Insegno looked ever-more miserable. “I am sorry, Your Majesty.”
“Don’t mind him.” Frenhin waved a hand. “Let him sulk. It was he who told me there are eleven others just like mine, hidden in these rocks.”
“They were part of a great whole once,” Insegno said to Braith, the scholar’s eyes lighting just a bit. “Once it was a grand story, the history of this country before it was called Tir. This artifact brought prosperity and peace to the land—prosperity that was promised by the Source, part of a covenant agreement. But the covenant was broken, and this artifact was destroyed, just like the others.”
“And truly,” Frenhin said, “what difference does it make? I don’t care why they exist, only that they do. And that I find them.”
“You want to rebuild the artifact?” Braith was puzzled.
“No, no. I’m only after three. At least for the time being.”
“Three?” Understanding settled over Braith. “There are three storytellers—Tanwen, Captain Bo-Lidere, and Zelyth, the farmer.”
“Very good, dear. And you are correct. That was the plan for a while. Capture the storytellers, kill the rest.”
Braith caught her breath.
“Oh really.” Frenhin flicked something from her sleeve. “Don’t be so easily scandalized, Braith. We must do what is necessary to reach our goals.” She spread out her hands. “I had this place built before I had the royal resources at my disposal. Do you think I could have done such a thing if I weren’t willing to endure a few losses along the way? Being willing to do what is necessary was a choice I had to make long ago, back in the beginning.”
Kharn’s utter disdain showed on his face. “What did you do—promise the workers chests of gold you didn’t have, then murder them when the work was complete?”
“More or less. But if you try to make me feel remorse over this, you will be wasting your breath. They were frightfully late and tried to charge double what the job was worth. Renovations are just the worst.”
Braith shot a glance at Kharn. He clamped his mouth shut, though it looked like it cost him to do so.
She turned again to her mother. “And now your plan has changed. How?”
“The Tanwen girl has fallen in love with your sea captain.” Frenhin seemed amused. “And if you wonder about her farmer boy, don’t worry. I haven’t let that situation go to waste either.”
A fuzzy memory of Bo-Bradwir restraining her in the garden came floating back to Braith. “What did you do to Guardsman Bo-Bradwir?”
“A broken heart is easy to exploit. But still, he was a bit stronger-willed than I cared for. In the end, I had to use my strands to manipulate his emotions. Once we finally crossed that bridge, he became a perfect game piece.
“And, by the goddesses, this new little romance has caused Tanwen’s gift to link with Bo-Lidere’s. They are thrice as powerful together as either could be on their own.”
“And so you wish to harness that power.” Braith’s voice was dull.
“Yes.”
“And you will use the ancient strand to make them and their linked gifts ever-more powerful.”
“Yes.”
“And the third strand? Zelyth shall become a regular evil strand-wielder, I suppose?” Braith’s sarcasm was reckless, and she knew it.
“No, actually.” Frenhin trailed her fingers through the air, painting fiery designs. “I don’t particularly want the farmer anymore.” She shrugged. “If someone will deliver a fourth strand to me, then sure. But he is not a primary target any longer.”
Braith’s eyebrows rose. It was the first thing her mother had said in a while that was unexpected. “Who, then?”
“Oh, darling. Wait until you meet her. She is the most fascinating of them all, and I know now that she is the one I’ve been waiting for. She is the one who will carry on my work.” Frenhin’s smile sparkled. “Tir will tremble in her hand.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
TANWEN
I stared at the pile of ten mountainbeast-pelt cloaks Warmil had plunked before me.
“How? How did you find ten mountainbeast cloaks?”
War shrugged. “I know a dealer in Bowyd, and we paid him handsomely.”
“Hey,” I realized aloud. “I never thought about that before, but how do you afford such things? Or supplies at all? I know you have friends in Bowyd, but surely they haven’t footed the bill to keep the Corsyth running all these years out of the kindness of their own hearts. Who could afford to?”
Zel snorted. “No one from our neck of the peninsula, anyway.”
That was true enough. “Surely you must have gold somewhere,” I said.
Mor grimaced. “Best not to ask where it came from.”
Father glanced up from where he was rolling a traveling pack, but he didn’t say anything.
Ah.
If I was a gambling lass, I would wager whatever chests of gold lay hidden in the Corsyth had been procured through piracy, and maybe it wasn’t the grandest idea to bring that up in front of my father, former First General of Tir.
He didn’t fault people for finding ways to survive under the iron fist of Gareth, mind, but something told me the straight-arrow military man would be annoyed by theft of this magnitude.
Mor looked uncomfortable. “We donated a lot to help people,” he whispered to me. “Always bought food and things when we could.”
Diggy stepped between us, frowning at the furs. “Is it very cold there?” She had been struggling to adjust to the late-autumn weather here by the river. The north would not suit her at all.
Karlith wrapped an arm around Diggy’s shoulders and handed her a mug of steaming tea. “Aye, lass. That’s why the Creator gave mountainbeasts such pelts.”
Diggy shuddered, and I didn’t think it was on account of the mountainbeasts.
