything from you, Your Grace, but I promised you as many kisses as you like after you saved my life, and I do not think it a betrayal of your love for you to take comfort in them.”

  “I saved your life, ay.” I’ve lived in terror of this conversation for two seasons, but now that it’s here, I won’t spare myself. “But only after I put it in danger. The demons were hunting me, Lanna. The moment I left the greatward, they were tracking me, and I led them right to our camp. Six dead, their blood on my hands. Boni in her wheeled chair, Tam still needing a stick and Cayla’s support to walk. All the others carrying scars to this day. It’s all my fault.”

  I try to look away, but Lana takes my chin in her hand, turning me to face her with a surprisingly strong grip. “Nonsense. Do you think I don’t mourn those lost and wounded? They were my friends. We grew up together. We were all so proud to go on tour. We laughed at the warnings as we stepped off the greatwards. We treated it like a game. You didn’t make the corelings real, Your Grace. Or make them want to kill us. But when they came, you stood between us and the demons. Again and again. That’s all I remember. All any of us do. You didn’t kill anyone that night, but those of us that survived did so because of you.”

  Lanna takes one of my hands in both of hers. “My mam says it does no disservice to the dead to celebrate life, especially on Solstice. I know I ent a suitable match for Duch Olive to marry, but that doesn’t mean we can’t dance.”

  Outside the tent, as if he’d been listening all along, Darin starts playing a lively jig on his pipes, and I smile as Lanna pulls me by the hand to the tent flap to join the dance.

  * * *

  —

  It’s easy to lose myself in Lanna and my friends for a time. Darin keeps to his pipes, but Rojvah and Selen join the dancing with the young folk of Apple Hill. I lift Boni from her chair, effortlessly supporting the girl as we twirl and dance. She laughs for the joy of it, and weeps when I call Mistress Darsy over and make an appointment at Gatherers’ University to have her fitted with a proper prosthetic.

  Darkness falls early, but we are safe on the greatward, even on this darkest of nights. Lanna keeps finding excuses for us to slip out of sight for a few moments. Each kiss is hungry for the next, but I have duties still, as the night’s entertainment begins.

  We watch mesmerized as festival flamework explodes in the sky. Mother understood the power of Prince Ramm’s secret flamework weapon, but preferred to turn it into tools, and flashes of light and color and beauty to give her people joy.

  My eyes start to see spots from the flashes, but one light remains, even as others come and go. It seems farther away than the others, and I realize almost too late that it is not flamework, but the glow of magic in the wardsight of my crown.

  It’s a demon, flying so high above the greatward that it skates along the forbiddance, causing a streak of light, like the splash of a fowl skidding across water to snatch up a fish.

  “Eyes!” I point, and my spear brothers all snap on target, spotting the flare of wardlight.

  Captain Gamon produces a distance lens and passes it to me, but Darin doesn’t need it.

  “Wind demon,” Darin says. “It’s alone, but…LOOK OUT!”

  He seems to blur, moving so fast I can only follow the path of his wind as he runs up to the platform and grabs Lord Arther, throwing both of them off the stage just as a heavy stone splinters Mother’s throne.

  They hit the dirt hard, but Darin has gone slippery, putting himself between Arther and the ground. They skid some distance from the wreckage, absorbing the impact, and seem unharmed.

  Warded arrows streak into the air, but I already know the demon is out of range. “Gorvan. Hunt.”

  My spear brother punches his chest and is off, signaling a handful of Princes to follow. They will track and kill the demon.

  “Don’t bother,” my grandfather Ernal says, pulling an electrum pen from his pocket. Grandda Erny is master of the Warders’ Guild. He’s seen almost eighty winters, and is the gentlest man I have ever known. I have never seen him so much as kill an insect or raise his voice, no matter what fresh torment Grandmum lays upon him.

  But Grandfather is angry now. I see it crackling along his aura as he lifts the pen.

  Electrum pens are a common enough Warder’s tool in Mother’s keep. They look like ordinary fountain pens, but they contain a demonbone core, encased in warded electrum to contain the power and protect it from sunlight.

  The devices allow the holder to Draw upon that store of magic, powering minor wardings inscribed with the pen. Opening the nib wider or closing it tighter controls the flow of power, but the items were used sparingly, for the store of demonbones was depleted after the war.

  I don’t understand what he means to do, but then Grandfather draws a glowing silver wind demon ward in the air in front of him, brightens it by opening the nib, then sends it off with a flick of his wrist.

  Faster than my eyes can follow, the ward streaks through the air, swatting the demon like a fly. It crumples and drops, skittering along the forbidding for a moment, but on its death, it passes through the shield, bursting into flames as it enters into free fall.

  Grandfather draws another quick warding, snuffing the flame, and there are screams from the street where it crashes down onto the cobbles.

  Shouts of alarm come from all sides as folk witness the wreckage of Mother’s throne. In seconds, panic will spread and the festival crowd will become a stampede.

  I grab my spear and race to the sound shell, leaping atop the stage. In the day, it is a masterwork of acoustics, but at night Mother’s wardings make it something more.

  “Take heart, people of Hollow!” My voice is amplified a hundredfold, filling every ear, cutting through the noise of rising terror. I look to the statue of Arlen Bales in the fountain, and shout perhaps his most famous phrase. “It is not we who should fear the corelings! It is they who fear us!”

  Everyone freezes, staring at me, fear held in check for a moment that I must extend. “Was it so many years ago the corelings came to this very place, seeking to destroy Hollow?” I demand. “General Gared! What did we do then?”

  “Stomped ’em!” The big man doesn’t need wards to carry his voice. “Chopped ’em down like trees!”

  There’s a cheer from the crowd at that, and I raise my spear to the sky. “What do they call this place?”

  This time, it is more than Gared Cutter who replies. It is the crowd, latching on to our defiance. “Corelings’ Graveyard!”

  “Ay!” I shout. “The demons are gathering once more, but they are weakened still by the Deliverer’s Purge. They do not have the strength to attack our greatwards, so they hurl stones like children!”

  I hop down from the stage, striding purposefully over to the wreckage of the royal viewing platform. The stone at the center of the ruin is larger and heavier than any normal wind demon should be able to carry. I doubt even Uncle Gared could budge it. Still I reach down and take a firm grip, gritting my teeth. I refuse to let out a groan as I pull it free of the pulverized wood and heave, lifting it over my head.

  I turn and see the wide-eyed faces of my subjects, staring in wonder. All my life, I’ve had to hide my strength from them. To feign weakness, lest someone discover I was more than I seemed. Mother lived in terror of that day, and in truth, I did, too.

  I see it in their eyes. There is awe, but also fear. I look over at Lanna, and she unconsciously takes a step back.

  I put it aside, flexing to raise the stone higher, for all to see. “But anything they can hurl at us, we can throw back, a thousandfold!”

  I toss the stone aside, careful not to crush anyone. It lands with a boom, the impact smashing cobblestones into gravel.

  Folk are still gaping as I leap back onstage. “Should we quake in fear from a lone wind demon with a stone, when we stood against everything the Core could muster and cast them back?”

  “NO!” the crowd roars.

  “No!” I echo. “We will exterminate them, once and for all!”

  Again the roar, louder this time. Loud enough to drown doubt. Loud enough to draw eyes away from the wreckage of Mother’s throne. I feel panic washing away, leaving determination in its place. “Hollow!” they cry. “Hollow! Hollow!”

  This wasn’t an attack. It was a message from Alagai Ka. A reminder he is out there. A reminder he knows where I am, and can strike at me when he chooses. It is a promise, and a dare.

  And I intend to answer.