“It sounds like one of Rix’s fairy tales,” Keiro said calmly.

“So she’ll die?”

“Very soon.”

“Fine. That just leaves him.” Keiro jabbed his injured hand at the Pretender.

Finn lifted his head and he and the Pretender gazed at each other. “You don’t look so much like me now,” Finn said.

The boy’s appearance had altered too, his lips thinner, nose longer, hair too dark. There was still a resemblance, but it had no real substance anymore. It had died with the Era.

“Look,” the Pretender said. “It wasn’t my idea. They found me. They offered me a kingdom! You would have done it—anyone would! They promised my family enough gold to keep my six brothers fed for years. I had no choice.” He drew himself up. “And I was good, Finn. You have to admit it. I had everyone fooled. Maybe I even fooled you.” He glanced down at his wrist, where the eagle tattoo had vanished. “Another piece of Protocol,” he murmured.

Keiro found a chair and lounged in it. “I think we should put him in that tiny cube you call the Prison.”

“No. He writes a confession and admits publicly that he was an imposter. That the Queen and Caspar were behind a plot to place a false Giles on the throne. And then we let him go.” Finn looked at Jared. “He’s no threat to us now.”

Jared nodded. “I agree.”

Keiro looked less than convinced, but Finn stood. “Take him away.”

But as the Pretender reached the door Finn said softly, “Claudia never believed in you.”

The Pretender stopped and laughed. “No?” he whispered. He turned his head and gazed back at Finn. “I think she believed in me more than she ever believed in you.”

The words stabbed Finn, a breathtaking pain. He whipped his sword out and advanced on the Pretender, wanting only to run him through, to destroy this venomous infuriating image of all he had never been. But Jared was in his way, and the Sapient’s green gaze held him still.

Without turning, Jared said, “Get him out,” and the guards hustled the Pretender away.

Finn threw the sword down on the wrecked floor.

“So we’ve won.” Keiro picked it up and examined the blade. “A ruined kingdom, maybe, but all ours. We’re Winglords at last, brother.”

“There’s a greater enemy than the Queen.” Finn stared at Jared, still sore. “There always was. We have to save ourselves and Claudia from the Prison.”

“And Attia.” Keiro looked up. “Don’t forget your little dog-slave.”

“You mean you’re concerned about her?”

Keiro shrugged. “She was a pain. But I got used to her.”

“Where’s the Glove?” Finn snapped.

Jared drew it from his coat. “But I told you, Finn, I don’t understand . . .”

Finn came and took it. “This hasn’t changed.” His fingers crumpled the soft skin. “Not at all, while everything around falls into dust. It brought Keiro Out, and Incarceron wants it more than anything in the Realm. It’s our only hope now.”

“Sire.”

Finn turned. He had forgotten Medlicote was there. The thin man had stood just inside the door all this time, his slightly stooping posture more obvious in his faded coat. “Might I suggest that it is also our only danger?”

“What do you mean?”

The secretary came forward, hesitant. “It’s clear the Prison will destroy us all if it can’t have this object. And if we hand it over, then Incarceron will leave its Prison and all the inmates will be left to die. It is a terrible choice you face.”

Finn frowned.

Jared said, “But you have a suggestion?”

“I do. A radical one, but it might work. Destroy the Glove.”

“No.” Finn and Keiro said it together.

“Sirs, listen to me.” He seemed scared, Finn thought, and not of them. “Master Jared admits he is puzzled by this device. And have you thought that it might be the very presence of the Glove here that is draining the Realm of its power? You only believe that to be caused by the Prison’s malice. You do not truly know!”

Finn frowned. He turned the Glove over, then glanced at Jared. “Do you think he’s right?”

“No, I don’t. We need the Glove.”

“But you said—”

“Give me time.” Jared rose and came over. “Give me time and I’ll work it out.”

“We don’t have time.” Finn looked at the Sapient’s frail face. “You don’t, and neither do those in the Prison.”

Medlicote said, “You are the King, sire. No one—not even the Privy Council—will doubt that now. Destroy it. This is what the Warden would want us to do.”

Jared said sharply, “You can’t know that.”

“I know the Warden. And do you think, sir, that the Steel Wolves will stand by and allow this new danger, now that Protocol is gone?”

As the candle guttered Finn said, “Are you threatening me?”

