But it was a local soldier—an officer and one of the Eight’s first caretakers—and he had news that might already be too late.

“Bountiful,” he said.

The name meant something. But three other voices remembered the corona-hunting ship before Divers could.

“They found Bountiful hiding in the wilderness, and Diamond hiding inside her,” the young man said. Then a smile burst loose, and he added, “They’ve also found an open lane through the trees and signaled ahead, just a little while ago. As soon as the rain quits, Bountiful drops below the trees and sprints to the reef.”

“Putting the boy where?” she asked. “Here?”

But that was too much to hope for. “No, they’re going to the far side of Bright River, to the installations at High Coral Merry.”

That was a long distance. Covering the rough ground would take speed and focus, but she had both in abundance.

But what if this was a dream?

The officer—one of the allies who lived outside her body—was very much interested in whatever Divers said next.

“That boy,” she said. “I sent him for a tool.”

“We don’t trust him,” the man confessed. “We sent him chasing nonsense.”

“Very good,” she said.

“Should we do something more than mislead him?”

“Whatever you think reasonable.”

The officer nodded, saying nothing.

“Thank you for this news,” she said.

Her ally smiled, rocking side to side, watching in amazement as Divers began to run away at an amazing pace.

Stopping beside the first slope, she picked up a great chunk of hard blue coral. Then the left hand struck the right hand, crushing two fingers and a thumb.

Pain drew a map of her body. Yes, she was awake. She was certain that she was awake. Then the first drops of rain found her—the cool brave rain that always preceded the hot and helpless—and Divers started to gallop, hands helping the feet climb, the first sharp ridge soon behind her and nothing ahead but hazards and doubts and little voices whispering too loudly while floating through their own dreams.

Towlines lashed Panoply Night to a big fletch, and a hundred straps secured both vessels to the overhead canopy. A long gangway had been erected between Night’s stern and the Ruler of the Storm. Soldiers in bright parade uniforms walked before the Archon of Archons and soldiers in green militia garb met them in the middle, protocol and routine duties delaying their progress. The ranking Corona officer insisted that the honor guard retreat to their ship. But the man who mattered had no patience for clumsy tactics, and pushing to the front, List said, “Enough concessions. My people are coming with me, and with my son.”

King stepped up, letting the pests have one long glance at him. Then because it was so easy, so tempting, he planted an arm on the biggest shoulder and drove that fellow to his knees.

Bright uniforms took the lead.

And the wind rose, making a keening, sorrowful music with the tightening straps. But then the gusts softened just as quickly, and the world had a calm quiet moment before the first gouts of rain hammered at the gangway’s belly.

Father made it inside before being soaked—one tiny victory.

Prima was waiting indoors. She looked like every tired, furious human. King assumed that her rage was going to be pointed at Father or maybe at him. His armor reflexively tilted, ready to impress. But Prima ignored King, and she barely nodded at the Archon. The eyes were bright fiery and distinctly crazed, fixed on those left behind on the gangway. She was dressed for no purpose but comfort, her clothes ordinary, even bland. “I’m sorry, that was stupid,” she screamed across the taller heads, apparently addressing the drenching gale. “Give me a moment, sir. Please.”

The next recitation was amusing, educational, and thoroughly bizarre. King would have known that just from his father’s expression or anyone else left standing inside the Panoply’s entranceway. Every face watched the Archon stride straight into the storm. Neither of her hands used the railing as the extended, increasingly strained gangway was buffeted in several directions at once. A few trailing men had to be ignored if not exactly pushed aside. It would be simple to call the woman fearless or brave—two very different natures—yet she was neither. Mostly she was transfixed by one matter that was so simple, narrow and vital and pure, that it would take more than a gale of bathwater-hot rain to make her rational heart throb at all.

The officer who had led her reception committee needed to be reprimanded. Not two recitations from now, but now. In the rain, with everyone watching, a creature half of that man’s size pushed him against the railing and shoved a finger against the tightly clamped mouth, screaming nothing that could be heard over the storm’s roar, yet leaving the fellow in such a state that he squirmed, acting as if he might jump over the railing just to end his withering shame.

And then with no warning, Prima swung about and came back again.

This time she used the railings, bouncing from one to the other. Suddenly she was a slender woman past her physical prime. The strain of the last two days was etched in the thin face. The drenched shirt stuck tight to her body, and she stumbled as she came into the ship, two aides making the mistake of trying to catch her.

Their hands were batted away.

Staring at the wet hallway floor, she said nothing.

King watched her small chest fill with air, and then her cheeks inflated, blowing out the spent gas. There were children who were taller and stronger than this woman, and any shred of poise that she might have carried had been spent. But what impressed King was not her appearance but how the others around her, particularly her own people, treated her. Prima took a half-step forward, and important people suddenly backed away, keeping out of her reach. Prima took three long strides forward, and then she looked at her fellow Archon with a serious, sane intent, telling him, “You have no idea.”

With that, she walked deeper into the Panoply Night.

Father didn’t want to hurry after her. He was too poised for this game. And it was a game: King regarded everything as a pageant, guessing what would happen next and what wouldn’t happen. The woman wanted the monster rattled, out of balance and unmoored. Father had mentioned the possibility. For their mutual benefit, Father had laid out the possible strategies of a person with few weapons of her own. And while he didn’t warn about wild theatrics, at least he remained unaffected enough that he could maintain a leisurely pace, reaching out to tug at his son’s hand, that gesture helping share his considerable amusement.

Their hostess paused before a locked door. Then she looked back at List, just List, asking, “Why did you come here?”

Father paused, blinked.

“The prisoner is one of my people,” she continued. “He was one of my trusted, my stalwarts. Except he’s a spectacular coward and a full-blooded traitor and everything about the plot is coming out now.”

She stopped talking, and Father said, “Good.”

“But I want to know from you, sir,” she said. “Why do you want to meet him?”

Father’s face flushed. “I want to hear the story, of course.”

“That too,” said Prima. “But be honest. You came here because you have every advantage. You want me to accept your dominance. And for a lot of strong reasons, you want to take my prisoner home with you. He’s going to be a prize, a trophy. He is a useful picture of evil to drag before people everywhere.”

When he was furious, Father had a very small mouth.

“I’m tired,” she said. “The games, the political dance . . . if it doesn’t make a person sick, she must not have a soul.”

Father started to disagree with some or all of that speech.