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Stacy Ludington / GIFTLESS / 1

CHAPTER ONE

The Gift

Heat traveled up Emilie’s arm as she strained against Old Curt’s grip, a tray of smolder-

ing charcoals on the table between their planted elbows. The game’s addition had been her idea,

though mostly for show; added danger meant added money, and she desperately needed a drink.

“Come on, Curt! She’s nothing but bones and tits,” a woman shouted over a swell of

cheers from some other tavern game, which drowned out the music.

“No, no, I told you.” Randi flashed a chipped-tooth grin at Emilie over the rim of her

tankard, leaning back in her chair, boots on the table. “She’s stronger than she looks.”

At this point, the game wasn’t about strength. Emilie had waited until Curt was slipping

under the table with his fourth drink before offering the challenge. He’d lost before the game

started.

Emilie turned her shoulder into the move, but Curt yanked away. Her palm grazed the

embers, and several skated to the feet of two spectators who stomped them out on the sticky

floor.

“Myir’s sake, woman!”


Everyone erupted into mug-slamming fits of laughter, and two observers marked their

challenges by slapping coins onto the table.

Emilie checked her hand—singed under the soot, though she didn’t feel a thing—then

rubbed it on her dress. “Stop crying and pay up. I believe we agreed on six gibs?”

“Ever-living Beyond we agreed on six gibs.” Curt hid a smile as he dug his pale, cal-

loused hand into his pocket and slid the coins over. A man was slapping his back, near tears with

laughter.

“Let Emilie rest,” Randi said, shooing away the challengers. “Our Lady of Mystery will

be here all night.”

“And I only accept clean challenges.” Emilie lifted the clear crystal from around her

neck. “No magic.”

“You lost to an effete?” An elf tossed her coin to join the others on the table with a clink.

“Count me in.”

Emilie ignored her jab and swept Curt’s coins into her hand, enjoying the weight of them.

“Save yourself the embarrassment next time and buy me a drink, or take Randi at her word.

Speaking of which,” she pointed at the mighty, dark-brown woman, still leaning back in her

chair and downing the rest of her tankard, “you owe me for that game of knives.”

Randi’s laugh rolled like a boulder as she swung her feet off the table. “The most I can

offer is a kiss from these fine lips.” She puckered over the coals, causing Curt to choke on his

ale.

Emilie pushed her back. “A girl can’t live off of a poor scrounger’s kisses. Go win for

me.”


“Perhaps I should.” She glanced through the swirling smoke of herb at a group playing

knives. Emilie had never seen them before—and she knew everyone. So did Randi. The woman

wiped her mouth, slammed down her mug, and made her way through the crowd with a preda-

tory grin.

Now, about that drink. Emilie rubbed the coins between her fingers and spotted a plump

woman, face as red as her hair, pouring drinks behind the counter. “Marcie is serving tonight?”

She turned back to Curt, who was consulting his drink. “Where’s Smiles?”

“Tossing-the-hay with . . .” his eyes uncrossed as he dragged his stubby finger across the

crowd, then pointed, “that man’s wife. Last night, it was . . .”

Emilie rolled her eyes. He was likely right, but a knot still formed in the pit under her

ribs. Smiles was like her, and any absence made her sweat over Mensfield.

No, she didn’t need to think of prison; she needed a drink. The coins were warm in her

hand and fit perfectly in the cup of her palm. Why did it have to be Marcie at the bar?

“I’ll be back. Don’t let her see the coals.” She pushed through the group dancing and

singing The Last Lass of Kvass Pass—which was not what the musicians were playing—and

grabbed a seat at the end of the bar.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Marcie slopped up spilled ale in front of her, her pink crystal ring

catching the light. “No drinks until you pay your debt.”

Emilie pulled on her dress skirt to sit more comfortably, then slapped the gibs onto the

chipped counter. “This should be enough.”

Throwing the grimy towel over her shoulder, Marcie swept them up and counted. “Not

enough for the broken chair.”

“I’m working on it.”


Marcie turned for the casks with a sigh, as though she was the weariest of all woman, and

Emilie glared into her back. Smiles would have let it slide. She already missed the weight of the

coins, and one ale would not be enough. She needed more money, and Randi was her bank

tonight. She turned to see how Randi was doing.

The room pitched violently.

Emilie dug her nails into the bar to keep from tipping to the floor.

No. No. No. Not here. Anywhere but here.

Blood pummeled against nerve, bone, and tissue in her head, and she bit back a groan.

Her skin turned cold, as though ice crystals scraped along her veins with each throbbing heart-

beat.

Please, not here.

The room twisted and turned with the melodic sway of Ray the Red Piper. Claws gripped

her. The room darkened.

Please.

The ringing faded and the room returned in splotches. Her cheek rested on the bar, the

wood’s surface wet from her breath steaming against it.

Emilie shot up, heat radiating off her neck.

Had she passed out? A wooden mug sat in front of her; she grabbed it, hands shaking as

she took several deep swallows of hops and malts. The group next to her were too busy dis-

cussing the siege of Poulin to pay her any attention. The knife game continued in the smoke-

filled corner, though she couldn’t see Randi or her opponent through the crowd. Music carried on

for the singers, and their boots shook the floor in rhythm. At tables, the light of candles flickered

upon the faces of those deep into their drinks.


No one had noticed, thank Myir.

She stared at her reflection in the mug, broken from the bubbles fizzing on its surface.

Twice in one day, and this one without warning. She clenched the mug to still her trembling

hand. Could it happen again tonight? She stiffened at the arguing voices next to her. Her safety

depended on her reputation, and it’d taken her a year to build—rebuild—it.

She considered a retreat, then took another deep swallow. No, she’d stay. It couldn’t pos-

sibly happen again tonight, and the ruckus of the pub sure beat the emptiness waiting for her in

her loft.

Emilie turned back to the room like nothing had happened.

As if on cue, Eric weaved his way towards her from the door. He was hard to miss—a

good head taller than most and out of place in his militia uniform with its five-pointed star. The

crowd gave him a wide berth—but, here and there, some eyed him, tracing fingertips over hidden

knives. Eric didn’t notice.

What was he doing here? He was going to get himself killed.

Downing the rest of her ale, Emilie slid through the steam of the kitchen and out the back

door before anyone could see she associated with him.

The trash crates stacked in the dark, narrow alley reeked of old fish and ensured no lust-

ing lovers or ooheet root dealers lingered. It was only Emilie, several cats that slipped into shad-

ows, and the echo of the fun she was missing out on. She crossed her arms and tapped her foot.

Her breath clouded on the early spring air.

Sure enough, the door opened after her.

“Em?”

She grabbed and pulled him under the shadowed awning.


“Bloody dragons!” Eric caught his breath, hand to his chest. “Give me a warning.”

“How did you find me?”

“Bren said you’d be here.”

Her stomach turned rancid at the name, but she forced herself to keep a blank face. Bren

had grown up in the same orphanage as them; now, he was part of Eric’s regiment.

Eric pushed a hand through his hair. “I didn’t believe him at first. I thought, not the Red

Wagon; Emilie’s smarter than that. But then I go and find you sitting at—” He looked like a ruf-

fled raptor, sharp nose and intense eyes to match—particularly when he lectured her like this. A

pink scar started at the bridge of his nose and ran sideways to his jawline, intensifying the bird-

of-prey impression.

She raised her voice over his. “Why are you here? It’s late.”

Eric swallowed his chiding. “Have you had any more headaches?”

“No.”

His eyes narrowed. “I found another person who might be able to help. I promise, she

won’t say anything to anyone.”

He was still on about this? “That’s what you said last time, and the time before that.” She

glanced down the alley, then lowered her voice. “The only good it’s done is get me reported to

Immigration. The last thing I want is the end up in Mensfield, or worse. I don’t need the Pure

Gift after me.”

“Do you want to lose your job?”

She bit her tongue. He was right. Master Raymond had risked himself enough when he’d

hired and housed her, and she was not going back to her life before this job.


She wished she’d never told Eric. The headaches were an annoyance, but she could man-

age; whiskey took the bite off them quite nicely. Eric worried it was something more serious and

—typical Eric—he’d convinced her to seek help. He found the specialists, dragged her to them,

and paid for the visits himself. That was all fine, but each time she risked them learning the clear

crystal around her neck was fake; that she was not an effete, but an illegal. The other day, two

men from Immigration had shown up at work inquiring about her. The herbalist Eric had taken

her to had probably tipped them off.

“What makes you so sure she won’t tell anyone, or would even be able to help?”

“Promise not to be annoyed?”

“I already am.”

Again, his eyes narrowed. “I heard about her from someone in the guard. Her methods

are a little unconventional but,” he continued over her protest, “she should be able to identify

what’s causing these headaches. If they were going to go away on their own, they would have,

by now. You need help.”

Emilie hugged herself against the cold. He was right—again—and she hated him for it.

“But, what if that one doctor was right? What if it’s all in my head?”

A smirk turned his scar crooked. “It is all in your head, technically.”

She moved to punch him in the ribs, but he guarded himself with a laugh. “Don’t be a

smart ass.” She tried not to give him the satisfaction of a smile but couldn’t help it.

This was the Eric she knew—her partner in crime from the orphanage days, writing pro-

fanity in candle wax on Mistress Della’s robe, stealing food from the kitchen, and sticking dung

in other kids’ shoes. She couldn’t pin it, but something had been off about him over the past

moon. He was quieter, insistent, reserved, the exact opposite of himself.


He rested a palm on the dagger at his belt—opposite his militia-issued sword—and ur-

gency returned to his eyes. “Please say you’ll come. I promise, I’ll never bug you about it again.”

“A mighty high promise, coming from you.”

The more he waited, the more her arms prickled with gooseflesh. She rubbed her hands

over them again. Damn him. Seeing another specialist was the last thing she wanted. It was too

risky. The authorities were already on her tail . . . but so were the headaches. Two in one day.

They came without warning. She’d passed out in a public place.

Her safety depended on her reputation.

“She’ll keep her Gift off me.”

He nodded. “I’ve already made that stipulation.”

“Fine. When?”

“Right now.”

“Myir’s sake, Eric! It’s nearly midnight.”

His eyes pleaded, and she looked away. Somehow, even his silence pleaded with her.

“Fine.” She pushed past him for the door. “Give me a moment.”

She snuck inside, moving around Randi and Curt to grab her shawl, then met Eric a few

streets down, next to a boarded-up tinker’s cart.