“How could I, sire?” Medlicote kept one eye on Keiro, but his voice was meek and anxious. “You must decide. Destroy it, and the Prison is trapped forever in its self. Allow it access to Sapphique’s power, and you will unleash its horrors on us. Where do you think Incarceron will come, when it is free? What sort of tyrant will it become Out here? Will you allow it to make us all its slaves?”

Finn was silent. He glanced at Keiro, who just gazed back. More than ever he wished that Claudia would open the door and stalk in. She knew her father. She would know if this was what they should do.

In the shattered room a broken casement banged in the wind. A gale was howling around the house, and rain began to patter hard against the cracked glass. “Jared?”

“Don’t destroy it. It’s our last weapon.”

“But if he’s right, if—”

“Trust me, Finn. I have an idea.”

Thunder rumbled. Medlicote shrugged. “I am loath to say this, sire, but Master Jared may not be the one to listen to. Perhaps his reasons are not ours.”

Finn said, “What do you mean?”

“Master Jared is a sick man. Perhaps he feels such an object of power could be his cure.”

They stared at him.

Jared was pale; he seemed both astonished and confused. “Finn . . .”

Finn held up a hand. “You don’t have to justify yourself to me, Master.” He advanced on Medlicote as if his anger had found its outlet. “I would never, never believe that you would put your own life before the safety of millions.”

Medlicote knew he had gone too far. He stepped back. “A man’s life is everything to him.”

A great crash echoed in the house, as if some part of the structure had fallen.

“We should get out.” Keiro stood, restless. “This place is a deathtrap.”

Jared had not taken his gaze from Finn. “We need to find Claudia. The Glove will help us. Destroy it and the Prison has no reason to keep her alive.”

“If they are still alive.”

Jared glanced at Medlicote. “I would suggest that the Warden certainly is.”

Finn took a moment to understand. Then with a speed that made Keiro turn, he threw Medlicote back against the wall, one arm jammed under his throat. “You’ve spoken with him, haven’t you?”

“Sire . . .”

“Haven’t you!”

The secretary gasped for breath. Then he nodded.

“Medlicote.” Her father turned to face the door. “One of the Steel Wolves. A good man. He’ll deal with the Glove. Now we’ll see who commands here.”

But the roar of the angry Prisoners almost drowned his words. Claudia glared at him, infuriated by his pride and his stubbornness. Then she said, “They’ll trample you down. But there’s another thing we can do to stop Incarceron. We can burn the statue.”

Her father stared. “It will never allow us.”

“It’s preoccupied. You said so yourself.” She turned to Attia. “Come on!”

The two of them raced across the snowy waste of the hall. On the walls the hangings were frozen in their folds. Claudia grabbed the nearest and tugged, dust and shards of ice crashing around her. “Rix! Help us!”

The magician sat on the pedestal, all knees and elbows. He was rippling coins through his hands, muttering to himself. “Heads, they kill us. Tails, we Escape.”

“Forget him.” Attia jumped up and heaved the tapestry down. “He’s crazy. They both are.”

Together they dragged down all the hangings. Close to, the tapestries were holed and ragged under their film of ice, and on them Attia recognized all the old legends of Sapphique—his crawling over the sword-bridge, offering his finger to the Beast, stealing the children, conversing with the King of the Swans. With a clatter of rings the woven scenes crumpled into clouds of fibers and icy mildew, and she and Claudia dragged them to the statue, piling them around its feet, while its beautiful face gazed out at the howling mob behind the door.

The Warden watched. Beyond him, blow by blow, the last panels were shattered. A hinge smashed; the door jerked down.

“Rix!” Attia yelled. “We need a flame!”

Claudia raced back across the floor, grabbing the Warden’s hand. “Father. Come away! Quickly!”

He stared at the broken door, the arms thrusting through, as if he would stop them with only his authority.

“I’m the Warden, Claudia. I’m in charge.”

“NO!” She hauled him back and pulled him, and as she did the door collapsed.

They saw a mass of Prisoners, those in front crushed and trampled by others behind. They hammered with fists and flailing chains. Their weapons were manacles and iron bars. They howled the cries of the desperate millions of Incarceron, the lost descendants of the first Prisoners, the Scum and the Civicry and the Ardenti and the Magpies and all the thousands of gangs and tribes, Wingtowns and outlaws.

As they poured into the hall Claudia turned and ran, her father at her back, both of them fleeing over the trampled snowfield that the floor had become, and in its mockery the Prison picked them out in intense spotlights that crossed and recrossed from its invisible roof.

“How does this work?”

Medlicote crumpled onto the floor, half choked. “Touch the dial. Then speak.”