“It would help if you would wear trousers,” Mor pointed out. He held up a small pair that must have been made for a young boy. “Please?”
“But how will I reach my knives in those?”
Dray picked dirt from beneath his fingernails. “Personally, I’m quite comfortable with the idea of you not being able to reach your knives.” He examined the other hand. He had washed himself, shaved his face, and re-sparkled his teeth as soon as the others had returned with supplies.
“That’s because you’re afraid I might stab you,” Diggy remarked.
I had to bite my lip to hide my laughter. Though in truth, I wasn’t sure why I was worried about offending that man. I supposed a farm girl could turn the world upside down, shake everything up until it barely resembled reality anymore, but in the end, she’d still worry about offending the king’s councilor.
“So,” I said, turning to Dray, “what else can you tell us about this Master of yours?”
“Not exactly mine. Not anymore, and maybe not ever. We had . . . mutual loyalty.”
“But only as long as you were mutually beneficial to each other,” Father said, and his voice was cutting. “That’s not loyalty.”
“I don’t suppose it is. But it worked profitably for us for many years.”
“How many years?” I asked. Didn’t know what might be helpful down the road.
“About eighteen, I guess.”
Same age as me. I shuddered when I realized that Dray was probably living in the palace, working with the Master, when I was born there.
Father seemed agitated suddenly, like a swarm of stripe-jackets had descended on him. He hopped up and sheathed a blade at his hip. “We will travel north in the morning. I think it best if we register for the Hunt.”
“I agree,” Dray said, and I was pretty sure it was the first time they had shared an opinion on anything.
“And if we can actually find the strands,” Dylun said, “all the better. I am not keen on the idea of this Master getting hold of any of them.”
“Right,” I said. “Should be easy. The only thing standing between us and the strands is Creator knows how many mercenaries working for an unk
nown person of boundless evil. No problem.”
“Unless the huntmaster has been told to watch out for us—and that is a possibility, bear in mind—this is our best chance at slipping into the fray unnoticed and rescuing Braith.” Father looked at Dray. “You will get us close to the Master.”
“Of course.”
“I don’t know why the Master let us escape from Urian, but I guess we’ll find out when we meet him.”
“Her,” Dray said.
“Excuse me?”
“When we meet her.”
We all stared at him as shock washed over the Corsyth.
I recovered my voice first. “The Master is a woman?”
“Aye.”
“I thought you didn’t know the Master’s identity!” Somehow, I was deeply offended that he had lied to us.
But truly, what had I been expecting?
Dray held up his hands in defense. “I don’t know the Master’s identity. But, unlike that idiot Naith, I’m well familiar with the female form and recognize it when I see it. Even if it is wrapped in a hundred yards of black fabric.”
Dray’s gaze wandered, trailing its way over to Diggy and her leather shorts.
Without a word, she snatched the trousers from the spot where Mor had set them and stalked over to a tree.
Dray smirked unpleasantly. Until Father stepped up to him. Then the smirk fell, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed.
“Here.” Father shoved the bedroll into Dray’s arms so hard that he nearly toppled from the rock where he sat. “Go to sleep. We leave at dawn.”
Father strode away, and if Dray knew what was good for him, he would keep his mouth shut for a good long while.
But instead, Dray turned to me, holding out his bedding as if it were distasteful. “No pillows?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
DIGWYN
The ship sways.
Back and forth, left and right. Up and down over the waves.
I rise and fall with them.
Wind slices through the planks of the hull, somehow, and cuts me to my bones. My fingers lace through my threadbare blanket, and I pull it tighter around my shoulders.
And still, I’m cold.
A knock. The sound of a large fist pounding against wood.
The blanket wraps tighter.
The fist pounds again, and I pull the blanket over my head as though I might hide from reality.
I don’t answer. I never say come in. I wait under my blanket, swaddled in darkness, eyes closed. And the door swings open.
I’m cold.
The mountainbeast fur isn’t enough. I wrap the cloak tighter. Turn my face away from the wind. “I’m cold,” I tell Tannie.
“Me too,” she says, and draws nearer to me.
We hike alongside each other, through the forest north of the Codewig. What’s the name of this one, and how many days have we been gone?
I couldn’t tell you. All I can think of is the cold. Like it pulses from within and batters me from the outside at once.
“We should stop for the night,” the general says, and I see him watch a few flakes of snow drift through the air. “It’s going to be a cold one. Let’s build the fire.”
My only consolation is that Dray looks at least as miserable as I am. He shudders and drops his pack. It’s easily half the weight of the one on Mor’s back.
Mor stands beside me, frowning into my face the way he does. Like my thoughts might be written across my forehead, and if he only peers hard enough, leans in close enough, he might be able to make out the words.
“You all right, Dig?” he asks.
“I’m cold.”
“Aye.” He rubs my arms through the mountainbeast fur.
Tannie joins in, rubbing my back. It doesn’t work. I shiver.
“I think I’m turning to ice,” I say, and Tannie’s mouth twitches.
“My father is building a fire. We’ll get you defrosted in no time.”