“This way.” He slipped down the moonlit alleyways in silence. A rat scurried ahead, a

cart creaked from another street, and salt floated on the wind. They were nearing the Waterfront

District, with all its shacks and sewage, and Eric kept them to the shadows along buildings. Mas-

sive ships swayed in the harbor, their flags like drifting shadows. Harbor Point was the largest

unoccupied city this side of Amonarr, and, even at this hour, sailors loaded sacks of grain,

weapons, and horses for the next outgoing tide.


Last year, three men had cornered her a few streets down. When they’d discovered the

clear crystal around her neck was fake, they’d called her a Marion whore and tried to cut her

throat for illegally entering their country. They hadn’t expected her to have a knife. Or that she

would know how to use it.

Eric rounded a corner to a road so narrow, the roof overhangs blocked the moonlight. An

alley cat dashed ahead.

“What did you mean ‘her methods are unconventional’?” The tightening nerves in her

chest made it difficult to breathe.

“Let’s just say she’s not going to the authorities.”

That was not what she wanted to hear. Clenching her jaw, she lifted her hem to keep it

from the puddled manure. Why’d she agreed to this?

Eric descended a flight of stairs and rapped his knuckles against a cellar door. Paint

flaked off and fell to his feet.

Wind blew salt against her face and Pure Gift bulletins at her feet. Shutters were closed

on every building. The shawl was not enough to keep the chill away as she waited for movement

at the door. “Eric, I’m not so sure . . .”

A shutter opened and furrowed eyes peered out. The slat slid shut with a click, and the

door opened into a lit room.

Eric turned to her. “Remember: last time I’ll bother you about this.” He ducked through

the doorframe.

She took a deep breath, then let out a loud hiss. Taking one last glance down the alley,

she set her shoulders back, put on a blank face, and entered.


Incense of licorice root and willow bark assaulted her nose as her eyes adjusted. A fire

cast dancing light upon clutter in every nook. Eric stood in the center of the room, conversing

with an old woman near a table hidden under papers and books. They whispered below the fire’s

crackle.

Turning to close the door, she noted a stuffed dog head, a unicorn horn, and the massive

fang of a great serpent on a shelf.

No wonder this woman wasn’t going to the authorities; she was dealing in dark magic.

“And you are the one he speaks of.” The woman turned, eyes sharp and face creased in

curiosity. Graying hair fell to her waist in beaded braids around elven ears, and the green opal

around her neck—one of the darkest Emilie had ever seen—glowed.

No!

Gift raced over Emilie’s skin, and she turned rigid. Eric avoided her glare. He knew the

woman would do this, and he lied.

“Strange.” The elf reached towards her, but Emilie slapped her away, a sharp sting radiat-

ing down her arm from where they’d touched.

“Do that again and you’ll regret it.”

“Emilie, stop! She needs to assess you.”

She spun on him. “I’m not an open book for you Gifted to poke around in!”

“You’re not as open as you believe,” the elf said. “Have a seat; I’ve seen enough.” With a

sweep of her hand, the air in the room charged with static and the table clutter slid onto shelves

and down the hall. All that remained was a teapot and three cups. The static faded. She sat and

poured.

Eric pulled out a chair and, looking at Emilie, tilted his head at it, urging her to sit.


She could leave. She should leave . . . but Eric’s eyes said he’d drag her right back. The

bloody bastard. She ripped off her shawl and sat.

“I’m Joeblaslyn,” the elf sent the cups towards them with a flick of her eyes, “and you are

my most intriguing patient yet.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Joeblaslyn sipped, eyes never leaving Emilie. “Your friend is right; you’re sick. I sense it,

like a fog clinging to you.” She paused, teacup by her chin and metal rings glinting in the light.

“I sense much about you, but most is a tangled knot. You are quite the mystery.”

Emilie glanced at the door, and Eric set his cup down. “Sick with what?”

Joeblaslyn’s laugh was tinny; the hollow pitch grated on Emilie’s ears. “What is she not

sick from? There is sickness here,” she pointed a long finger at Emilie’s chest—or was she point-

ing to her scars? Could she know about them? “And here.” Her finger traveled to Emilie’s head,

and another laugh made Emilie’s skin itch. “Little wonder you’ve not been diagnosed. Few see

what Joeblaslyn sees. Many refuse to see the impossible.”

“And what’s that?” Eric asked. He needed an answer far more than Emilie did.

Joeblaslyn opened her mouth and turned to her, but paused. Instead, she grinned. “Your

crystal is fake—enchanted to appear like Gift lives in it.”

It took all of Emilie’s willpower to keep a straight face, stay in her chair, and not turn to

Eric to say I told you so.

“We agreed, no authorities. You tell about her, I’ll tell about you.” His voice was cold

enough to frost windows.

Joeblaslyn waved a hand. “There’s no need. This woman is Amonarrian—bred, carried,

and born.”


“What—”

“How do you know?” Eric asked over Emilie.

The elf turned to her. “Have you gone through the Ascension?”

That was it. Emilie went to stand, but Eric grabbed her thigh and forced her back down.

“I don’t know.” She pushed his hand off; he knew better.

Joeblaslyn’s beaded braids scraped the table as she leaned forward. “Did your parents

take to you see the Monks of Myir?”

“I’m not stupid; I know what the Ascension is. I said I don’t know.”

“She has no memory.”

Emilie elbowed Eric in the ribs. How dare he tell anyone. He knew better!

But it was true. In her first memory, she was already a growing child, no more than ten,

riding in a wagon filled with barley, and holding a cloak against the rain. A man drove the car-

riage. He’d said a woman gave her to him, and that that woman was at least the third person to

hand her off. He delivered Emilie like a parcel to Sister Ophelia’s Orphanage in Harbor Point.

Once there, Mistress Della had asked for her name, but she didn’t know it. She’d asked

where she was from and why she was there, but she couldn’t answer that, either. All Emilie had

was a sealed note to hand over. Mistress Della read it, then snuck her into an office and hid her

under the floorboards. Emilie had cried in silence, shivering in the dark for the longest hours of

her life. When Mistress Della had returned, she had the fake crystal Emilie wore around her neck

to this day.

“Never speak of this. Make up a past—and stick to it.”


The crystal was clear. Those in Amonarr who went through the Ascension and came out

with a clear crystal were effetes—born with such a weak Gift that they couldn't use it. It was the

perfect fake gem for a person with no Gift at all.

Emilie leaned forward. “I don’t have to sit for this interrogation. Are you going to fix me

or not?”

“I cannot fix you.”

Emilie pushed back her chair, grabbed her shawl, and turned for the door. Eric’s chair

scraped the floor behind her.

“Patience, child! I cannot fix you because only a monk can. You are suffering from

magic sickness.”

She froze, halfway to the door. When she turned, Joeblaslyn was pouring more tea for

herself as calmly as though she’d just said the weather was nice. She sat the pot down with a fi-

nal-sounding thump.

“What do you mean?” Eric didn’t hide his skepticism.

The elf took another, casual sip. “Like I said, this woman is Amonarrian—bred, carried,

and born. She’s Gifted, has never gone through the Ascension, and thus has a late form of magic

sickness. I don’t know why—and I won’t inquire further as to why. She must seek help from the

Monks of Myir. Only they are trained in matters of the Raw Gift.”

Emilie slammed both hands on the table; the cups rattled. “You’re full of it! No one my

age suffers from magic sickness. It’s a child’s sickness. It’s ludicrous to even suggest—”

“All I know is if you do not cure your magic sickness—if you do not go through the As-

cension—just like a child, it will consume you.”

Emilie went still.


“First, the headaches will cripple you. Soon, they will become severe enough to steal

your senses. You will faint; then, the convulsions will start. Your body will try to rid itself of the

Gift like it would a poison. If you don’t die from the fever, then it will be starvation, as you be-

come unable to keep anything of substance down. In a last attempt to preserve the mind, your

body will kill off its own nervous system, to guard you against the pain.”

The sudden silence in the room was interrupted by a loud pop from the log on the fire.

The hairs on Emilie’s arms rose—a very different sensation from the cold of the alley—as the

elf’s eyes bored into her.

“It’s a long and unpleasant way to go.”

Eric cleared his throat, pale as bone. “How much time do we have?”

“In a normal case, I would say a year, but this is not a normal case.” She turned to Emilie.

“How many flare-ups do you have over a week?”

“I don’t track it.”

“As the time between them shortens, so will your time.”

Two in one day . . .

“And there’s nothing you can do for me?”

“I am doing something for you. Seek the Monks. In the meantime, buy an amulet—the

kind children use until they go through the Ascension. It will buy you time.”

The walls were closing in; the fire was much too hot. Emilie couldn’t breathe. She pulled

the shawl tight around her. “Thank you for your time. We’re leaving.”

“Don’t forget your sickness of mind,” Joeblaslyn called after her. “You have a reoccur-

ring nightmare. You must confront it.”


The steps flew under Emilie as she fled back along the way they’d come. She counted her

steps in an attempt to calm her thoughts. It wasn’t working.

Footsteps pounded after her. “Em! I’m sorry.”

She spun, stabbing a finger up at Eric’s face. “No! You’re not sorry. You said she’d keep

her Gift off. You lied.”

He was on her heels like a shadow. “You wouldn’t have come otherwise! I am sorry

about how she treated you, that she reached so deep. I didn’t want to lie, but you wouldn’t have

come otherwise.” He touched her arm from behind, but she pushed on, storming in silence past

the harbor and turning uphill.

“What did she mean?” he asked, out of breath. “What nightmares? You got so pale, I

thought you were about to faint.”

“You’re really pushing your luck tonight.”

How could he? He’d lied to her, tricked her, and told a stranger her secrets. And, some-

how, Joeblaslyn had known the deepest one. One Eric didn’t know. One that had haunted her

since childhood.

It wasn’t long until they reach the tinker’s cart outside The Red Wagon.

“Thanks for such a delightful evening.” She poured as much venom as she could into the

words, but Eric put both hands on her shoulders. She started to shove him off, but his eyes gave

her pause; all his urgency over the past moon was concentrated in them. His fear frightened her

far more than anything Joeblaslyn could have said.

“You should get back to the barracks,” she whispered, trying to diffuse the moment, but

his grip tightened.


“Listen to me. What if you are from Amonarr? It’s possible, right? You don’t know what

happened before Sister Ophelia’s.”

“Use your bloody head, Eric. If I was from Amonarr, I would have gotten magic sickness

as a kid. Even an effete wouldn’t survive past fourteen. I’m not from Amonarr, I’m not Gifted,

and it can’t be magic sickness.”

He sighed and, to her relief, dropped his hands. “But if she’s right, it will kill you.”

“If an illegal went to the Monks claiming this kind of shit, they’d be turned in to the au-

thorities. That’s as good as being dead.”

