BY THE TIME WE REACH camp, the gods are battling for dominance again, battering us between Rook’s icy skies and Tell’s rolling earth. The pain in my wrist worsens, inching across my shoulder, into my chest. North unspools magic around his fingers, ready for attack, while I curl the box of matches in my fist, just in case.
I see Bryn first. Standing in the open doorway of the wagon, her red hair looks almost gold in the light behind her. North’s crossbow is settled against her shoulder and she sights down the tiller before releasing a bolt into the dark beyond camp. There comes a grunt, a curse, and a sudden flash of movement. Only then do I notice the figures standing in the rain, outlined by the stormy skies. They’re too hard, too rough to be anything but hellborne. Two bodies are already laid out on the ground.
Aim for the heart shudders through me as Bryn bends for another bolt from the quiver at her feet, notching it in place with a movement too smooth to be anything but practiced. So she does know how to shoot, just like I suspected.
Only one figure stands within reach of the light from the wagon, crouched by the perimeter, hand hovering above North’s stones. Baedan. The rain wilts her hair into scraggly ribbons down bare, muscled shoulders, and Tobek paces her, his crossbow loaded in position. What is he waiting for?
Baedan sees North and grins, white teeth against dark lips. Poison laces her cheek like an old bruise, and her eyes shine silver as she stands. “You killed three of my men the other night,” she calls in greeting.
“They got in my way,” says North.
Baedan lifts her chin, her smile thinning before her eyes slide toward Bryn. “Name your price.”
“Not for sale.” Grabbing my arm, North hauls me over the perimeter, into the safety of camp. He holds me behind him, fingers tight through the sleeve of my coat.
Baedan’s smile flickers when she sees me, and she casts a dark look over her shoulder toward one of the figures prowling at her back. I can’t see his face beneath the hood of his coat, but I can guess the recipient of such disapproval. Kellig, who didn’t skin me like he was told to.
“I’ll give you two spells for her,” Baedan says, turning back to North. “That’s more than fair.”
“Your spells are sloppy and have too many tangles,” North says. “I lose most of the magic unraveling them.”
Baedan reaches into her trouser pocket and demonstrates a glass vial, small as the golem’s heart, full of liquid fire. “Clean magic, then,” she says. “I’ll match you ounce for an ounce. I’ll even let you cut her open and measure the blood so you know I’m not cheating.”
North wets his lips, shifting his weight—an almost unconscious step toward her. Toward the magic.
“No,” he finally says, and for such a small word, it takes a lot of effort.
“Then make me an offer, North. You know how this works.”
“You’re wasting your time,” North says. “She’s not Merlock’s daughter.”
“Then you have no reason not to sell.” When he doesn’t reply, she begins tapping the vial against her upper thigh. “You still have your prince. You don’t need a princess, too.”
“He already said you’re wasting your time,” Tobek says, all gruff and bravado.
Baedan doesn’t acknowledge him. “I’ll overlook three dead men, but I will not overlook greed, North. Don’t throw away years of peace on a redundancy.”
Bryn tightens at the insult, still sighting down the tiller. Her skirts stick to her legs, outlining her slender frame. “If you want me, come and get me,” she says, loosing the bolt. It strikes Baedan and bounces back against her leather vest, useless, no doubt blocked by some protection spell.
Baedan smiles, eyebrows arched. Bending, she picks up the bolt before dropping into a mock curtsy, arms spread wide. “Invitation accepted, your majesty.”
With a grunt, she flattens her palms to the earth as poison bleeds down her arms, fast as lightning, thick as weeds. The grass beneath her smolders and turns black, racing along the edge of the perimeter. The rain hisses into steam as the earth ignites.
The Burn.
Straightening—staggering—Baden tosses her damp hair out of her face, silver eyes cutting toward North. Despite the pain carving lines in her face, her smile sharpens, turns deadly. “This is the moment you lost any hope of saving this kingdom, North,” she says. “This is the moment you and I became enemies.”
North shifts his weight, still holding me back, and doesn’t reply.
“Don’t stray too far from your master,” Baedan says, finally looking to Tobek. “You fall once, you fall again twice as fast. I know how to tame lost slaves like you.”
Tobek doesn’t flinch away from her, still holding steady position.
She begins backing away. “Start running,” she calls, before turning and barking an order to her men. They fall back, disappearing into the darkness. Kellig lingers, eyes on me, before he too fades away.
“Why isn’t she fighting?” Bryn lowers the crossbow, eyes wide, wild with the hunt.
“She can’t.” Mud streaks North’s face and he grimaces with pain, releasing me and pressing a hand to his chest. The unspooled magic he’s been holding on to has twisted the knuckles even further out of formation; dark cracks line his skin like dried blood. “Creating the Burn isn’t a spell, it’s an act of transference. She pulled the poison out of her blood and it’ll take time for the blood to regenerate. She’s too weak.”
“Then why aren’t you fighting?” Bryn asks darkly.
North sags, eyeing his ward. “I can’t,” he says. “I need magic to combat the spells she wears. I don’t have enough and it’d be a waste of resources to try.”
A draw. The worst possible outcome in the fighting ring, when you’re both too weak to take the final blow and the house wins the bet.
Tobek hurries over, shouldering his crossbow. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so, so sorry, North. I should have been able to sense them. I should have warned you, but they came up so quickly. The storm must have caused interference—”
“It’s all right,” North says. “The ward held, that’s all that matters.” Though he forces a smile, there’s a hard edge to his mouth that belies the gesture: He knows it wasn’t the storm distracting Tobek from his duties.
Tobek knows it too. He wilts beneath North’s disappointment. “I still should have sensed them coming,” he protests weakly. His hands curl around his weapon. “That’s the only thing I’m good for.”
North squeezes his shoulder and I envy Tobek that gesture of kindness. A history is built into that touch. “We need to move before we’re cut off completely,” he says. “Ready the horses. Miss Dossel,” he says. “I may need you. How many bolts do you have left?”
I stare at him, wounded: Her but not me?
Bryn quickly counts. “Half a dozen.”
North nods, rubbing his mouth. “Can you watch the rear?”
She stares at him, eyes half lidded, before shrugging with disinterest. “I guess.”
I hover, uncertain, waiting for my own task, but North barely glances at me. “Wait inside,” he says.
“I can help. I know how to fight—”