“Ah, morning, Master Dead-Talker!” called Willard from his garden. The pigs snuffled welcomingly as Idris wandered over.

  “Good morning, Willard. My, Petal is getting to be some size.”

  “I think she has some weeuns in that belly,” said Willard, patting the pig on the head. “Bad ol’ Joe. He should know better.”

  Idris liked Willard’s little hut. It was not a scratch on his old home in the forest, more mythical than a dream, but it replicated the set-up in tidy palace ways. Aria bells hung on the outer wall of the hut, their glass tubes chiming with the inherent magic in the air – earth arias and water arias, sky arias and now, fae arias – all twinkling and humming in time, all different and yet never discordant, like in most areas of the palace. The yard still had his pigs in it and he had a herb garden where he grew his plants for his medicines and a select number of vegetables, but the real joy were Willard’s wildflowers. He tended them with fae touches, a gold glitter here, a persuasive whisper there, and as a result they shone with myriad colours, even in the autumn. Willard’s magic was like he was – rough and outdoorsy, and it would not bend to fit inside Idris’s understanding of aria control.

  “Ey, I’ve been a-trying to find you,” said Willard. Idris knelt to pet the pigs. “Joa came. He said the fae’re ready to get started on the project.”

  “Oh?” said Idris, glancing up.

  “He wanted me to check with you about what you want. If it’s really a hammer you want. He said he can make a fine axe, or a nice new cane? Or a sword, Riette’d like that. If you do want a hammer, he can make you a hammer. Think he just wants it to be more poetic than that, if you catch my meaning.”

  “A hammer will suit me fine,” said Idris. “Thank him for me.”

  “I will.”

  The hedge witch stood, scratching Joe the pig behind the ears. His blond curls were tied atop his head for garden-work and he was wearing his garden clothes, a series of rough-spun tunics and trousers that he did not mind getting covered in pig swill. It seemed to Idris that Willard was some kind of shape-shifter – some days he was a hedge witch, some a fae princeling, and some an apprentice noble. He had not been a noble for long and he was not excessively good at it, but he tried his best. Idris was intensely jealous of Willard, lately. Of the two of them who had discovered the truths about their fathers, Willard was the only one of them who had managed to take it all in his stride. It probably helped that the fae prince, Joy-of-Autumn, had not attempted to kill him.

  “Court today,” said Idris, standing.

  “Aye.”

  From behind the vegetable patch came a slinking, grey-and-orange shape.

  “Oh, Thistle, there you are,” said Idris, kneeling again to call his cat. Thistle, the runt of the Raven’s Roost litter, was a sleek adolescent cat now, and he thrived on hunting in the palace gardens day and night. He liked to spend his time between the members of the Gleesdale Court, often sleeping in Willard’s mushroom patch and on the pile of used towels at Riette’s training ground. “Here boy. Good boy.”

  Thistle chirruped, rubbed his head beneath Idris’s gloved hand. Idris picked him up and placed him on his usual perch, Idris’s shoulders. The cat purred contentedly.

  “’Spose we’re meeting because of...” Willard trailed off.

  “I think so. Yes.”

  “He was there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Should’ve put that sword through his neck,” said Willard, sniffing nonchalantly.

  “It would have been futile. But I appreciate the sentiment.” Idris sighed; the hours he had spent working felt like they were catching up with him. “Proper court, first. I will see you after.”

  Willard nodded. “You didn’t come for herbs?”

  “I do not only come here for herbs, Willard.”

  “I mean, you do. But.”

  The strain in their friendship was odd, but Idris knew it was mostly of his own making. From the yard of Willard’s hut, he could see the windows of Idris’s rooms. Three times, Willard had confronted Idris on his sleeping habits – or lack of them – only to be shut out. Besides that, Idris’s requests for medicines and energy-boosting herbs were frequent and substantial. Idris’s jealousy made any conversation with Willard an irritant to him if it was not only about business.

  Willard took a deep breath, gave his wide, gap-toothed smile.

  “Well, after,” he said. “Hope court isn’t too...” And he feigned snoring. Idris smiled.

  “If I am lucky, I will catch an hour or two’s sleep without anyone noticing.”

  “Ey, is Thistle allowed to court? How come?”