“But not even the Monks fully understand the Gift. What if someone could make it to

their twenties without the Gift expressing itself? Think about how much easier your life would

be if you went through the Ascension and the Gift was leached from you. No more magic sick-

ness. You’d be a proper citizen. You wouldn’t have to worry about the authorities or the Pure

Gift. You could make a better life for yourself. You’d have Gift.”

“Just stop! No monk would even listen to this.”

“What if you saw one sympathetic to illegals? They exist. How do you think flukes born

with the Gift outside Amonarr get gems? Or in the Bloodlands? Actually, maybe you’re one of

those? A Gifted illegal?”

“I’m too old. It’s not magic sickness.”

“And if it is?”

She sighed. Behind Eric, a group left The Red Wagon, laughing in the light as one man

danced to the music drifting into the street.

“You need to get back to your barracks,” Emilie repeated. “Are you even allowed out this

late?”


“Promise me when you start to feel worse, you’ll seek out the Monks. Find one sympa-

thetic.”

“I’m sure you’ll drag me there yourself and then tell them all my deepest secrets.”

The desperate urgency returned to Eric’s eyes, even intensified—and her stomach sank

with the realization of why he’d wanted her to see Joeblaslyn tonight.

“My regiment is leaving tomorrow. I won’t be here to drag you.” He glanced behind him

at the drunks. There were now two dancing, while the rest clapped and stumbled. When he

turned back to her, his eyes were glossy. “There’s a chance I may not come back.”

“Then don’t go.” She reached for his arm, but hesitated.

“I don’t have a choice. I’m drafted . . . I have to go.”

“But you have a skill! They need people making swords and daggers. You’re so close to

owning your own smithy.”

Pain flashed in his eyes, and Eric shook his head. “I can’t until Master Barns makes me a

Master in my own right, and he’s made it clear he doesn’t intend to. I’d take half his business.”

He cut off her protest with a hand. “We’ve already gone over this. I’m drafted. I have to go.”

“But the chances—” She shut her mouth. The chances of coming home were slim. Mar-

ion, the Giftless country to the east, had one invaluable asset: a Gifted man named James Crafter,

the man behind the Betrayal. He’d discovered a way to deflect Amonarr’s magic on the battle-

field. As thus, they were fourteen years into the bloodiest war in Amonarrian history.

Eric smiled a sudden, silly grin. “Hey, I have something for you.”

“What? No. You don’t have to give me anything.” This was too final. Think of some-

thing. Anything. “Are you trying to start a fight with Miranda? You know she’ll find out.”

He unhooked the dagger at his belt. “We broke up two moons ago.”


“And you didn’t tell me? That’s very unlike you, Eric Campbell.”

He rolled his eyes. There was something else going on there, but, before she could press

further, he pulled off the dark leather scabbard to show the dagger’s blade and opened his palm

so she could see its hilt, woven with different shades of leather.

“I want you to have it.”

She couldn’t speak. The day after he’d made it, he’d brought it over and she’d bought a

cherry tart to celebrate. They’d shared the pastry on a bale of hay under the summer sun. Eric—

so thrilled with his success—had explained how he made it through mouthfuls of fruit and

flakes; crumbs had fallen over his shirt. Besides his father’s books, the dagger was his most

prized possession—his finest work.

He returned the blade to its scabbard and held it out, hilt first. “This will serve you better

than the other one. Just remember: get them off guard. Don’t play by the rules, because the rules

don’t apply to you.”

The lump in her throat turned to a hard mass she couldn’t swallow past.

“Take it.” His voice was tight.

It was lighter than she’d expected, but the weight of its meaning pulled heavy. She turned

it over, studying it like the first time. “I practiced the braiding on five other daggers before at-

tempting it on this. This strand is lamb, while the darker one is elk.”

“I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

He closed her hand around it, face darkening in the dim light except along the scar trac-

ing a line to his jaw, making it more pronounced. “Just promise me you’ll take care of yourself.

Promise me, when you start to get worse, you’ll go to the Monks.”


Tears tried to sneak into her eyes, and she blinked them back. The dancing drunks were

gone, and, off in the distance, the one o’clock bells echoed over the thousands of Harbor Point

rooftops.

“If I don’t promise, will you have to stay?”

Tears slipped from his own eyes as he laughed, and she pulled him tight, burying her face

in his shoulder before he could see the tear dash down her cheek. His arms wrapped tentatively

around her, then tightened in a desperate hug that only made her fight more tears. His heart

pounded against hers, and his breath fluttered. Hers did, too, despite her efforts to hide it. It felt

like yesterday they’d stood in the doorway of Sister Ophelia’s, her gripping him to the spot, just

like this, while he held all his possessions wrapped in a blanket. “I promise, we’ll see each other

soon.”

She hadn’t seen him again for nine years.

This time, there were no promises.

He pulled away, and her skin tingled where he kissed her forehead.

“Take care of yourself, for me?”

Unsure what to do, she laughed through her tears and pushed him. “I think you’re the one

that needs to take care of yourself.”

He squeezed her hand with a soft smile and turned to leave. The more his outline faded

into the dark, the more she shook.

“Eric!”

She rushed after him and, fingers trembling, pulled off the leather twine holding her

braid. Using the dagger, she cut a thumb-length portion of hair, tied the lock together, and held it

out without a word. There was nothing she could say.


He took it with a small smile, then turned into the dark and was gone.

***

Emilie drew a shaky breath and splashed water from the basin onto her face. It rolled

down her neck and arms and dripped off her hair.

Get yourself together.

More tears came, though, and she turned to her collection of feathers, stuck in a hay bale.

One, two, three . . . fifteen in total. Their shadows stretched to the A-frame ceiling. On one

nearby stool rested ten seashells and twenty-five shiny rocks, each no larger than her thumb. She

took scope of the room—one straw mattress, two petticoats hanging off the rafter beams to dry,

one chamber pot, and three candlesticks waiting to be used. Five empty bottles of ale piled next

to her bed, upon which sat one book, open to a drawing of a battle—she set to the side the fact

that the book was Eric’s.

Her heart calmed. A breeze traveled from one open end of the loft to the other, smelling

of hay. Here, in her cocoon, she was safe. She frowned at her unmade bed, the stump of a candle,

and the open book. No. She was mostly safe.

“You have a reoccurring nightmare. You must confront it.”

She shook and gripped the table, picturing Joeblaslyn holding her down and caressing her

most private thoughts. How much more did she know?

No. Get yourself together.


She splashed more water on her face. The candlelight reflected off the hilt of Eric’s dag-

ger next to the basin. She reached for the flask of whiskey. It both burned and cooled on its way

down.

It was late. Master Raymond would need her bright and early in the morning. There were

several orders she needed to drop off and an order of coal coming in. In the evening, she could

hit up the Pits and place some gibs on the cockfights. Randi and Old Curt would be there. That

would get her mind off today. Off Eric.

Taking another swig, she closed the flask and dug through her leather pouch for more

twine to gather her hair.

A metal bucket tipped on the stone floor downstairs, and she paused mid-braid. A light

flickered through the floor planks.

Was Master Raymond checking on something in the forge? Perhaps, but it was late.

She finished her braid, then sunk to her knees by the trap door, and lifted it an inch to

peek through.

The two men from Immigration were coming up the ladder.


CHAPTER TWO

Word on the Street

Eric twirled the knotted curl of golden hair as rain pounded on the mess hall canopy and

his porridge grew cold. It was not yet first light, but his gear was packed and the tent was filling

with men. Anticipation was thick. In an hour, they would set forth in the rain, heading east.

He could still smell her embrace—hay, whiskey, and something else uniquely hers. He

couldn’t place it. The smell of wool warming in the sun transported him to summer evenings

with his mother spinning fibers on the porch. When he passed the roses in Ladd’s District, he re-

membered breathing in the hair of his first love, Claralane, back in Domfast. The spicy scent of

the cocobolo he used to polish the pommels of his swords reminded him of Miranda reading to

him while he worked.

Emilie’s unique scent was of fall mornings in the courtyard at Sister Ophelia’s, when the

sunlight filtered through the yellow maple and dew evaporated off the cobblestones, or of the sea

breeze on their first visit to the ocean—collecting sea glass like dragon scales strewn along the

beach.

Emilie smelled of bottled memories.


He twisted the curl between his fingers, tuning out the swell of voices and pounding rain.

A leak in the canvas dripped water onto the table.

She’d hugged him. She hadn’t done that since he left the orphanage. Was it only a year

ago she’d come back into his life? His throat thickened, remembering the day he’d arrived at

Master Raymond’s forge for an order of hammers—the woman tending the bellows had turned,

and his nerves went numb. He’d shuffled back as realization hit them both. “Nine years. Nine

fucking years!” He’d ducked as she’d thrown the hammers at him, hitting the wall and panicking

the horses on the other side. He’d escaped, but dragged his feet back the next day, still needing

the order. She ignored him. He’d gone back every day on his lunch break and after work to sit on

the hay bales by the front door. She’d gone about her work, cloistered herself in the attic, or

stayed out until the early hours of the morning.

A quarter moon had gone by like this. He’d taken to leaning against the building, feet

kicked up on a bucket and reading The Travels of Ferdinand and Nandina. Emilie had used ev-

ery bale of hay she could find—until she’d needed the one he’d sat on.

The table shifted, and Eric stuffed the curl into his pocket. Bren sat in front of him, glanc-

ing around the mess hall and chewing a wad of ooheet root. He spat it on the ground. “You going

to eat that?” He pointed at Eric’s porridge.

“It’s cold, but go ahead. I’m not hungry.”

“That’s nerves for you,” Bren said, mouth already full. “Irvington just fell. Sounds like

we’ll be heading to Crigrok. Hey!” He stopped mid-chew, pointing the spoon at him with a wide

grin. “You find her last night?”

Eric’s jaw tightened. “She was right where you said she’d be.”

“Damn right! Looks like she didn’t let you get a wink of sleep either.”


“That’s not why I saw her.”

“Pity,” Bren said through another bite of porridge and shrugging his shoulders. “She’s

quite the minx. Feisty, if you like it that way . . . ”

The tension in Eric’s jaw spread to his neck and shoulders.

“Of course you do.” Bren finished off the porridge and dropped the spoon into the bowl

with a clatter. “You’ve been bonking Miranda for over a year.”

“You talk about Emilie so much, I’m starting to think she’s the only girl you’ve actually

slept with.”

Bren slid the bowl back to him. “Naw. She was just the most fun.” He winked and un-

wrapped another wad of ooheet root. “Hope you said hello from me.”

