She smiles, relieved. “Good,” she says. Leaning forward, she hugs me, cold in her damp coat. “It’s an honor to be the queen’s protectorate,” she whispers in my ear. “I knew you’d appreciate that.”
The room blurs beyond her shoulder as I tighten my fists against my stomach, hard enough to hurt but not hard enough to stop the shock from bleeding through me. I’ve heard enough of her conversations to know that distinction is everything, and when she said queen, she meant it.
She’s never going to let me go. She never intended to.
“Our agreement was that I carry this magic to New Prevast and you released my sister,” I say, voice cracking.
“War demands sacrifice.”
“Alistair would be better suited to protect you.”
“He’s bound to my father,” says Bryn with a sigh. “Which is why it’s so important that I have you.”
Goose bumps race down my back as I stare numbly over her shoulder. Will she even release Cadence as a token of good faith? Or will my sister be a constantly dangled reward always hanging just out of reach, tempting me to push one step further and further for her? What kind of monster will she make me?
Pull the trigger when you’re ready.
I suffer Bryn’s hug, hoping she can feel the hate that burns through my blood, the warning that I will not stop fighting until my sister and I are both free. But I can’t fight back yet, not while she holds me in her arms and paints a future that depends on my submission. I sacrificed Cadence for the chance to save her four months ago.
This time I have to sacrifice myself.
? ? ?
I can’t sleep.
I sit alone at the table later that night, a book open in front of me, the words blurred into illegible nonsense. All I can think of is Bryn’s threat couched in shades of friendship, her arrogance in assuming Corbin will run to her aide on the strength of one spell and a story of a kingdom hidden in the mountains with magic to spare.
Well, I know the same story Bryn does, so what difference would it make if Corbin heard it from her or from me?
The skill is in cheating.
A flutter of hope dances through my stomach. I can’t remove the binding spell, but I carry stolen magic—more valuable than a spell North will have to recycle. Maybe Prince Corbin doesn’t need a crown to convince him to invade Brindaigel; maybe I could make my own bargain. Cadence is tied to the king, but that doesn’t mean someone else couldn’t sever the thread.
Someone like North.
The door opens with a rush of cooler air and I start with guilt, as if treason is written across my face. North steps inside, shrugging out of his coat. He hangs it from a hook on the wall before raking back his sleeves, exposing the twin protection spells nestled in the soft skin of his arms. His eyes flick to Bryn, asleep on the top bunk behind me, before they settle on me.
I realize I’m staring and look away, pulling my book closer, propping my head up in one hand. I pretend not to notice him even as I’m aware of every move he makes as he prepares two cups of tea over the stove. Wordlessly, he sets one in front of me and I shake my head—has he already forgotten I don’t drink tea?—before I realize what it is.
Hot water.
A moment later, he sets down a jar of sugar cubes before taking one for himself, setting it on his tongue as he drops into the seat across from me. He looks young. Exhausted. Folded into his chair, in need of a shave, with a permanent crease between his brows.
I cradle the mug, heart aching with adrenaline, wondering how best to broach the subject of taking Bryn hostage until I can lead Corbin to Brindaigel. Would he listen? Would he agree?
North nudges through the stack of books pushed to the edge of the table and retrieves my mother’s. Pulling a pencil from his pocket, he takes out the folded map at the back and smoothes it in front of him. Hunching forward, he shades even more of the continent a soft fuzzy gray to mark where the new Burn has begun. When he finishes, he drops the pencil and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, exhaling softly.
When he lowers his hands to his mouth a moment later, his eyes land on the three bruises marching from my wrist to my elbow. An eyebrow arches in unspoken question.
I force a rueful smile and shake my head. Her magic, her servant, her rules.
But not for much longer.
Flipping the map over, North begins sketching across the back, his hair falling forward on either side of his forehead. A moment later, he nudges the map toward me.
A flower, crude but still endearing, to replace the one lost in the woods. Written underneath: SAFE TO EAT (NOT PREFERRED APPLICATION, BUT YOUR CHOICE.)
My choice. When was the last time anyone offered me a choice that wasn’t a trap?
Rubbing the back of his neck, North gestures for the map again and I start to pass it back.
“Faris.”
I turn to see Bryn watching us from her bunk. Guilt and fear combine like oil in my stomach: How much did she see?
“Sleep with me tonight,” she says, already shifting to make room.
She saw enough.
I quickly stand as North sits back and refolds the map, tucking it back in its book. Avoiding his eyes, I climb into bed beside Bryn, holding myself rigid as she drapes an arm around me, the way I used to hold Cadence to keep away the cold, the nightmares, the disappointment that our father didn’t come home again that night. But Bryn’s arm is not a comfort, it’s another warning.
I can’t escape if she’s holding me down.
Eighteen
NORTH LEAVES AT SUNRISE, RIDING ahead to solicit assistance from Lord Inichi, the self-appointed provost of Revnik. Tobek drives the wagon like death is chasing us, white-knuckling the reins and freezing every time another traveler comes into view. On occasion, he touches his crossbow on the running board beside him, his face as pale as the clouds overhead.
Bryn sits at the table, playing a game of cards that get knocked askance every time the wagon hits a divot in the road. I sit in the stairwell, my back to the wall, Darjin at my feet. Maps are spread around me as if desperation will somehow result in finding proof of Brindaigel that both North and I missed before. It’s a frustrating endeavor: How can I convince a prince to invade a territory I can’t even point to?
I tease out the edge of my mother’s map for another glimpse of North’s drawing, exposing the list of my mother’s clients and their measurements on the inside cover of the book in the process. I glance over them on reflex before shoving the drawing back into hiding.
Wait.
Darjin flicks his tail in annoyance as I sit up, finding the map North took from the farmhouse, breathlessly looking from book to map and back again.
Not measurements, I realize with a lurch, my fingers tracing the grid lines intersecting Avinea.
Coordinates.
Heart pounding, I track each name, the coordinates lining up with a list of villages and cities spread across the continent. Avarin. Nevik. Winchek, Dunck, Stantil—
Gorstelt. New Prevast.
I sink back, numb. These aren’t clients, they’re contacts. People my mother knew, either from Brindaigel, or—