by Anna Bright
I frowned. “The Waldleute?”
“The rebels. Those who resist the Imperiya.” Homer drew me nearer by my forearm, pointing down at the map. “They call themselves the Waldleute in old Deutschland, the Rusalka in Yotunkheym itself, by other names elsewhere. Lang met with a representative at Bertilak’s court—the Sidhe, they call themselves in that neck of the woods.” He rapped his knuckles on the map, against the word that curved around the southeastern edge of the island.
My heart threw itself against the walls of my chest, slammed to a stop.
I’d wondered idly at the start of our voyage how the word was pronounced, what it meant.
With a jolt, I remembered Lang and Yu conspiring in the corridor our first night in Winchester, whispering about she.
Not “she.” The Sidhe. The woman with the cowslips.
I shut my eyes.
I couldn’t get caught up in this. I had my father and Potomac to worry about.
“People are suffering, Seneschal-elect,” Yu said quietly. His dark, angular eyes were so intent on my face I gritted my teeth.
“I know the tsarytsya is evil!” I burst out. “I’ve been telling you for weeks that I don’t want to go into the Imperiya!”
“You don’t know the half of it, girl.” Homer thumped the gray center of the map and fixed me with his steely gaze. “You haven’t seen it. But I’ve fought at the edge of her world. I’ve seen how she takes power first with spies, and then with armies. No one can trust anyone. She’s swift. Cold. Merciless.”
“She’s closed mosques, temples, and churches,” said Lang, dark eyes entreating me. “But she’s also destroyed libraries from one end of the Imperiya to the other. Made bonfires of books and music.”
“And children are raised apart from their families,” Yu added grimly. “Citizens of the Imperiya have to live in registered villages—anyone caught living outside a town is immediately imprisoned.”
Anya had told me as much. That the tsarytsya claimed Yotunkheym’s children.
I thought of Anya and Fredrik, fleeing to Norge with the gray armies after them.
Of Aleksei, adopted for convenience’s sake, left damaged from his childhood in the Imperiya in a way I didn’t fully understand.
When Baba Yaga locks the door,
Children pass thereby no more.
“There’s only enough space for one story in the Imperiya, Seneschal-elect,” Andersen said softly. “Europe is being strangled. People only want room to breathe. To make their own decisions. To live free.”
“That’s their call sign,” Yu added. “Fur die Freiheit. Fur die Wildnis. ‘For freedom. For the wild.’ If you go to Burg Katz, as planned, you can help fight for that.”
A shiver ran up my spine as the Deutsch phrase brought back the conversation I’d stumbled across on the radio, the tryst I’d heard two strangers planning in a place I’d never heard of.
Burg Cats. Burg Katz. Katz Castle.
Fur die Freiheit.
Fur die Wildnis.
I stared at Lang.
He had been the first to see my radio smuggled inside Godmother Althea’s book. This was second nature to these people. Hiding their purposes, hiding things where they didn’t belong.
No—this was their real errand. I was the thing that didn’t belong.
I put my hands on my hips, trying to breathe.
“Where are they?” I asked. “The Waldleute?”
“We don’t know where yet,” Andersen said. “I went to Odense, like our Sidhe contact told me to. I waited in the tavern night after night, for as long as we could risk staying—no sign of him.”
Yu sighed, his practical face frowning. “I don’t care how tight their networks are; England to Shvartsval’d is a long way. The intel could have been old; your man could have been waylaid.” He nodded at Lang.
“We’ll find them,” said Homer bracingly.
I blew out a breath. “My godmother. My father. They’re expecting me. They’re expecting Torden.” I turned to Yu. “I asked you weeks ago what you made of my father’s condition. It’s time to talk.”
Yu paused. “It could be nerve damage,” he said slowly. “Which can have many causes. Diabetes mellitus. Injury. Alcoholism.”
I shook my head. None of those made sense for Daddy.
He cleared his throat. “But to me, it sounds like poison.”