Eric’s fists unclenched under the table as Bren walked off. Bren had been unbearable dur-

ing the orphanage days, but, the older he got, the more he was simply an asshole. What had pos-

sessed Emilie to sleep with him? The fact she had was like sand inside Eric’s stomach. The

woman he knew now was a different person than the girl he’d known at the orphanage—and not

for the better.

Eric grabbed his bowl, moved past the men finding seats, and headed to the wash bins. A

quick walk before the assemble bell would clear his head.

“You’re joking me. Patrick Raymond?”

Eric paused in the midst of rolling his sleeves. Two men scrubbed breakfast from their

bowls, one wash bin over.

“Goes to show, you can never know a person.”

Eric joined them, dunking his bowl into the icy water and searching for a scrub brush.

“Patrick Raymond?”


The older man frowned. “You know him?”

“He supplied tools to the swordsmith I apprenticed under.”

“Got himself arrested last night,” the younger man said. “Harboring a dirty illegal.”

Eric locked his eyes on the suds cupped in his bowl. The two men continued, but their

voices were distant, sluggish, drugged.

Emilie was the illegal Master Raymond harbored. The dirty illegal.

He turned from the wash bin. Water dripped from his bowl to his shoe . . . plat . . .

plat . .

Last winter, he’d carried an order of halberds through Mensfield Square. A man in uni-

form had stood above the low-life gathered for the free entertainment, his breath clouding be-

tween the falling snow as he read from a scroll. “. . . illegal entry into the Motherland . . . pos-

session of a false gem.” Each sentence had cracked on the air like the whip on the Marion

woman’s back. Her cries had rang over the crowd’s cheers.

Only rumors existed about what happened next, behind the walls of Mensfield—a life

sentence made short by starvation, hypothermia, infection, and sickness. Twice a moon, a dark

cloud rose from the chimney, smelling of burned hair and skin.

He stepped in mud. He no longer held his bowl.

They were after Emilie.

He pushed through a group of men entering the tent.

She’d warned him. She told him it was a bad idea. She was taking an enormous risk visit-

ing the specialists—the experts he persuaded her to see. She didn’t want to go, and he’d con-

vinced her otherwise. Why? So he could have peace of mind before he left?


No. No. She was—She is—sick. She needed to see someone. She could die. But, by Myir,

how was this any different? She would die in Mensfield. She’d told him.

His boots pounded through puddles, and rain soaked his clothes. Reiki Market was a blur.

He might have pushed someone, though he wasn’t sure.

No smoke rose from Master Raymond’s chimney. He burst in, and the usual wave of heat

was only a warm caress.

“Emilie!”

He tripped over a bucket on its side and caught himself on the table, knocking over a

broom. A ladder led to an open door in the ceiling, and he burst into the loft.

A turned-over stool had scattered colorful rocks and shells across the floor. A chamber

pot lay smashed at the base of the wall. Wool blankets gathered in tangled knots on the straw

mattress, and broken glass from ale bottles crunched under his boots.

He turned through molasses. His thoughts tried to catch up.

On the floor sat a book with its pages fluttering in the misty cross breeze. He picked it up;

glass rained off it and pages tried to escape. Branded into the front, stark letters read A History of

the Five Kingdoms.

A pang hit his chest, and he closed his eyes, remembering when he’d sat on his father’s

leg, his brother Rowan on the other. Their father’s great arms had wrapped around them both,

hands holding this very book, as he invoked the mighty voice of King Ignor at the Battle of

Spite.

Eric had given it to Emilie before he left the orphanage—or did he say she could borrow

it? He couldn’t remember.


A glimmer on the blankets caught his eye, and he picked up the dagger he’d gifted her, a

streak of dried blood on its edge.

Of course they’d already taken her. They wouldn’t arrest Master Raymond without proof.

Stupid. He kicked the knocked-over stool against the wall with a thud.

No. Stop. Think. He sheathed the dagger and tucked it under his belt. She had to be at

Mensfield, and there had to be a way to get her out. He’d figure it out. He had money. Perhaps he

could bribe the right monk to write a gem certificate, saying hers had been destroyed in an acci-

dent. He knew of one guy that’d happened to . . . still, that wouldn’t help her against possession

of a false gem.

He headed down the ladder with the dagger and book and stepped outside. The downpour

was now a dewy fog.

Mensfield was east. He searched for the prison’s tower in the distance, but it was hidden

by the fog.

He broke into a steady run, still strained from his mad dash to Emilie’s place. The book

jabbed into his armpit as he passed opening carts, begging children, and The Red Wagon. He

spun around a corner and down an alley, glancing for the tower between the rooftops.

The collar of his uniform suddenly pulled him back. His head rebounded with a thud

against a building; his teeth clamped on his tongue. A massive hand seized his throat, pinning

him, and the book splashed into a puddle.

“Yeah, that’s the guy. He’s got the scar.”

His vision steadied upon two figures—the short, fat, pale man who’d just spoken, and a

muscular, dark-brown woman, who pinned Eric and leaned in, breath sickly-sweet from too

much drink the night before. Half of her front tooth was missing.


“You’ll pay for what you did to her, you little shit.” Her grip tightened.

“Wrong . . . guy . . . please.” He clawed at the hand around his throat, the copper taste of

blood in his mouth.

The short man pointed the knife at his face. “No, he’s the guy who went after Emilie.

Even wearing the same uniform.” He spat.

Eric slammed the elbow of the hand grabbing him, slipped from her grasp, and stepped

out of reach with hands outstretched. “Stop! Please. I’m going to Mensfield to get her out. We

grew up together.”

They paused, and the six o’clock bell tolled in the distance; there was something impor-

tant about it, but Eric couldn’t puzzle out what. His tongue was swelling, and he spat blood onto

the cobbles.

The woman pulled against the knife hand of her shorter friend. “He doesn’t know. He

must be telling the truth.”

The man huffed. “I guess so. You one of her toys?”

Eric blinked. “Toys?” He rubbed a knot forming on his head; the wet was rain, not blood.

“I’m Eric. . . . We grew up together.”

The man slid his knife back into the fold in his clothing. “I’m Curt, and that’s Randi.”

“She’s not at Mensfield,” the large woman, Randi, said.

“What? Where is she?”

Randi picked up the book and held it out, allowing water to drip from the pages. “You

ever hear of Lieutenant Bridger?”

Eric shook his head, and his vision swam. “Is he the one who arrested Emilie?”


“The one in charge, at least,” Randi said, inspecting the book. “Got a bad reputation for

being greedy.”

“The young, strong, or pretty never make it to Mensfield,” Curt said. “There’s a granary

near the docks where they’re bid on, like horses. Lieutenant Bridger gets a percentage of the ones

he brings to market.”

Eric stared, imagining Emilie with chains around her arms and feet, standing before the

shadowed faces of those willing to buy a human soul. Slavery was illegal, but King Francis had

little interest in prosecuting when an overwhelming majority of those bounded were Giftless. Ev-

eryone knew it happened. Everyone saw it—in the blank stare of men working the brick kilns

and the fake smiles of girls outside certain brothels.

Emilie was going to get herself killed.

He turned to Randi. “Take me there. Please.”

“What do you think you can do?”

“Get her out of there! It’s my fault, and I don’t have time for this.” He grabbed his book,

but Randi held on, and his fingers slipped on the wet leather.

“Calm your dragons, soldier. Like anyone is going to give you answers dressed like that.”

“She wouldn’t be there anymore, anyway,” Curt added. “They sell them and get them out

before dawn.”

Eric steadied himself against the wall. Calm your dragons. His mother used to say that

when he and Rowan would bicker. He took a deep breath, held it, then let it out. The rain picked

up, but the cool drops soothed him.

So, Emilie was no longer there. That was okay. Like any operation, they had to have

records of transactions. If Lieutenant Bridger was getting a cut, Eric could look through the


records and find out who he’d traded with. He could track Emilie down and buy her out. It could

be easier than getting her out of Mensfield.

Eric glanced at the man and woman. He didn’t know how Emilie knew them—but they

seemed to care about her.

“I need to find out who she was sold to. I need the transaction books.”

Randi rubbed her face. “There’s an idea.” She turned to Curt, who went wide-eyed.

“Oh, no. Absolutely not.”

Eric raised an eyebrow, and Curt shook his head. “I work there—at the grain mill, not the

night operation.” He leaned forward. “Laramiah’s the lady who runs everything. Any records

would be in her office—but I couldn’t get in, even if I wanted to. She’s got an opal, and she

locks the door with a web spell. I’ve got a darker crystal than most, but I can’t break an opal

charm. She’s trained.”

Eric fished for the chain under his clothing. “Is her opal darker than this?” The yellow

and orange-flecked opal he’d received during his Ascension glowed in the dim light.

They stared. Opals weren’t rare, but ones without pastel colors were. The darker an opal

and the more intense its coloring, the more powerful the owner’s Gift. When he’d received his

gem, the monk had urged him to consider attending one of the Universities. His mother and fa-

ther couldn’t afford the tuition—nor did he have the desire, at the time. The Gift was useful, but

he didn’t want it to define him.

Curt sighed. “I don’t think it’d be much trouble for you. But look, the most I can do is let

you follow me most of the way. It’s the largest grain mill this side of the Amberridium Plains;

you may get lost, but I can’t risk being seen with you. If you’re caught, I could be out of a job—


or worse. I got five kids to feed. And if we’re doing this, we need to go now. The boss gets in at

seven. And you need to cover that shit up.” He waved his hand at Eric’s uniform.

Randi turned. “I’ll find him a cloak.”

***

The cloak Randi found smelled like piss, but Eric held it closed over his uniform as he

trailed several yards behind Curt. It was hard to keep an eye on the shorter man over people

heaving bags of grain, pulling on rope levers, and lifting bags to higher levels to pour through the

mills. Grinding stones deafened his ears, and flour dust hung thick in the air. He glanced over his

shoulder to memorize the view; he wouldn’t have someone to guide him out.

Curt turned down a hall, up some steps, then through another room. The millstones vi-

brated through Eric’s boots and rattled his bones as they walked. Again, he checked behind him.

Were those men watching? He avoided their gaze and tucked behind the gears into the next

room.

Curt stopped and bent to tie his boot—signaling to the nearby staircase. Eric was on his

own, now.

He headed up, and the grinding grew distant. He passed two men, found door number

five, and slipped through.

As Curt had said, bags of fresh ground barley filled the room. Before those loading bags

onto carts noticed him, Eric ducked behind a pile and pulled out the map Curt had drawn for him.

The paper rattled in his shaking hands.


The office wasn’t much further—into the next room, through the courtyard, and up a

staircase into the next building. He branded the map into his memory. He might not get the

chance to look at it again.

“You should have seen her face!”

The bags he hid behind scraped against one another, disappearing from the top. A horse

snorted.