  “Thistle can behave himself in noble company,” said Idris, scratching the cat’s chin.

  “Ah. Fair.”

  Court was more tiresome than ever. Since word of Idris’s true parentage came out, there were new obstacles to avoid. People immediately began addressing him as Lord Vonner, as if that were something he had chosen; Cressida made it clear the next session that Idris was not a Vonner and he should be addressed as he always had been. That had only restarted the whispers in earnest. Before, people used to speculate about him behind their hands. Now, they spoke with a knowledge Idris had not wanted them to have. People were more scared of him. Nothing he did could change that.

  Thistle was a pleasant distraction. Courtiers enjoyed the young cat, and in turn that made Idris more approachable. After all, if a cat was comfortable sleeping on his shoulders for hours on end, how dangerous could he be to people?

  The walk to the assembly hall where Cressida held court was not far from Idris’s rooms on the edge of the palace gardens. Autumn gave the trees and flowers a different quality, a crisper edge. The gardeners were busier than ever, but they still took time to greet him as he passed. Idris focused on walking softly, so the prosthetic on his right leg did not rub the stump so much. All of this walking and standing played havoc with his amputation.

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  The hall sat on the top of a flight of white stairs, flanked by shrubs; beside the huge doors that allowed the courtiers entry was a dragon horn in a golden stirrup, not yet blown to call the nobles in. Clusters of people were already huddled around the door, discussing petitions and laws and the weather, and likely Idris, although Lila said he was too paranoid about it.

  Idris climbed the steps, looking for his allies – a new habit that he tried to practice. There was Kurellan, the Court Judge, in his family colours of black and white, speaking with some younger judges in their corner. Willard did not come to court – he had no court position – so there was no fae green-gold to find. Riette normally wore her armour to court, as the Commander of the Guard, but Idris did not see her yet, and Cressida was the last to arrive every day.

  Idris had just raised his hand to wave to Kurellan when the dragon horn blasted. A long, low, innards-shaking note emanated from the end of the curved horn. Idris had to blink water from his eyes once it had blown. The courtiers filed in in orderly groups, their names being called as they passed the threshold. Idris glanced eastward, to the Queen’s residences, all turrets and shining rooftops, and he sighed and passed under the giant doors, into the building.

  “You made it,” said Kurellan, falling in step with him.

  “I always make it, Your Honour,” said Idris.

  “I was talking to your mangy cat.”

  “He isn’t ‘mangy’ -”

  “His Honour, Judge Theobald Kurellan, Court Judge, and Sir Idris of Gleesdale, in service of Her Majesty Cressida of House Naga, Court Necromancer,” called the crier as the two men walked the navy carpet down the centre of the oval room.

  “Can’t gripe too much,” said Kurellan. “He caught the rat in my tower yesterday.”

  “I had no idea he was travelling that far.”

  “Oh, he gets around.”

  The wrought-iron arches that held the assembly hall aloft were adorned in all of the wonders of autumn – bristling boughs of gold-fern and red witch-berries bursting with juice hung draped around the struts, and instead of the Queen’s favourite roses and tulips, the giant vases had fox-tail brushes of wildflowers springing from their lips. As always, between the globes of the resin lamps were the petitioners, and as always, they watched Idris with fervent interest. The sun filtered through the huge windows in the coral-marble walls; in autumn, the windows were usually closed.

  Idris and Kurellan approached the raised stage where the podiums stood, one for each member of the high court, each with a small round table for notices or drinks. Kurellan’s had magpie feathers sticking from the base, but Idris’s sported the black clematis of his personal sigil, entwined elegantly from top to bottom. There were scrolls already on Kurellan’s table, but Idris’s was bare, which in itself was not strange, but the time of year dictated that his services were in high demand. He wondered if he would get many petitioners, today. The lack of a letter was also a relief – it was how Layton had been sending him missives about his travels, for Idris to find at court.

  Thistle dropped down from Idris’s shoulder to sit atop the table and lick his paws; Idris stood beside him, resting on his cane, looking out to the door. The wrought iron reminded him of the garden stools that Layton had brought, the teacups, the cold stare -

  Forget it, he thought, taking a deep breath. This is how we fight this. Through court and logic, not through his madness.

