Bryn scowls and tugs her cloak free.
Before long, the sky opens above me and I stumble through grass as high as my thighs. For an instant, the stars steal my attention before I remember myself. Swallowing hard, I switch the dagger to my opposite hand, looking past North to a wagon parked inside a circle of white stones.
The wagon is old, faded, too long spent in the sun. Dark paint peels in layers, like the necrotic skin of the hellborne. White bleeds into blue and rust bleeds into everything, painting lines from the slanted roof down to the wheels. A stable door is shuttered closed at the top of a small stepladder; two horses graze with utter disinterest at the side. A campfire smolders from a dug-out hole flanked by more stones.
North approaches the wagon, pressing his hand to the door. White threads of magic crawl across the wood and sink into the grain before a lock clicks and the door sags open. Slinging his crossbow over his shoulder, he steps inside and lights an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling. Heat spills out with intoxicating invitation, but I hang back, knocking into Tobek, who stands too close behind me.
North waits, expectant, hands on his hips. “I have tea,” he says, gesturing to a tarnished samovar above a fat-bellied stove.
“Your majesty, this is not a good idea,” I whisper urgently. “He knows magic.”
“But he has tea,” Bryn says drily.
North seems to remember the weapon he holds. He pulls off the crossbow and angles it against a chair before demonstrating his hands. “No magic,” he says. The fingers are bent, arthritic, the knuckles swollen into painful, reddened knots. My eyes crawl back to a face too young to be suffering such an affliction, barely older than me.
Noticing my gaze, North straightens and tucks his hands across his chest as his face floods with color. Reluctantly, I follow Bryn into the wagon, ready to bolt at the first sign of attack.
It smells sour inside, like sweat and old skin; like two men who live in close quarters and don’t often entertain. Dried plants hang in bushels from the beams of the ceiling; an apothecary’s chest hugs half a wall, full of drawers and topped with jars filled with rocks, some white, some gray, and some completely black. Books lie scattered across the top of the chest and the small table adjacent, spines and pages haphazardly shoved into place with no apparent system. The stove hisses on the opposite wall, beside a stack of splinted wood and a dresser, while two bunks are built against the back, both framed with carved designs. A single window is set into the wall above the top bunk.
Someone painted stars on the ceiling.
“Who are you?” Bryn asks, nose wrinkled in distaste.
North blinks. “As I said, my name is North, that is my apprentice, Tobek, and this”—a ball of orange and white fur joyfully barrels toward his legs and he scoops it in his arms—“is Darjin.”
A cat. It purrs with rusty glee as North cradles it to his chest, scratching beneath its upturned chin. He smiles down at the cat, softening the otherwise fierce lines of his face. Even his eyes are black, I realize, when he looks to me again.
I look away, uncomfortable. Still guilty. Does he know that I pulled a trigger and chose my sister over someone else? Surely murder leaves a mark, some physical note for everyone to see. If he knew, would he have saved my life?
Has he saved my life? After all, he made the first bid in the marketplace, and while I wanted his help at the time, that was before I knew he could stop a hellborne heart with just his hands. What could he do to someone like me?
Tobek stands at the bottom of the stairwell behind me, blocking our escape. Unlike North, he has not relinquished his crossbow, and a low burr of warning raises the hairs on my neck. “Bryn,” I whisper, tugging on the edge of her cloak. There are too many walls and not enough doors.
She shakes me off with an irritated scowl. “You weren’t looking for guests to invite to tea,” she says.
North sets Darjin onto a chair. Cat fur clings to his coat, unnoticed. “You’re obviously not safe out there,” he says. “Certainly not alone. We’re leaving for Corsant in the morning, and I’m happy to take you anywhere along that route—”
“We’re on our way to New Prevast,” says Bryn. “Either you can help us or you’re wasting our time.”
“New Prevast is seven days in the opposite direction,” says North.
Bryn falls back, flicking her wrist dismissively. “Then you can’t help us.”
North’s hands curl around the back of a chair. He chews his lower lip as his thumb taps an impatient rhythm. “How did you end up at that market?”
“Irrelevant,” says Bryn. “Why were you there? And why did you follow us into the woods?”
The complicated answer. North colors slightly, shifting his weight. Exchanging looks with Tobek, he tilts his head toward one shoulder, considering his words. “For four years,” he says slowly, “I’ve been tracking down rumors of Merlock’s whereabouts; any magic cast by the king only lasts so long as he does. If I could kill Merlock, I could potentially stop the plague from spreading any further. All evidence suggests that he’s sought refuge within the Burn in the hopes that no one will find him—”
“Your king is a coward,” says Bryn.
“But he is still the king,” says North with a tight, reflective smile. “And while he lives, Prince Corbin cannot inherit the magic he needs to save Avinea.” Drawing a breath, he studies his hands on the back of the chair. “The spell that binds you two together,” he says at last, looking up. “I’ve never seen one that strong before. Tobek smelled the charge of it from the road. Unfortunately, so did every hellborne in the area. Magic like that is worth a fortune, and people are willing to kill for it. As I said, you’re safe here, for now. There are wards on the wagon, but out there . . .”
“Is this an offer or a threat?” Bryn straightens.
“It’s magic,” North repeats, and a flicker of excitement colors his voice, brightening his eyes. He looks more his age now, vibrant in his enthusiasm. “Without a trace of poison in it. That’s . . . that’s impossible. In four years, I’ve never found anything more than a thread or a spark or even a—a candle leftover from before the war. Yet here you are, brighter than the sun.” Sobering, he says, “I want to buy it from you.”
“It’s not for sale.”
“You want a binding spell?” I ask, looking from one to the other, uneasy. “What would you do with it?”
“Unravel it,” says North, shifting his attention to me. “I’d probably lose some of the magic in the process, yes, but I could save the rest and—”
My heart sinks. “You’re a transferent too?”
North blinks. “Yes.”