“Doubt she let you get away with that one.”

The pile was shrinking near his head.

“Don’t matter. She ended up doing it anyway.”

He crouched to the next pile, then slipped into another room, filled with more bags of

grain but empty of people. Sprinting to the courtyard doors, he peeked around. Covered carts

weighed down with bags of flour sat in the rain while five men stood talking.

He could do this. Putting up his hood, he marched across the courtyard. The talking men

ignored him.

He paused inside the next building, listening. A bell tolled in the distance.

The bell. The boss was due.

Eric took the stairs as silently as he could, and stopped at the first door. He turned the

knob, but it was locked. The numbness of a web spell radiated up his fingers. This was it.

He took a deep breath, then closed his eyes and reached into his opal. It warmed against

his skin. He mentally pulled on the threads of his Gift until it radiated from the opal, down his

arm, and into the keyhole. The spell resisted, like a tangled knot, but it wasn’t complicated. He

felt along each thread and forced his Gift into the weakest one like a wedge. The lock clicked.

Ha, not too difficult at all. Glancing down the stairs, Eric slid into the office.


He paused in the dark, before his eyes adjusted to see a desk, several chairs, and multiple

bookcases with hundreds of ledgers along the walls. Papers covered each chair and piles of them

threatened to fall off the desk to the floor.

His pulse quickened, and his stomach churned. He hadn’t planned this far.

Think. Steadying his breathing, he walked around the desk. The records would have been

updated only a few hours before, but they were not something to leave lying about. They had to

be out of sight, but accessible.

Eric opened the desk drawers. All were unlocked—unsurprising given the web spell on

the door—except the last one. No charm lock, just a key.

He grinned and reached into his Gift. The metal clicked.

The drawer was empty.

“. . . road to Poulin’s washed out. I estimate. . .” A man’s voice, followed by boots thud-

ding on the staircase.

No, he needed more time!

He moved to close the drawer, but stopped. The drawer bottom had a hole the size of a

finger. There should have been faint light coming through . . . and why lock an empty drawer?

“It’s the main route. They’ll have it rebuilt faster than if it goes through Mardic.” A

woman’s voice.

Eric stuck his finger through the small opening and lifted to reveal a hidden bottom and a

records ledger. He turned the pages to the last entry. This had to be it. He slid it under his arm

and tip-toed to the closed door.

Shit. He wasn’t going to make it out in time, and web spells were the upper limit of what

he knew about the Gift. He replicated the spell as best he could. Boots stopped outside the door.


He slid to hide in the space by the door’s hinges. The ledger’s loose papers curled from the sweat

on his palms. His breath was deafening. He held it, waiting.

The doorknob jingled and turned. The door swung open.

“But we can’t wait. They’re expecting five thousand within the fortnight.”

A woman and a man entered. Before they turned at the desk and saw him, Eric slid

around and out the door. His boots creaked on the stairs, making him wince. Confused voices

came from the office.

Shit, shit, shit! He’d forgotten to close the drawer. He shifted from stealth to speed.

Boots thundered after him as he turned into the courtyard and stopped around the build-

ing’s corner. His heart raced, and he gripped the ledger tight. Back against the wall, he reached

for his Gift, ready to strike if needed.

“Where’d he go?”

One of the covered carts creaked by. Eric glanced at the backs of his pursuers as they

stepped into the rain.

Here goes nothing.

He grabbed the back of the cart, and lightly stepped inside, next to bags of milled barley.

Glancing out, his pursuers ran for the next building.

Eric slouched, but he opened the ledger and smiled.

***


“There.” Eric pointed at the handwriting. Randi was on the other side of him, at the

counter in The Red Wagon. “I think that says Bridger. Bob or Rob Bridger? I can’t tell if that’s a

B or R.”

Randi downed the rest of her ale. It was a slow morning, and they had the tavern to them-

selves.

“How many Bridgers are there?”

Eric hadn’t seen any others, and the same Bridger appeared a few days before. “It’s got to

be him.” He picked up the book and paced, trying to make out the scribble. Bridger . . . one M,

three F. . . . eighty gibs, seventy gibs, ninety-five gibs, one jet . . . Jearson Adler via Allen Silva.

“Are you going to sit? You’re making me nervous.”

Eric turned. “You know of a Jearson Adler or Allen Silva?”

Randi shook her head, then turned as the bartender entered from the kitchen. “Hey,

Smiles!” She signaled the man over. “Not to say someone else doesn’t, though. Eh, Smiles? Ever

hear of a guy by the name of Jearson Adler or Allen Silva?”

Smiles picked up Randi’s mug. “Silva comes for a drink, now and then—not from around

here.” He refilled the mug, scraped off the foam, and sat it down. “What’d he do?”

“You know Emilie? She’s not an effete. She’s an illegal and was one of those rounded up

last night.” Randi shook her head, staring into her mug. “This guy bought her.”

Smiles turned the same color as the freshly laundered towel over his shoulder. “Is that

so.” He was twisting his ring, his voice flat.

Eric slid the ledger onto the bar. “Where’s this Allen from?”

“I- I think he mentioned his employer was in Beauta,” Smiles said. “Could be the other

man you mentioned.”


Eric grabbed his father’s book and edged the ledger toward Randi. “Show this to some-

one who can stop it.”

Randi chuckled bitterly into her mug, then choked as Eric turned. “Where are you go-

ing?”

Eric was already out the door.

He’d head to Beauta. Someone there would know Jearson Adler or Allen Silva. When he

found them, he would find Emilie.

A swift wind was drying the cobble street and clearing the fog. Eric checked the leather

pouch at his side. Beauta was five days away by foot, but a good horse could get him there in

three. A good horse would cost money. He also needed equipment. Judging by the weight, he

had around fifty gibs on him. He’d have to stop by the note exchange and pull out more, plus

enough to purchase Emilie back, if needed. He turned to orient himself, then walked toward the

nearest exchange. It would drain the money he’d set aside for his own shop, but he wasn’t ever

going to open one. He was drafted.

He stopped. A woman bumped him.

Bloody dragons, what was he doing? He couldn’t leave for Beauta. He turned to the

tower clock; he’d missed roll call for his regiment’s departure two hours ago. If he didn’t show

up soon, he’d be labeled a deserter. His face would join the thousands of others they searched

for, their sketches printed on paper and money offered for their capture to stand trial. They

wouldn’t care that he’d gone to help a friend, much less an illegal. Desertion was equivalent to

treason. The punishment was hanging.

“Move!” shouted a woman driving a cart of cabbages. He slid to the side of the street.


He had to go back—maybe he’d just get a flogging—yet he stood, immobilized, holding

his father’s book. A History of the Five Kingdoms . . .

When he and Emilie were kids, he’d read passages to her as they hid behind the kitchen

pantry, away from the mockery of the others. He’d read it so many times, he’d memorized most

of the stories word for word.

He remembered now. He had gifted it to her, the morning he’d left Sister Ophelia’s, but

she’d refused to take it as a gift. “If I borrow it, you’ll have to come back.”

He hadn’t come back for the book. More importantly, he hadn’t come back for his best

friend.

If he’d kept writing, if he’d come to visit, if he’d tried harder to track her down when

he’d returned to Harbor Point . . . if he’d been a better friend . . . would the Emilie he remem-

bered from those days be the Emilie he knew now?

He pulled the book close, his mind made up.


CHAPTER THREE

Haunts

“Pick up the pace.”

There was no moonlight to see the ground, and the other captives blocked the torchlight.

Emilie gripped Deena’s shoulder and jumped off the wagon. Icy mud—or what she hoped was

mud—squeezed between her toes, and the chill of it sent needles between her bones. She used to

curse her boots, with their soles that always separated at the most inconvenient times; now, she

couldn’t miss them more. Allen had ripped them off after he’d deemed her a flight risk. She

glanced at his silhouette against the torchlight. He’d be one to laugh at her muddy toes, but, in-

stead, he forced one of the whimpering girls through a door.

“Move.” The other man who’d traveled with them, Vincent, pushed her from behind, and

she stumbled.

They’d traveled for four days in the barred wagon, jostled by the spring-torn roads. The

men had banged on the side if they had heard talking or saw their prisoners peek between the

bars—the openings there were the only source of light and fresh air. On the second day, the


chamber pot had tipped onto Tony. Since then, Emilie had hugged her legs against her chest day

and night to avoid the mess.

She forced her legs to steady and took a deep breath of clean air. They were in a moonlit

courtyard at the back of a stone townhouse. Walls enclosed the space, except where an iron gate

stood. The bars were too tight to slide through, but ivy covered the walls, which would be easy to

climb. Rooftops rose over the other side—so, another city. She was good at disappearing in city

streets. She glanced at Vincent; she wouldn’t get far. At least, not yet.

But where were they? She’d anticipated a bawdy house, not a wealthy residence.

“I said get going.” Allen shoved her after the others, and she scraped her palm as she

caught herself on the doorframe. Acidic smoke stung her eyes as she walked into the house un-

dercroft. Burlap bags were stacked against the wall, and salted meat and bunches of herbs hung

from the rafters.

“Get in line and stand straight—and shut up.” Allen scowled at Reva, who held a quiver-

ing lip with her teeth. It’d been hard to see the others in the dark of the wagon; Emilie could tell

they were all young, but Reva was no older than twelve.

The room moved in a blur as hands dug into her arms to position her in line. Light ap-

proached from the corner stairs, followed by heavy steps. A portly woman, with graying hair

tucked into a cap, took the stairs down one at a time, an oil lamp in one hand and the other trac-

ing the wall. She reached the bottom and looked up.

“Three dragons, Allen. They smell like shit.”

He placed a hand over his heart in greeting and took the lamp from her. “They’ll clean

up. Where’s Jearson?”

Her eyes flipped to the ceiling. “Attending business in Drosa. What have you brought?”


He led her to the end of the line and reached into his pocket for his notebook.

Vincent stood in front of the outside door with his arms crossed. His eyes turned to Emi-

lie, and she quickly studied the ham leg hanging on the wall ahead. Her fingers flexed against her

dress; she forced herself to breathe past the pit in her stomach. Even if she did slip away, there

were too many of them, and Allen and Vincent weren’t shy of using their Gift. She’d learned that

the hard way; her shoulder was still numb.

Allen cleared his throat and lifted the notes to his eyes. “This one is Reva, twelve years

old, from Marion. She was the most expensive, at one jet.”

The woman studied her, rotating her head by the chin. Reva shook, and tears drew lines

down her dirty face.

“Madam Aguirre might pay double.” She wiped her fingers on her apron.