The general is already striking flint toward a pile of kindling. I’m glad Tannie’s father is here. That someone’s father is here to look after us.
I shiver again.
Mor is still peering at me, and I roll my eyes. “My thoughts aren’t there,” I huff.
He seems confused. I’ve said something else that doesn’t entirely make sense, because he can’t read my thoughts. Can’t follow the thread. Much as he tries.
Would it be better or worse if he could?
The crease between his brows is there again. I wonder what it means. Anger? Disappointment? But he only says, “Would you like some tea?”
“Spike-fruit,” I answer immediately. “If Karlith has it.”
Karlith’s grin answers me from the other side of the new fire. “I wouldn’t leave without plenty of spike-fruit for Diggy, now would I?”
I let a little shadow of a smile through, then curl into Tannie so we might shiver together.
Mor nods, the crease deepening even as he smiles. “I’ll see to that. You two try to get warm.”
Tannie and I ease down to the ground. I arrange my cloak around me so that it creates a sort of tent to keep in the warmth. Then I pull out a knife and my small sharpening stone and set to work.
I feel Tannie’s eyes on me. She doesn’t say anything at first. But she’s Tannie, and she can’t stay quiet for too long. “How do you know when it’s sharp enough?”
I nod to Dray, huddled and shivering nearby. “When it looks sharp enough to slice off his nose, it’s done.”
Dray glares and Tannie snorts.
“You don’t want it too sharp,” I say after a moment. “A blade that’s too sharp will nick when you use it.” I look up and Dray is still watching us, so I add, “But that’s unlikely if you’re cutting through the soft flesh of a politician.”
He finally takes my hint and turns away from us. Now I can sharpen in peace without his penetrating gaze watching, dissecting, assessing. He unsettles me at least as much as I unsettle him. And he can never know that. The less he watches me, the better.
“I hope she’s still alive,” Tannie says.
“The queen?”
“Aye. You would like her. She’s a good person.”
“Surprising, considering her father.”
“I suppose. Though you have to wonder how much of that sort of thing passes down.” Tannie glances at the general, and I know she’s once again wondering how she can be his daughter. She truly doesn’t see the many ways they are alike.
Tough. Resourceful. And kind.
“I couldn’t say.” I pull out another dagger and check the edge. “I know nothing of family.”
We both glance at Mor as he crouches beside the fire next to Karlith.
“I don’t think that’s true,” Tannie says softly.
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. “He’s . . .” But there’s no end to that sentence, and I fall silent.
“He loves you.”
My blade sings across the stone.
“He has always loved you.”
Sing.
“Families who have been broken apart are still families, Diggy.”
“Are they? I thought that was kind of the point of a family.”
“There are a lot of points to families.”
“How would you know?” I regret it the second it leaves my mouth. But that’s the thing about words. Once you’ve spoken them, they’re out there, and you can’t pull them back in, no matter how much you might wish to.
Tannie flinches, and I feel even worse.
“I mean . . .” I begin, trying to figure out exactly what I do mean. “We are both from broken-apart families. Maybe neither of us knows anything about them.”
“Aye, that’s true.” She glances at the general, who’s warming his hands over the fire as he talks to the captain and the Meridioni. “But we’ve found some missing pieces, haven’t we? Besides”—she smiles—“you lived a lot of years with your family whole before . . .”
She trails off. Who in their right
mind would want to say the rest?
Before your father was murdered.
Before your mother died of grief.
Before you became a slave.
Before you were broken.
Before they killed you without ending your life.
“Aye,” I say after a moment. “I did have my family once.”
“So, then, you tell me what’s the point of them.” Tannie’s voice offers a gentle challenge.
I watch Mor wince as he singes his fingers trying to pull the cloth bag of tea leaves from a steaming mug of water he’s preparing for me.
My mouth twitches. “Family is there to hold you together in the places you’re weak.” I close my eyes and remember Mother and Father, Mother’s long black hair dancing on the wind as she leans against the ship’s rail and laughs at something Father has said. “Family is there to teach you right from wrong. To take care of you. To let you know you belong somewhere in a world that might want to chew you up and spit you out.”
I open my eyes and catch Mor’s gaze. He grins sheepishly, then blows on his tender fingers.
“Family is supposed to be by your side forever.”
I scowl, hoping it will push the tears away. It doesn’t work. A moment later, Tannie’s hand is on my arm.
“He loves you,” she says again.
And I want to believe her. I want to believe her so much.
I shrug off her hand and pull out another knife. “Family is dangerous. If anyone can hurt you, it’s family.”
Mor approaches, his hands wrapped around the steaming mug.
I sheathe my knife and rise, ignoring the bite of the wind. I glance down at Tannie. “It’s safer to be alone.”
Then I stride away into the trees, leaving Mor with that crease between his brows growing deeper and a mug of spike-fruit burning his hands.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
TANWEN
Is it possible to grow a second layer of skin if you make your first one cold enough? Because I was fairly sure that was happening to me. We’d been trekking through the northern wilderness of Tir for the past two weeks, and I wasn’t sure I would ever feel completely warm again.
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