  He could not help feeling uncomfortable, though. Layton was too close to Veridia for it to be safe.

  Once Idris saw Riette, he felt better. She marched into the hall in her royal guard armour, her shining ash hair pulled into its soldier’s braid, her face aglow with confidence.

  “Lady Henrietta DeTrentaville,” called the crier, “Commander of the Guard.”

  Riette saw Idris, gave him a nod; Idris nodded back. On top of her duties as Commander, she was also teaching both Lila and Idris how to use a sword. Lila was far more advanced than Idris could hope to be, but he wanted to be able to protect himself if the worst happened. Spending extra time with Riette had its own challenges – namely that Idris could not keep himself from blushing whenever she complimented him or corrected his stance – but he knew if he needed her by his side, she could fight for him. She was a tall, wide woman, but had the grace of a mountain cat; she barely made a sound as she climbed the stage and took to her podium, trimmed with purple ribbon and mountain cat pelt.

  “Queen Cressida of House Naga,” the crier shouted, and the room fell silent.

  Cressida emerged from her private room in the back of the hall, dressed in her court splendour. Her navy-and-silver-striped skirt made way to a corset that seemed to be made from a crashing wave; her sea serpent hair pin held her black waves close to her head. She sat in the throne, placed her hands on her lap and inclined her head – the signal for court to begin.

  Idris felt sleepy immediately. Petitioners came and went; issues were offered and solved. He had not had more than five hours’ sleep in total all week, and court made him keenly aware of it. People wobbled like heat mirages if he did not concentrate on them. He kept forgetting how language worked. Occasionally, he was sure he napped standing up, only to jolt awake when he was sure someone called his name when nobody had.

  It had been almost an hour when Idris was broken from his doze by a noise near the door. The petitioner who had been speaking turned, stared and moved out of the way, as a huddle of villagers burst into the hall, running, picking each other up when they tripped. The royal guard attempted to stop them but Cressida stood and shook her head, her eyes focused on the people entering.

  “Let them through,” she said, her voice carrying easily.

  The villagers tumbled to a stop at the base of the stage, throwing themselves to their knees and pressing their faces to the carpet. They were filthy, covered in brown-and-grey dirt, and their clothes were ragged. Idris counted twelve, including children.

  “Your Majesty,” wept one of the villagers into the confused hubbub from the watching petitioners, “Your Majesty, we beg protection -”

  “Gently, now,” said Cressida, leaving the stage and kneeling before them. “It is quite all right, you are safe here. Porter,” she shouted, “bring water for these people.”

  The porter scrambled to Cressida’s private room. Riette took a step forward, a hand on her sword, her brow furrowed.

  “Where are you from?” said the Queen softly to the sobbing group. “There, now. Come, I cannot assist if you do not answer -”

  Then Idris saw, wrapped tightly around the waist of one of the men, an olive-green shawl.

  It hit him in a wave.

  The Eremont shawl. The same shawl his uncle had worn, and his mother, and the man he thought to be his father. The same shawl Polly had worn when she stumbled, dead, into his house in Gleesdale, with Layton’s first letter clutched in her fist.

  His breathing became ragged, his thoughts singular.

  “Good lady,” said Idris, stepping from his podium and walking towards them, forgetting his place and the order of things, “where do you hail from? Speak plain, please.”

  “Marbury,” said the woman, lifting her face to look at him.

  “Are you Eremont people?” said Idris.

  Cressida stared at him, her face white. The villager nodded.

  “Tell me exactly what happened, spare no detail,” he said, dropping to his knees in front of her. Riette was already striding past.

  “I will have a carriage ready, I will wait in the courtyard!” she called to him as she started to run.

  “The dead,” the woman whispered, her face gaunt. “The dead, they came... from the ruins... and...”

  That was enough for Idris. He got right back to his feet and started to follow Riette, his stomach in knots, his heart pounding.

  “I’ll get Lila!” Kurellan shouted from behind. “You go! We’ll be right behind you!”

  Idris could not run, but he walked as quickly as he could, through the mumbling crowds in court and out of the door. At the foot of the steps, he saw Riette.

  “Just a horse!” he shouted to her. “No time for a carriage!”

  “Yes, sir!” she said, and sprinted off into the distance.