Emilie’s eyes shot forward. They were going to a bawdy house. She peeked again at Vin-

cent. His shoulders were as broad as the doorframe, and the darkness behind him made his pres-

ence loom large.

“Tony . . . Fourteen . . . Stand straight, boy.”

Perhaps she could rip off one of their gems. Vincent wore his yellow crystal on a leather

twine. If she ripped it off, he couldn’t use it—he would have to rely on his speed alone to catch

her.

The lamp turned to Deena next to her. “. . . Sixteen, from Triden. Eighty gibs.”

Would she even be able to grab it? It was under his shirt. The smoke from the torches

made her eyes water, and she blinked. Even if she got Vincent’s gem, he wore a dagger at his

hip, and Allan still had a gem. There was no way she could get both of them, much less whatever

gem the woman had. Her eyes wandered to the woman, searching for a necklace or ring.


The woman frowned at Deena. “She’s got a wandering eye, Allen.”

He leaned forward with the lamp and scratched his jaw. “Open your eyes, girl.”

Deena opened her eyes, widely, but briefly, before dropping her gaze again. Beads of

sweat dotted her temples and shone in the light.

He shook his head. “You can never tell when they’re standing under those lights.”

“Do you have any skills? Sewing? Cooking?”

Deena didn’t look up, but she nodded sharply.

The woman sighed and turned to Emilie. Emilie rubbed her palms against her dress. The

back of her throat turned to ash. Her mind emptied.

“This one goes by Emilie.” Allen turned the lamp to her, and the heat drew a sweat to her

brow. “Wouldn’t give a country of origin, but is Giftless. Mid-twenties.”

The woman’s eyes traveled the length of her, like Master Raymond’s when considering

buying a horse—and no one inspected a horse more than him. She grabbed Emilie’s face to scru-

tinize her teeth. “How much?”

“Seventy. She’s older and has some scarring on her breast. I figured she could replace

Morgan.”

“We already have a replacement for Morgan, after your mistake with this one.” She tilted

her head at Deena, who stiffened.

He stuffed the notebook in his pocket. “Jearson prefers blondes.”

“Take the other two to Madam Aguirre. Try to get double if you can. You two,” she

snapped at Emilie and Deena, “follow me.”

Allen and Vincent marched Tony and Reva to the door. I’m sorry, Emilie mouthed to

Tony before he was yanked away.


“I know you’re not daft. Get going.” The woman pushed Emilie up the stairs, after

Deena, and followed with the lamp.

I can do this. She took a deep breath. I have to do this. It had to be easier to escape from

here than whatever bawdy house the others were going to. Her flesh crawled. There was nothing

she could do for them.

Deena shook ahead of her. “Mighty Myir, Mother of dust and stars, Protector—”

—of souls. Preserve us, your children, and keep us from harm. She followed in her head

—but Myir was too busy keeping the darkness at bay to intervene in petty human matters.

Eric’s voice echoed in her head: “Don’t play by the rules, because the rules don’t apply

to you.”

A headache gnawed at her temples. This would be interesting.

***

Emilie shot up, gasping for air, heart pounding in her throat, and eyes darting around the

dark room.

It’s okay.

She squeezed her eyes and rolled to the side, but tears slipped past, and she trembled, un-

able to the shed the last moments of the nightmare: hands ripping at her as she struggled against

a weight, screaming, searching, a static pain roaring through her veins.

And trees—summer-leafed branches against a bright white sky, so unlike the shrubby

things gripping the dark, sandy hills outside Harbor Point.

She opened her eyes, trying to cling to the detail. She’d only seen trees like that in books.


Her head pounded, and she shivered in the sweat-soaked nightdress clinging to her skin.

Deena’s steady breath reminded her she was locked in an unfamiliar room with nowhere to go,

sharing a cramped bed with a girl she didn’t know. It was like the first nights at Sister Ophelia’s.

Deena’s shallow breathing even mirrored Eliza’s, the girl she’d shared a bed with, in the begin-

ning. Emilie had fought grabbing shadows in her sleep and awoken on a tear-soaked pillow back

then, too.

Curse Joeblaslyn. How had she known? Emilie glanced around the room—always check-

ing, just in case. Back in those days, it’d not been the nightmares that’d frightened her, but what

happened after.

Nothing was out of the ordinary—standard, since she’d started having the nightmares

again. Taking a deep breath, she rolled to her other side

“Are you okay? You keep moving.” Deena was staring at her; though, one eye looked

through Emilie, instead.

The bed creaked as Emilie turned the other way. Deena sighed before rolling away her-

self. Soon, the girl’s breathing steadied.

On cue, a headache slammed Emilie’s temples, and the room tipped as though she was

falling through the bed. She gritted her teeth and swallowed the bitterness rising in her throat.

She wasn’t sure how long the episode lasted, but, when it finished, there was a ringing in her ears

and a throbbing in her chest. She reached through her nightdress to rub one of the scars over her

heart.

There’d been something new about the nightmare tonight, but, for the life of her, she

couldn’t remember what.


***

Emilie flinched as a stack of books dropped on the table above her. Myrna, the portly

woman who’d assessed them two nights before, glared through her spectacles. “More for the li-

brary.”

Water splashed as Emilie tossed the scrub brush into the pail and hustled to her feet. The

room tilted with a headache that made her vision splotchy. She gripped the table to steady her-

self, but it passed on as suddenly as it came. Dust floated in the light as Deena pulled drapes

from the windows and Myrna pulled books from the shelf.

No one had noticed.

Emilie grabbed the books, slid out the room, and leaned her back against the closed door.

Three headaches before noon; she couldn’t keep on like this.

Footsteps creaked on the stairs. Her eyes shot open. She made for the library, bumped

into Allen at the top of the stairs, but slid away before he could comment. She felt him watching

her until she turned the corner.

Pausing across from a Harvest Festival tapestry, she glanced back. Allen entered the

room with Myrna and Deena. The tension in her shoulders melted, and she turned for the library.

Books lined the walls, from the crown molding to the handwoven rug of jewel-toned

vines. She took a deep breath of wood pulp, leather, and ink. It was the most she’d allow herself

to enjoy the room, before placing the books onto the table and racing to the desk that sat before a

cold, empty fireplace.

“Come on.”


She rummaged through the drawers. Quills, inkwells, sheets of paper, shit. A cabinet

stood near the door, and she dashed for it. The drawers scraped and contents jumbled as she

searched. Under a pile of papers was a wooden box the size of her palm. She grabbed the box

and flipped it open.

A compass.

Sighing with relief, she pushed the drawer closed with her hip and studied the needle as it

bobbled. She’d been beginning to worry she’d never find one.

Lifting her dress skirt, she reached into a pouch she’d fashioned from a spare petticoat

and pushed past the flint, steel, and char cloth to pull out a rolled parchment. Returning to the

desk, she flattened a map of southeast Amonarr.

She laid the compass on it and inspected the two. There were plenty of stories in The

Travels of Ferdinand and Nandina about traveling by map and compass, but how did it work?

She didn’t even know what town she was in. She’d never been outside of Harbor Point.

Groaning, she reached back into her hidden pouch and took a swig from a flask of

whiskey—so far, the most useful of her contraband supplies. She wiped her mouth with the back

of her hand, embracing the warmth in her stomach, then stuffed everything back into the pouch.

She’d figure out the compass later. The immediate goal was to gather the rest of the things she

needed and escape.

She needed a cloak—a few were kept by the door. She already had a bundle of hard

cheese and smoked meat hidden in the pantry. She was making good progress, considering she’d

been held here less than two days.

Money. Leaning against the desk, she studied the cabinet by the door. She hadn’t seen

any, but what about something else? There was that set of silver magnifying lenses in the draw-


ers that could fetch a fair price in the right town. A lot lighter than a book, though the temptation

was strong.

She returned to the cabinet and opened the drawer again. The lenses sat atop a velvet-

lined box; she picked one up, judging its weight.

The door swung open. “Myrna said I should—”

Deena stilled as she came around the closing door, clutching a pile of books. Emilie

dropped her skirts, but hadn’t fully stuffed the lens in her pouch. It fell on the rug at her hem.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

Emilie inched the drawer closed behind her. “Putting something away.”

The girl stared, then frowned and turned for the door.

Books somersaulted to the ground as Emilie grabbed Deena by the hair and slammed her

into the cabinet with enough force to make it wobble. Denna yelped and squirmed under her

grasp until a knife touched her throat.

“Tell Myrna and you’re dead.”

“I wasn’t! I promise! I promise, please. Mother Myir, mother of dust and stars . . .” She

faded into unintelligible mumbling, eyes squeezed shut. A tear dripped off her chin and hit the

knife.

Emilie’s stomach rolled. What was she doing? She let the girl go and stood back. Deena

didn’t move, but she opened her eyes. One drifted to the center of the room; the other locked on

Emilie.

“How old are you?”

“S-s-sixteen.”


Myir’s sake, she was just a kid. When Emilie was sixteen, she’d been fresh out of the or-

phanage and working for Master Slim—reckless and stupid with her newfound freedom. Heat

flooded her cheeks. The knife was suddenly, unbearably heavy.

She stuffed the knife back into the folds of her dress. “I- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to star-

tle you. You don’t deserve this. Neither of us do, but you can’t tell Myrna.”

Deena nodded, holding her breath.

Emilie stepped closer, and Deena stiffened. “Look . . . I . . . I can help you escape, but

you have to keep your mouth shut.”

The girl nodded, a little steadier. “When?”

Why was she saying this? “Soon.”

“I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

She squeezed Deena’s hand. “I’m watching.”

Deena fluttered out, as quick as a bird, and the door closed with a click.

Emilie leaned against the dresser. She stared at the books scattered across the floor. Quiet

enveloped her, and she pinched the bridge of her nose. Why had she said that? Deena would only

slow her—and the girl might still tell. Stupid. But . . . Emilie couldn’t leave her, could she?

She stacked the books, stuffed the magnifying lens into her pouch, and slid into the hall.

She caught a glimpse of the rooftops through a window and, still trying to collect her nerves, ap-

proached the pane until static slowed her. Every door and window to the outside repelled her like

opposite ends of a magnet. Jearson must be trained in the Gift—and powerful, if he could create

splicer spells to hold her there while he was gone. She went as far as she could and looked out.

Rooftops stretched before her, yes, but rocky, grain-covered hills were in the distance.

There wouldn’t be much cover out there, but she had enough to worry about before then.


A glimmer caught her eye. A group of trainees with pikes were breaking for lunch in a

sun-filled alley.

She hugged her arms and leaned against the wall. How far had Eric and his regiment

marched? She hadn’t even asked to which area of the war he was going.

Then again, she'd still be safe in Harbor Point if not for him.

“Emilie!”