Poison.
I reeled, backing one, two steps away from the table until I hit the wall.
Poison. She was poisoning him.
I knew Alessandra was selfish. I’d suspected she wanted for her baby the future that should have been mine.
But I never believed she’d hurt Daddy—the father of her own child—to make that happen.
“How long does he have?” I asked. My heart beat jaggedly, slashing at my lungs.
“It’s hard to say,” Yu faltered. “It would depend on the specific poison. On the quantity he’s ingesting. It could be months. It could be years.”
“Or weeks. Or days!” I gave a hysterical laugh. My knees threatened to give way, and my head dropped into my hands.
“We can take you home,” Andersen blurted. “Or we can take you back to England first.”
To England. To Bear.
Somewhere between the outer gates of Winchester Castle and our location here in the Lysefjord, my anger at him had faded.
I knew why he’d lied to me. I saw now he hadn’t meant to hurt me. As desperate as I’d felt in the last few weeks, for my home and my family, I thought I understood.
It would be so simple. Winchester was so much less complicated than Asgard. It felt so much safer than the Imperiya.
But my path didn’t lie backward.
Lang’s head jerked up. “I’m the captain here—”
“And it’s her decision,” Andersen shot back.
“We have a responsibility,” Yu argued.
Andersen raised his voice. “Potomac’s alliances are at risk. Her position. Her life. Her father’s life.” He pointed at me, determined. “It’s well past time we started trusting her.”
My hands made fists on the table. My engagement ring caught the gleam of Homer’s lamp, flashing a warning. Or an invitation.
You can see more by some lights than others.
Be free, elskede.
I thought of the Saint George of Constantine’s England, who did not wander abroad, searching for other people’s dragons to slay. He had changed his ways, and of that, I was glad.
But this dragon had landed directly in my path. And I had the power to put a sword in the right hands to help those it threatened fight back.
They were still arguing when I strode out of the office and across the deck.
The ship pitched and swayed beneath me. But I was rock steady.
“Selah, wait!” Lang called.
Yu and Andersen and Homer scrambled close behind him.
The crew kept working around us—Yasumaro steering, Jeanne watching the fjords above, her amber eyes scanning the cliffs carefully for any sign of someone following. Vishnu’s and Basile’s muscles knotted with strain as they pulled at the lines. J.J. hurried into the galley, and through its swinging door, I saw Will hurrying around, no doubt fixing us a late supper. Overhead, Cobie scrambled across the rigging, unfurling our sails like jasmine in moonlight. Anya and Skop watched each other.
Perrault stopped in front of me, utterly still, eyes boring into mine, black as secrets in the dark.
Funny, how I’d never noticed the fear there before.
“I don’t know what you’re planning, Seneschal-elect,” he began unevenly. “But I will say one final time: we cannot avoid the court at Shvartsval’d. You are obliged to court Fürst Fritz.”
“I’m surprised you came quietly, Perrault.” I cut him a glance as I strode around him. “Weren’t you afraid of slighting our Norsk hosts?”
“It’s not as though things could’ve gotten much worse. Treason and spies, indeed.” Perrault scrambled after me, pitch
rising. “The hertsoh will be waiting! Seneschal-elect, you know what is at stake. You know what happens to the tsarytsya’s enemies.”
Don’t I, though. I stomped on, undeterred.
“I don’t know what my stepmother has on you, Perrault, but you don’t need to worry.”
Yasumaro was at the helm. I surveyed the horizon over his shoulder.
“Don’t you know I always do what I’m supposed to do?” I asked Perrault.
Homer, Lang, and Yu stood around me.
Yasumaro glanced from their faces to mine, eyes serious in his round, gentle face. “What are my orders, Seneschal-elect?”
For once, Lang didn’t bother to remind us that he was the captain and that this was mutiny. Yasumaro didn’t seem to care.
I swallowed hard, thought of my father at home, wasting away.
