Tris finished his cup of tea, wishing fervently that he had had another dose of the headache potion.

"Before Soterius comes to get me for the trials, tell me about plans for the wedding. I could use some good news."

"I found a minstrel troupe that just spent a year in Isencroft, so I've got them busy teaching our bards and musicians everything they can about the latest music and the most fashionable dances there. One of them can cook, too, so I've gotten him to teach the kitchen staff to make some dishes Kiara might like. Found a merchant with the last caravan who knows what the styles have been there, and promised to design costumes for the entertainers in the Isencroft tradition. As for the food—"

"We can't justify feasting in the palace when the villagers are hungry. The last thing we need is a revolt. Please, keep the wedding as simple as you can."

Carroway looked at him in mock exasperation. "I finally get to plan a royal wedding, and I've got to watch the budget," he sighed. "But you're right: On the other hand, you're going to have a house full of royalty—we don't dare look like we're struggling to pay the musicians."

"I have no doubt that with you in charge, the musicians will get their pay, and all they can eat besides. Make our guests comfortable. Honor Kiara. But err on the side of dignified austerity instead of fabulous excess, all right?"

"Point taken. Zachar went out of his way to tell me the same thing only yesterday afternoon, but I still want to go over some of the plans with you. I happen to have them right here," he said, patting a scroll in the pocket of his tunic.

Carroway had no sooner laid out his plans than another knock sounded at the door. The dogs rushed to answer, barking a greeting. "Come in," Tris called.

Ban Soterius stepped inside. He was dressed in his formal uniform, a general in the Mar-golan army. Soterius smiled as the dogs rushed at him, tails wagging. He patted them in greeting. "You stay out so bloody late tending to spirits that the living have to wake up at dawn to find you."

"No way around it," Tris said, finishing one of the small cakes and pouring another cup of tea. He hoped the food would rid him of the last vestiges of headache. "The ghosts that won't come to the Court of Spirits still need to be sent to rest. I don't mind being haunted by friendly ghosts, but I've got to rid the palace of the angry ones before Kiara gets here."

Soterius declined Carroway's offer of tea. "The guards told me that you barely got up the stairs last night."

"It's not just the ghosts. I can still feel traces of Arontala's blood magic in the dungeons. Power like that leaves a residue—as if the walls remember. There are...bad things...lurking out there. We'll need to keep that area sealed off until I can set it right."

"Can the Sisterhood help?"

Tris shook his head and winced. "Landis clamped down on the Sisterhood after she saw how many of her mages came to help us defeat Jared. If it were up to her, the Sisterhood would stay hidden in their citadels."

"Would she prefer that we'd left Jared on the throne?"

"In her mind, if the Sisterhood pulls back from outside life, the world will leave them alone."

"Not likely."

Tris shrugged. "Judging from the number of nobles who did nothing to help us take back the crown, I'd say Landis isn't alone."

Outside, the bells rang the eighth hour.

"It's time," Soterius said.

"Have I mentioned how much I hate this part?"

Soterius ran a hand back through his light brown hair, close-cropped to fit a soldier's helm. "Several times."

Tris's valet, Coalan, knocked at the door, and Carroway exited as Tris dressed. Neither Tris nor Soterius spoke as they walked through the corridors with guards ahead and behind them. Tris's pulse quickened. Another round of trials for Jared's generals, followed by the executions of those found guilty by the court. Tris could feel the press of spirits around him as the bailiff announced the arrival of the king. Trumpets blared. Many of those ghosts would soon be witnesses. Two dozen guards created a living barrier between the onlookers and the king. Tris took his throne at the front of the room. This was the fourth day of trials, and the crowd had grown each day. "Bring the first defendant." Two guards escorted General Kalay into the courtroom. Shackled at the wrists and ankles, Kalay held himself stiffly and shook off the guards. Even in civilian clothing, his military bearing was unmistakable. He was a balding man, just past his thirtieth season, and his defiant blue eyes showed intelligence. Behind Kalay were ten soldiers, similarly shackled.

Tris did not need to glance at the paperwork. He had seen Kalay's work first-hand.

"General Asis Kalay. You and your men are charged with the murder of Margolan citizens under the orders of Jared the Usurper, a massacre that killed every villager in Rohndle's Ferry on the banks of the Nu River. How do you plead?"

Kalay met Tris's eyes. And although Tris could not read minds, everything about the glint in the man's eyes, his posture, and the slight turn of his lip made it easy to guess his thoughts. Prove it.

"Not guilty, Your Majesty."

Tris nodded. The bailiff produced a sheaf of parchment, and laid it in front of Kalay. "We have copies of your orders. We have documentation of your route. Do you wish to change your plea?"

"No."

Tris met Kalay's eyes. "Then we will call the witnesses."

The gallery grew still. The temperature in the courtroom fell. As the spectators and jurists watched, a mist began to coalesce in the space between the throne and the defendant's seat. The mist began to glow. Gradually, men, women, children, and elders gathered until the ghosts of an entire fishing village stood before the court.

Tris channeled power to the ghosts, and they became more solid. A gasp arose from the gallery, and sobs could be heard from among the Scirranish. The ghosts appeared with their death wounds. Men with skulls split open by battle axes, women and children run through by swords. Young girls dishonored and beaten. Blind old men and bent old women with the mark of a noose around their necks.

"Villagers of Rohndle's Ferry," Tris said. "Tell us how you died."

Even knowing what would come next, Tris struggled to retain his composure. He had already seen the villagers' memories of their deaths. Months ago, when he and his companions had made landfall after their journey down the Nu, they had chanced upon this desolate village and found what remained of the corpses. It did not make it easier to hear each person in turn come forward to tell the story.

"Soldiers came to our village in the uniform of the king of Margolan," said a village elder. Half of his skull was torn away. "They demanded money. We had already paid both first and second taxes—we had no more coin to give. First, they burned our homes. Then they chased down our livestock and our children for sport. They took our daughters into the forest. We heard them screaming." He looked at Kalay. "This man was their leader. He was angry. He gave the order, and his men set about with their axes and swords. Those who did not die immediately they hanged in the barn. This is the man."

Kalay's face was pale. His eyes were wide. Several of Kalay's soldiers were weeping with their heads in their hands, shaking in fear of judgment.

"Do I need to have the others tell their tale?" Tris struggled to keep his tone civil.

"I did as my king commanded. I followed my orders. I have done nothing wrong." His lip curled. "My allegiance is to King Jared."

So many of the onlookers in the gallery rose to their feet and surged forward that the guards were hard pressed to restore order. In the gallery, the Scirranish muffled their sobbing. Tris met Kalay's eyes.