She jumped. It was Myrna, now downstairs. “There are more books!”

Deena hadn’t told. Yet, at least. Good girl.

She turned for the stairs—but doubled over as pain like a hatchet cracked her skull. Blood

pounded through her veins, until the ground fell from under her.

***

Emilie blinked at the bright light behind Myrna; her vision unsteady. They sat in the

kitchen, and she steamed in her heavy clothes. Emilie shook her head clear, and her eyes settled

upon the table between them. On it sat the map, compass, knife, steel, flint, char cloth, flask, and

magnifying lens.

Myrna leaned forward. Deena stood behind.

“You would have done us all a favor by snapping your neck on your way down the

stairs.” Myrna jabbed a finger on the table. “What do you have to say about this?”

Emilie shrugged.

“Deena, take her back to your room. Jearson will deal with her tonight.”


Deena watched her feet as she came forward and helped Emilie up. Shooting pain crum-

pled Emilie’s ankle beneath her, but Emilie yanked her arm free, gritted her teeth, and limped

out. Deena trailed behind.

Once in their room, she grabbed Deena and pulled her close. The girl shook her head, bad

eye wandering to the side. “Everything fell out, I promise.” She reached into her pocket, pressed

something into Emilie’s hand, and closed the door with a turn of the lock.

Emilie opened her palm—willow bark, for the pain. She laid on the bed with a crunch of

straw, stared at the ceiling, and chewed on the bark. There was nothing else to do until Jearson

arrived. She tried not to think about what her punishment might be.

***

The sunbeam had shifted across the room and turned from white to orange with the set-

ting sun. She hadn’t intended to fall asleep. Thankfully, the nightmare hadn’t returned.

The doorknob rattled, and Emilie shot up. So, something had woken her.

Do whatever it takes. Don’t play by the rules.

The door opened, and Allen filled its frame. The sunset streaked across his face. “Let’s

go.”

She stumbled on her ankle but stuffed back a groan—she wouldn’t give Allen that satis-

faction. He said nothing, but a mocking smile spread on his thin lips before he turned to lead her

to the library. The door closed behind her, with a click, as he left her there.


A fire sent flickering light across the shelves of books, and the scent of paper and ink was

alive with the warmth from the flames. Even from the other side of the room, the fire’s heat

seeped through her wool dress. She rubbed her thumb against her finger.

This must be Jearson, then, sitting at the desk. He was younger than she’d anticipated;

perhaps in his late thirties, he wore a dark goatee and a green silk vest, traced with gold thread. A

dark green crystal gleamed on a leather thong around his neck—also not what she’d anticipated.

Given the tests she’d done on the windows and doors, she had thought he’d have an opal. Then

again, the darkest of crystals were just as powerful as the lightest opals, particularly if their hold-

ers were trained.

He didn’t look up, instead opening a wax-sealed letter with a knife. Unsure what to do,

she stood, thumbnail now digging into her finger until the pain numbed. The fire sizzled. Papers

shuffled. Her breath resonated in her head. Still, he carried on. Had he noticed her at all? His

eyes traveled along the lines of the letter. He checked the back, then placed it down.

Brown eyes shone as his lips spread into a grin. “So, you’re the one.” His voice was a

velvet tenor. The chair scraped as he stood, came around the desk, and leaned against it—against

the same spot she had, earlier. He motioned to her. “Don’t be shy.”

They were alone. There were no windows. The door was behind her. She stepped forward

with heavy feet. Her ankle throbbed. He urged her closer until she was arm’s length away. She

stood tall and held his gaze, though her stomach squirmed.

Whatever it takes.

He cupped her chin in his warm hand, turning it from side to side. “I’ve never seen such

blue. And such sharp features. A little too sharp.” His hand dropped to the desk. “It’s as though

you’re made of stone, but you’re not, are you? I’m sure a smile would soften you. Let me see.”


She grinned past a clenched jaw.

Jearson smiled back, lines appearing at the corner of his eyes. “There you go. There’s no

reason to be so serious.”

His eyes trailed to the edge of the desk, where the magnifying glass reflected firelight off

its lens. He picked it up, rubbing a thumb over the oil-smeared fingerprints she’d left on it.

“My father gave this to me,” he said after a long while. “I was thirteen, a gift after going

through my Ascension. Pretty, isn’t it?” He held it out, as if for her to see, but brought it back

with a half-hearted chuckle. “All this around me I built, but this . . . this he gave me.” He put it

back on the desk with a thump, and his eyes turned to her.

She stared at the ground.

“Why would you take it? Without me, you’d be in prison right now. You might be dead.

Where would a Giftless girl like you even have to go?” The weight of his eyes pushed on her.

“Where were you going?”

She forced herself to look up. “Away.”

Jearson rubbed his thumb along his goatee, then his mouth. He stood next to her, facing

the door. He was tall, but not so much taller than her. “What’s your name?”

“Emilie.”

“I don’t want to punish you, Emilie. I’m going to take this as a misunderstanding. You

don’t know me, and, for that, I take responsibility. I was not here to welcome you to my home,

but I’d welcome the pleasure of getting to know you.” His fingers lifted her chin, and he pulled

her eyes to his. “Do we have an understanding?”

She nodded.


He traced his thumb along her jawline and lifted her mouth to his, breath sweet with

ooheet root.

Bren chewed ooheet root.

She stumbled back, batting him away and wincing as his nails scratched her chin.

Jearson rubbed where she’d hit his arm, eyes blinking and brow furrowed. “That was un-

called for.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“Touch you? You hit me!” He moved closer, and she backed away until she hit the desk.

His green crystal glowed, and static latched her down, like a sticky web she couldn’t escape.

No, no, no.

“Stay still. You’re making things worse.”

Her breath quickened. Behind her, papers shuffled under her hands; a book fell to the

floor; an unlit candlestick tipped over with a thump. Her fingers found something cool—the let-

ter knife. She gripped it, keeping it under the papers.

He shook his head and paced.

She could do this. It would take concentration, and it was risky, but she had no other

choice.

He stopped in front of her and stretched his fingers. “I could forgive you for trying to

leave, but I cannot forgive an attack—you either lack respect or are, plainly, stupid.”

She needed him closer.

Rearing back, she spat.


Jearson flinched as her saliva sprayed his eye and his mouth, marking a line down his

fine vest and dribbling on his chin. He reached to wipe it. “You uncivilized little—” He stepped

closer, hand raised to smack her.

Concentrate.

She sunk into her mind until time slowed. His crystal swung from the leather throng

around his neck, and she grabbed it with one hand while raising the knife with the other. It sliced

through the thick air, cut through the thong—and the static weaving her to the desk sizzled away.

She pushed him back, and his heel caught on the rug’s edge, causing him to fall with a thump

that reverberated through the floor.

The world returned to speed, and Emilie stood over him, pointing the knife at his chest in

one hand, holding his crystal in the other. Her pulse pounded. He moved to stand, but she used

the knife to push him back. They both struggled to catch their breath. The fire crackled.

She laughed—a nervous chuckle edging into a fit. He shifted, and she kicked him in the

ribs. It hurt her ankle, but she gritted her teeth and smiled at his groan. The bastard deserved it.

“Money.”

“I don’t have an—”

Her foot caught him in the gut, and he gasped. “Three dragons, you don’t!” Tears wet her

cheeks, and she hissed at the pain, but his crying was worth it. She kicked again, making a rib

crack. He moaned, pointing to the desk.

“. . . P-p-pouch.”

She snatched the small bag into her apron; the weight pulled on the fabric.

“You won’t get far.”


She kicked him in the face, and he spat blood and teeth. Before he could recover, she

threw his crystal to the back of the fireplace and sprinted for the door, ignoring his gurgled

shouts and the slam of a door. The stairs disappeared under her. The exit was just ahead. Her vi-

sion tunneled on it.

Please open, please open, please . . .

No force repelled her. A hand grabbed her apron, but the ties unraveled. Coins bounced

and rolled down the stoop stairs as Emilie raced into the dark.


CHAPTER FOUR

Fighting Words

The paper crinkled against Eric’s hand as he pushed it flat against the desk, then paused,

closing his eyes. Laughter wafted through the floorboards that vibrated with a low hum under his

feet, accompanied by the aroma of roasted goose, ale, and scalloped turnips. The tension in his

shoulders and neck melted like butter in a warm room—a room that had cost him far more than

reasonable, but it was worth it to be utterly, blissfully alone.

He took a deep breath, his sore neck popping as he stretched. How many years ago was

he last in the saddle? He counted backward. It would have been on his way back to Harbor Point

from his training in Domfast, two years ago. That had been a miserable trip, too, with wind slap-

ping splatters of grime across his face. He had to have looked similar when he paid for the room

earlier; the innkeeper had taken took one look at him and offered his dishrag. Eric had accepted

it, gratefully, not caring that the cloth smelled of flat ale.

He opened his eyes. Through the rippled glass of the window, he could see, on the other

side of the street, a stone townhouse. The last of the setting sun glowed off the windows.


“Jearson?” the man on the street had repeated after Eric, earlier that day, “Aye, he owns

that place there. Not in today, though.”

He’d gotten a glimpse of Jearson arriving on horseback, though, before he’d gone down

to eat. In the morning, he would confront him and learn if the man still had Emilie—or if Eric

needed to continue his search.

Eric looked at the map under his hand. Drawn by the innkeeper downstairs while Eric had

been eating, it was sufficient to offer a sense of what was nearby. Distances were written along

the lines connecting nearby villages and hamlets. Harbor Point was off the map to the southeast.

He pulled a stool forward to sit, but his body protested. Instead, he leaned both hands on

the desk and read the smudged writing of the nearby towns: Goldfield, Lunas, Bramble Hill . . .

Bramble Hill.

His finger paused on the script. Was he that close? He pulled away from the words, even

as he remembered the dusty porch overlooking fields of carrots, cabbage, and barley between

stone fences; the smell of his mother’s rabbit and parsnip stew; the sun against his cheeks; the

sounds of Rowan’s giggles as his father chased him between the rows of apple trees.

A loud bang in the street outside, followed by shouting, snapped Eric back. He glanced

out the window as someone bolted out the door of Jearson’s residence, leaving coins clinking

down the stairs. A shadow filled the doorway and shouted into the house.

His breath fogged the glass as he tried to get a clearer sight of the runner. A wave of

skirts bumped into a group talking by the inn’s entrance, and the clink of a metal cup hitting cob-

bles rang over their shouts. The runner disappeared from view.

The stool tipped over as Eric whirled away from the desk, grabbed his cloak from the

bed, slammed the door shut behind him, and thundered down the wooden steps. He pushed off a


corner to turn, leaving a wave of grumbling disagreements trailing behind as he forced his way

through the tavern folk.