I could turn the Beholder around. Fight Alessandra. Try to save him.
Poison, Yu had said.
My enemies are already inside the gates, I’d said to Torden.
But so were the enemies of Shvartsval’d. Of Finlyandiya. Of all the terytoriy that’d been stolen and stripped of their names and their stories by the Imperiya Yotne.
I was a long way from home. But we were nearly beneath the shadow at the center of the map. Nearly in the Shvartsval’d, where my third suitor waited for me. Where I could offer the crew the cover they needed to seek out the resistance.
I could help the Waldleute. And they could defend their homes—their stories—their people.
One detour. A few weeks of my life—and my father’s. To help save a continent.
I was done looking for suitors. Whether or not I’d ever see Torden again, I’d already fallen in love.
It was time to stop playing Alessandra’s games and join a fight that mattered.
Time to begin writing my own story. To begin doing something worth writing about at all.
I set my jaw, and set my face forward.
“Yasumaro, hold course for Deutschland.”
Acknowledgments
To Stephanie Stein: it has been a privilege to have you as my editor. Thank you for the space you’ve given me to breathe as a writer and the guidance you’ve offered me as an author. This book would not be what it is without your care, your talent, and your friendship. I am so grateful.
To Elana Roth Parker: You were my dream agent. What a delight to find the reality of working with you to be even better. You are the advocate and the sharp eye and the understanding reader that every author hopes for, and I got you. Thank you.
To the rest of the indefatigable ladies of Laura Dail Literary Agency, especially Samantha Fabien, and to Tamar Rydzinski: thank you for your hard work, support, and guidance. I’m lucky to have such a team of all-stars at my back.
To The Beholder’s incredible team at HarperCollins, including Jon Howard, Erica Ferguson, Monique Vescia, Kimberly Stella, Vanessa Nuttry, Michael D’Angelo, Bess Braswell, Kris Kam, Jane Lee, and Tyler Breitfeller: you have made my story a book, and you have told people about it, and you have put it in their hands, and I’m in awe. I wish I could tell my teen self the kind of people I would get to work with someday. I am so grateful for your blood, sweat, and sheer talent. Thank you.
To Michelle Taormina and the team at Vault49: You gave me a fairy-tale dream of a cover. Your artistic ability is truly its own kind of magic. My sincerest gratitude to you.
My gratitude to Momma and to Amber Sisenstein, who advised me on all matters medical, and to Dr. Barry Rumack, who was my consultant on all things toxicology. To Nick, Kristin Istre, Tom Schrandt, and Sally Anderson, for answering my Russian, Ukrainian, Norwegian, German, and French language questions: Spasybo, spasybi, takk, danke, merci. Thank you so much. All errors are, obviously, my own, and not the fault of my generous guides.
To Kiera Cass, Evelyn Skye, and Jodi Meadows: I admire each of you so much as creators and as humans. It’s special to have your words on my work. My gratitude to you all. To Angele McQuade, Poppy Parfomak, Brigid Kemmerer, Lisa Maxwell, Jodi Meadows again, Sarah Glenn Marsh, Miranda Kenneally, Lindsay Smith, Robin Talley, Jessica Spotswood, Martina Boone, Diana Peterfreund, Mary G. Thompson, Pintip Dunn, Christina June, Katy Upperman, and the rest of the DMV writer crew: it has been such fun befriending you guys. Thanks for the warm welcome. I adore you. And to my fellow Novel19s: it has been a pleasure to debut alongside you all. All my love.
So many musicians opened emotional doors for me as I wrote the scenes that make up this story. To Delta Rae, NEEDTOBREATHE, Handsome Ghost, Taylor Swift, Hozier, Howard Shore, Phillip Phillips, Brooke Fraser, Ed Sheeran, Lights, and so many other artists: thank you for your work. Art begets art. I will always be grateful for what you gave to mine.
To Mrs. Lois Gidcumb: thank you for putting Ella Enchanted into my hands when I was nine. It’s still one of my favorites. You were a truly kind and wonderful librarian.