Finn looked at Jared. Then he jabbed his thumb down on the small disc at one edge.

“Warden,” he said. “Can you hear me?”

Attia grabbed a piece of wood as a weapon and tested it. But she knew that before the sweeping anger of that mob nothing would be strong enough.

On the steps the Warden turned.

A tiny bleep sounded inside his coat; he reached for the disc, but as he brought it out Claudia grabbed it, her eyes widening as the Prisoners poured in, a jostling, stinking, roaring host.

A voice said, “Can you hear me?”

“Finn?”

“Claudia!” The relief was clear in his voice. “What’s happening ?”

“We’re in trouble. There’s a riot here. We’re going to burn the statue, Finn, or try.” She caught, out of the corner of her eye, the flicker of flame in Rix’s hand. “Then Incarceron has no way out.”

“Is the Glove destroyed?” the Warden hissed.

A murmur. A blur of static. And then, in her ear, Jared’s voice. “Claudia?”

She felt only a stab of joy.

“Claudia, it’s me. Listen to me please. I want you to promise me something.”

“Master . . .”

“I want you to promise me that you will not burn the image, Claudia.”

She blinked. Attia stared.

“But . . . we have to. Incarceron . . .”

“I know what you think. But I’m beginning to understand what is happening here. I have spoken to Sapphique. Promise me, Claudia. Tell me you trust me.”

She turned. Saw the crowd reach the bottom step, the front runners flinging themselves up.

“I trust you, Jared,” she whispered. “I always did. I love you, Master.”

Keiro pounced on it and yelled, “Claudia!” but there was only a hissing and spitting that might have been the noise of a multitude or the chaos of interstellar static.

Finn turned on Jared. “Are you crazy? She was right! Without its body . . .”

“I know.” Jared was pale. He leaned against the fireplace, the Glove tight in his hand. “And I ask you what I asked her. I have a plan, Finn. It may be foolish, it may be impossible. But it might save us all.”

Finn stared at him. Outside the rain lashed, flinging the casement open, snuffing the last flicker of the candle out.

He was cold and shaken, his hands icy. The fear in Claudia’s voice had infected him like a taste of the Prison, and for a moment he was back in that white cell where he had been born, and was no prince but a Prisoner with no memory and no hope.

The house shivered around them as lightning struck.

“What do you need?” Finn said.

“I will kill anyone who comes closer.”

The step pulsed with sudden light. Currents of power ran along it and rippled in blue waves. The crowd convulsed. Some pushed on, others stopped, or squirmed back. It became a vortex of movement, and the spotlights circled lazily over it, stabbing down to show a terrified eye, a flailing hand.

Attia snatched the kindling from Rix.

She moved to thrust it into the rotten fibers, but Claudia grabbed her hand. “Wait.”

“For what?”

She turned, but Claudia jerked her wrist savagely and the tiny burning scrap fell, flaring in the air. It landed on the tapestries but before the whoof of flame took hold Claudia had stamped it out.

“Are you mad? We’re finished!” Attia was furious. “You’ve finished us . . .”

“Jared . . .”

“Jared is wrong!”

“I am very pleased to have you all here for this execution.” The Prison’s sarcasm echoed through the freezing air, tiny, icy snowflakes drifting from its heights. “You will see my justice and understand that I have no favorites. Behold, the man before you. John Arlex, your Warden.”

The Warden was gray and grim, but he drew himself up, his dark coat glistening with snow.

“Listen to me,” he yelled. “The Prison is trying to leave us! To leave its own people to starve!”

Only the nearest heard him, and they howled him down.

As she closed up beside him Claudia knew that only the Prison’s proclamation kept the mob back, and that the Prison was playing with them.

They needn’t have bothered with the tapestries. Claudia realized that Incarceron would burn its own body, that its anger at the Glove’s loss, at the end of all its plans, would be their end too. The same pyre would consume them all.

And then, beside her, a sharp voice said, “Oh my father. Listen to me.”

The crowd hushed.

They stilled as if the voice was one they knew, had heard before, so that they quieted to hear it again.

And Claudia felt in her bones and nerves how Incarceron zigzagged closer, moved in, its reply murmured in her ear and against her cheek, a quiet, fascinated question of secret doubt.

Rix laughed. His eyes were narrowed, his breath stank of ket. He opened his arms wide. “Let me show you what I can do. The greatest magic ever performed. Let me show you, my father, how I will bring your body to life.”