He bumped into one of the men outside and grabbed his arms to steady them both.

“Where’d she go?”

The man pointed, too startled to say anything else.

Eric sprinted over the cobblestones, turning where the man had indicated, still fastening

the cloak around his neck. The clack of shoes hitting stone echoed up the walls, and he caught

another glimpse of the skirts. It had to be her—same height, same braid she always wore.

“Emilie!”

She must not have heard. She tripped and caught herself as she turned a corner. Was she

limping?

“Hey!”

He glanced over his shoulder. A shadow hunted him—the man from the doorway.

He ran faster. Whoever the man behind them was, he meant no good. Perhaps Eric should

run past where Emilie had turned to draw her pursuer away—but he didn’t know if the man had

seen her turn, as well, and what if he lost her? She’d disappear, and he’d never find her again.

He spun around the corner and ran smack into a barrel. It wobbled on its rim, and he

hissed as pain radiated up his knee. He hopped and began to pick up speed again, until he spotted

Emilie, slumped against the wall, hidden behind another barrel.

“Emilie!” He dropped to his knees and grabbed her. Loose hair from her braid covered

her face. He patted her cheeks. “Em? Emilie.”

Her head rolled, eyes closed. Her cheeks were pink, hot, and clammy with fever.


Racing footsteps echoed closer, and he glanced around. There was nothing here to help

him. The man’s shadow stretched on the cobbles and up the building.

He released the hold of his Gift and jolted with the raw force of it. Something—do some-

thing! He leaned over Emilie and pulled his cloak over them. His Gift crackled over the fabric,

and they took on the appearance of a pile of rags just as the man turned the corner.

A veil bleed? That was the best he could come up with?

The footsteps stopped.

He held his breath, veins throbbing against the cloak twisted tight around his neck. He

couldn’t have done a diversion strike? Cold sweat soaked the back of his shirt, and he pushed

back his self-chiding. Who knew how powerful this man was? Keeping his Gift focused on the

two of them was safer than bleeding or striking the man: wait to escape notice, rather than invite

trouble.

Boots pivoted right by his head, crushing sand and grit. Eric pulled toward Emilie; her

breath was warm against his arm.

More footsteps. New ones.

“They turned this way,” a voice whispered, then paused. “She got you good.”

“Filthy bitch.” The voice gurgled, thick with consonants falling down the issuing throat.

Eric cringed at the knot forming in his calf. One pair of boots shuffled away while an-

other moved closer.

He held his breath, waiting.

The boots rotated and marched away. He lay frozen until silence rang in his ears, then he

burst from the cloak, gasping as cool air drove away the heat. He grabbed Emilie by the shoul-

ders and rocked her. “Please.”


If the chill hadn’t already raised the hairs on his neck, this would have. Had her sickness

progressed this fast? Or had she lied about how severe it was?

It was likely the latter. He’d been too pushy with her—but if she didn’t take care of her-

self, who would?

He ran a hand through his hair and glanced up and down the street. He had to get his be-

longings and get her out of here, and fast.

***

The chilled dampness of something itchy nuzzled around her. A tickle rubbed her nose,

and she brushed it away, eyes still closed against a too-bright light. She felt out of place; a

headache radiated from her forehead to the spot behind her ears.

A rhythmic ripping grew louder, and her eyes shot open.

A horse tore into the spring grass with a fury, foaming green at the mouth and smelling of

saliva, soil, and onion. Nearby, a figure crouched like a monster silhouetted against the light. A

stiff, humid heat rose around it.

It shifted, and she stiffened.

A dagger glinted in the light. She sprang for it, tripping on her hem, but not before grab-

bing the blade. The monster barely had a chance. She hit its back, and they plunged into darkness

as the figure fell over the orange light. She forced its face into the grass, knife pointed against its

back.

Emilie panted, and her vision blurred. A heartbeat pounded against her hand, and the of

breath from the body beneath her raised the blade up and down. The horse skirted, snorting.


“Em. It’s okay. . . . It’s me.” The voice was muffled, as though coming from underwater.

She stared at the dagger in her hand—at the different leathers woven together. The lighter

one from lamb, and the darker one from elk . . .

By Myir. Her grip weakened, the blade tumbled from her hand, and she sat backward into

the grass.

The orange glow from a fire orb returned as Eric sat up off it and gripped her tight. His

cloak was warm against her cheek and smelled of horsehair, sweat, and dried rain—dusty, musty,

and comforting.

She’d almost killed him. Her stomach rolled, and she wiped her eyes on his cloak. His

face was inches from hers, and amber light draped over it, making his scar shine.

It’s okay. . . . He’s okay. The incident faded like a dream with each passing moment—a

horrible, terrifying dream.

He scooped away the wet on her cheek with a rough finger, and she leaned further back

in the grass, pulling a tangled blanket around her.

“Myir’s sake, Em. I really believed you were going to carve out my heart.”

She looked away. They were nestled between large boulders covered in lichen and brush.

A brook trickled nearby. Spring frogs peeped at its banks, while crickets chirped among the

grass. A fire orb glowed upon a small pile of rocks, and it cast everything around them in the un-

nerving, silent light that only those within its influence could see or feel. It was as though they

were in another world.

She glanced at Eric, processing what he had said. She had intended to cut his heart out.

Shame dripped down her neck. She was hot. Too hot.


She fought to get up, working against the blanket, her skirt, and overgrown grass. She

tripped and caught herself on a boulder. Her ankle throbbed, but she pushed on towards the run-

ning water behind the boulders.

Thankfully, Eric didn’t follow.

The bank of the stream sloped and the silty surface was even more agonizing to walk

across. She fell to her knees and gripped her hands into the icy, sodden sand.

She wasn’t sure how long she knelt there with her eyes closed. She let her thoughts wash

away with the trickle of the stream and the singing of frogs, until her mind became blank.

Highlighted by the moon, her reflection stared up at her—somewhere outside the city, be-

yond Jearson’s grip. Beyond Allen’s leers. Beyond Myrna’s scolds.

Deena . . . how could she have left her?

Well, she didn’t want to take the girl with her in the first place.

Had it been horrible, then, to give her false hope? Would she have taken Deena with her?

Or did Emilie wish she was the kind of person who would have taken her?

It didn’t matter. She was out, and Deena was still there. There was nothing she could do

for her, even if she wanted to . . .

The reflection of someone she could have been judged her from the waters surface.

There’s nothing I could have done!

She scooped up her reflection and splashed it on her face. . . . Three scrubby bushes. Five

black rocks. She sunk her fingers into the sand, and the grains lodged under her fingernails: a

million gains of sand.

She counted until she calmed, then wiped her hands and hobbled back. The light and

warmth of the fire orb enveloped her as she came around the boulder.


Eric opened his saddle pack. “You’re limping.”

Thank Myir he wasn’t going to bring up the knife incident. Grass crunched as she sat and

undid the laces to her shoe—a much finer shoe than she’d ever owned, plain as it was. She gri-

maced. He did, too, as she rolled down her sock. The skin was blue and swollen like a late sum-

mer blueberry.

He pulled a jar from the bag. “I have something that can help.”

“No. I’m fine. It’s fine.” She pulled the sock back on. He couldn’t slather any of those

Gifted pastes on it with the sock covering it.

His face went blank. He dumped the jar back into the pack and jerked on its tie to close it.

“How did it happen?”

“I fell. Do you have anything to drink?” A flask leaned against the log he sat on; she

grabbed it from him, inhaled the peaty scent of the whiskey, and downed it.

“Do you know how long you were out?”

She wiped her mouth and stared at the motionless glow of the fire orb. Long enough for

him to drag her limp ass out of town and set up camp, that much was evident.

“Two hours, Emilie. Two hours.” He plucked a blade of grass. “You didn’t tell me you

were this sick.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I found you in a ditch.” He ripped the blade into small pieces that fluttered to the

ground. “People who take care of themselves don’t end up in ditches. Who knows what would

have happened if I wasn’t there. Those two men weren’t pleased—”

“Are you looking for praise? Oh, why, thank you, Lord Campbell. Whatever would I do

without your constant assistance?” She took another swig, and he grabbed the flask away.


“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

He set the flask down. “Doing everything you can to make me not want to help.” He

ripped up another blade of grass.

“I didn’t ask for your help, and if you’d never forced yourself into my business, I would

never’ve been captured.”

“If I hadn’t forced myself into your business, you would never’ve gotten help.”

She scoffed, shoved off the blanket, and stood. She didn’t need his parenting, and she

didn’t need him making decisions for her. Ignoring her ankle, she stormed to the far end of the

campsite.

He leapt to his feet after her. “I’m starting to think you’re sabotaging yourself on pur-

pose.”

She turned, fists clenched. “And why do you care?”

“Why do I care?”

“You couldn’t care less about my business for nine years, and you expect everything to

go back to the way it was before?”

He paled; the words hit where she’d wanted.

“I thought we were past this. I’ve told you I’m sorry.” He squeezed his eyes. “I’m trying

to make up for it, and I’m trying to help you.”

She stepped up, inches from his face. “You’re not doing this to help me. You’re doing this

for yourself.” She poked him in the chest. “To make yourself feel better. You’re selfish.”

He stared down his hawkish nose at her. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”


“Saying anything you can to hurt me.”

Her ears pounded as she held his glare. She could feel the heat radiating off his flushed

skin, see his veins straining in his neck, and smell the salt in the sweat beading at his temples.

She’d be damned if she looked away first. The call of peeper frogs swelled, and the horse

grabbed a loud mouthful of grass.

His jaw worked, then his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes narrowed. “Perhaps

this is all about me. Perhaps I’ve so royally screwed up that you refuse my help out of spite.

Would you let someone else protect you from yourself? Perhaps you’d have been kinder to Curt

or Randi. Or should I drag your ass over to Bren? You’re quite warm to him.”

Eric heard the smack of her hand across his face before he realized what happened. He

pressed the hot sting. His lip stung, too. Stunned, he turned back.

She stood rooted to the spot, skin flush in the orange light, and shaking. “I didn’t have a

choice.”

They stood, breathing heavy, as the sound of frogs filled the void between them. Her face

morphed into a look he couldn’t interpret. She moved her lips as though to speak again, but in-

stead, she glared, grabbed the flask by the log, and laid at the edge of the light with her back to

him.

His knees wobbled as she downed more whiskey. Fine. Let her. Apparently, his care for

her was selfish.

He grabbed his blanket, laid on the grass, and threw his head against his pack to face the

stars.


Selfish. He huffed, trying to push the look she’d given him before turning away out of his

mind. