Had she been to Avinea before?
Eagerly, I flip through the book, searching for hints or clues or confessions written in the margins to prove my theory. Alistair gave me this book for a reason, I tell myself. If he knew my mother, maybe he knew what these coordinates meant.
Nothing.
I search again before I toss the book aside, closing my eyes with a growl of frustration. Why is everything about my mother shrouded in so much mystery? Why couldn’t she just be my mother, instead of a villain or a hero or whatever she was?
What was she?
My father rarely ever talked about her, and I rarely ever asked. Only Thaelan heard my wild speculations over who she might have been to do what she did, but it was after a bottle of barleywine and a bad day, when my anger needed an outlet and she was an easy target. In truth, I know nothing about my mother. She could be anything. Anyone.
Even a fighter who stole magic from the king and then played him for a fool. Is that someone who would cut her daughter’s heart out?
Bryn swears as Tobek hits another dip in the road. I open my eyes as she throws her cards down in disgust. “I hate this place.”
I glance through the half-open door. The city of Revnik lies ahead, barely more than a smudge of ink at this distance. “I think it’s beautiful,” I say, gathering the maps into a pile. Maybe I can track the names in New Prevast after speaking with the prince; maybe someone knows more about my mother than I do.
“It’s too big,” Bryn says, pushing away from the table with a scowl. “It makes Brindaigel feel small.”
“Brindaigel is small.”
“Too small.” She rocks her head back to the ceiling, pressing her hands to her eyes. “My father is the king of nothing.”
So what does that make her?
Sighing, Bryn drops her arms, slumping back in her chair. She looks around the wagon before her eyes settle on Tobek outside.
“Do you think magicians take a vow of chastity?” she asks.
I frown. “Unmarried princesses do.”
“It’s like he’s never seen breasts before.” Her fingers tent on the edge of the table. “He stares at them like they’re made of gold.”
“He’s thirteen years old,” I say stiffly. “They’re better than gold.”
“I like that he stares,” says Bryn. Her lips curl in a smug, self-satisfied way. “In Brindaigel, men looked because my father had power. But Tobek looks because I have power. He gave it to me and I never even asked for it.”
I stare at her. “Don’t hurt him.”
She snorts. “I only hurt people when I have to,” she says. “You know that by now. Cruelty is useless when it’s applied without mercy.” Standing, she steps over me and swings the bottom half of the door open, nudging Tobek aside so she can sit beside him.
“Miss Dossel,” he says, surprised. Pleased. He glances from her to the road and back again, drinking her in.
“I want to know my future,” she says, tucking her skirts beneath her legs, letting her knee knock into his.
He snorts. “Your future is obvious.”
“You think so?”
“And you don’t? Fate’s so brightly scorched in your veins you practically glow.”
Bryn smiles and tosses back her hair. It gleams in the sunlight. “Tell me anyway,” she says, leaning forward, both knees against his leg now. “I want to hear it from an expert.”
“Costs you a copper,” he says with a teasing smile, taking the bait.
Bryn holds her hand toward Tobek, biting back a grin of her own. “I haven’t got any copper, but my word is gold, if you trust me to keep it.”
“Gold is gold and all else irrelevant.” Sobering, he says, “You know it’s just a trick, Miss Dossel. It’s like cards; the skill is in cheating. Any intuit can see the course your blood will run. Only the good ones can make it sound prophetic.”
“So are you a good one?” she asks.
Tobek hesitates, wetting his lips before he weights the reins beneath his boot and takes her hand in his, touching the cup of her wrist with a hesitant reverence. Bryn tips forward even further, lips parted in breathless anticipation as his touch grows bolder, skimming over her palm. When he speaks, his voice is low and husky—a showman with a flair for the dramatic. “You will be queen.”
“Good,” says Bryn, flashing a triumphant look to me just as a dark figure darts into the road ahead of us. The horse rears, pulling the wagon hard to the right, dangerously close to the edge where the ground begins to slope toward a green-glass lake. Books and rocks fly off the shelves behind me as Tobek swears, correcting the horse. The front wheel hits the berm and slides back to the left. Pulling hard on the reins, he drags the wagon to a halt before standing, turning toward the figure in the road behind us.
“What is wrong with you!?” he shouts, visibly shaken.
A man lurches into view, a little girl cradled to his chest. Fear lines his face; gray colors his otherwise russet beard. “I’m sorry,” he croaks, holding a hand out in peace. “I—I’m looking for North. Is this his wagon?”
Tobek exhales, rubbing his forehead. “He’s not here.”
“But he’ll return?”
The little girl shifts, peeking out from the safety of her father’s neck. She’s tiny, underfed, with big brown eyes and a sad, drooping mouth. Dark lines of poison carve patterns over her face, delicate as lace.
“What happened to her?” I ask softly.
“Berries,” the man says, his own eyes glassy with exhaustion. “We didn’t know. She ate blackberries from the woods, too close to the river.”
“I’m sorry,” says Tobek, “we’re not for hire. There are transferents who circle the outer cities every month or so—”
“They’re thieves. Liars.” The man’s voice cracks. “Please, we’ve ridden four days to find North. I’ve heard rumors that maybe he could . . . ?” He trails off, too hopeful to voice the impossible.
“Why don’t you just read her future?” Bryn suggests, straightening her skirts and pushing past me, back into the wagon.
“I’m sorry,” says Tobek, strained. “You put your faith in stories and that’s all they are. North can’t help you and neither can I.”
The man blinks back tears. “But if he would just look at her—”
“I’m sorry.” Tobek shakes out the reins and settles back in his seat, staring ahead, waiting for the man to move out of the way.
“I have money,” the man says.
“Tobek,” I whisper. I know this man, I know his story: the people of the Brim who believed money would solve any problem because money was all they lacked.
It’s my story too. Fifty gold kronets and here I am.
Sighing, Tobek rubs the top of his head. “Look,” he says, “there’s a man in Revnik, Gabbistiano. Tell him North’s apprentice sent you and he’ll see her immediately. I’ll bring you the address, just—that’s all I can do and even that is a favor I’m not supposed to take on my own.”
The man sags back, shriveling like earth without moisture. “Thank you,” he manages. Tobek doesn’t answer, pushing his way inside.
“Iron,” I say in the awkward silence he leaves behind.