To the Georgetown small group at Grace Downtown church: I am braver for having you all in my life. I love you guys. See you Wednesday.
To the handful of friends who first read these pages so many years ago, including Julia Kiewit, Anna Sims, Sally Anderson, Katie Kump, and Rosiee Thor: Your elated texts and emails were what kept my fragile little snowflake heart beating for so many months. I owe you a great debt of comfort, friendship, and enthusiasm. And to Lei’La’ Bryant, who read every iteration of everything: you are my soul sister. Thank you for always lending me a little of your bravery when I run out of my own. I love you so much, friend.
To #TeamElana—Shannon Price, Lily Meade, Leigh Mar, June Tan, Deeba Zargarpur, and Alexa Donne: I adore you guys. Rose-gold glitter hearts and cherry PopTarts to each of you.
To Eileen McGervey, the owner of One More Page Books in Arlington, Virginia: thank you for taking a chance on me when I didn’t know [insert poop emoji] about being a bookseller. You are the kindest boss I could have asked for and working for you changed the game for me. To Lelia Nebeker, Amanda Quain, Rebecca Speas, Lauren Wengrovitz, Rosie Dauval, Eileen O’Connor, Trish Brown, Sally McConnell, and everyone else, your support and enthusiasm have meant the world. It is a joy to see your faces every day at work. Thanks also to Rosie for your tireless efforts to get one (1) photo that I won’t make a face at. Or in. You are a gem.
To the Pod—Hannah Whitten, Jen Fulmer, Joanna Meyer, Laura Weymouth, and Steph “Stephinephrine” Messa: publishing is scary, uncharted territory. Here be dragons. Being friends with you guys feels like having a map, and a sword, and a whole army at my back. All my love to you, always, my imaginary housemates. Tea in my attic room at four.
To Abbey Carter Jack and Erin Whatley Andrews: thank you for believing in me and for being my friends. I love you both so much.
To my family, the Gardners, Dormineys, Sernas, Andersons, Burkhalters, Shafers, Simkinses, Stiglishes, Hayeses, Bischoffs, and everyone else: I love you all. Thank you for your support while I waited for this day to come.
To Mamaw: thank you for your imagination. I love you so much. I like to think Holly and Molly and Genevieve live in a corner of one of the worlds I’ve created. To Grandmother and Granddaddy/Washing Machine: thank you for all the time you spent with me when I was a teen. I will always be your girl. I love you.
To Brother Bear: so much of me is also you. I hope you enjoy this story. I love you, Chelsie, Cohen, and Callan with all my heart.
To Momma: thank you for being the legs I stood on for so many years. You did everything it took to get me to where I am. I will never not be grateful. To Daddy: thank you for teaching me how to dig, and fight, and not be afraid. I love you both so much.
To Wade: oh, my love. For believing in me, for holding my hand when I was too afraid to step out alone, for giving me the courage to take this leap—I can never thank you enough. This book is for you.
And to my gracious Father: thank you for the stories. Thank you for the story about the cup, the sword, the tree, the green hill. Thank you for telling it to me always.
Abou
t the Author
Photo by Rosalinda Dauval
ANNA BRIGHT is an indie bookseller by day and an author by night who still gets in trouble for reading when she’s supposed to be doing other things. When not hiding out among books, she loves concerts, roller coasters, and adventures at home and abroad. Anna lives with her husband and cat in a charming cobblestoned neighborhood in Washington, DC.
You can find her online at www.annabrightbooks.com and on Twitter and Instagram at @brightlyanna.
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Books by Anna Bright
The Beholder
The Boundless
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Copyright
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
THE BEHOLDER. Copyright © 2019 by Anna Shafer. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Cover art © 2019 by Vault 49
Cover design by Michelle Taormina
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018966093
Digital Edition JUNE 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-284544-3
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-284542-9 (trade bdg.)
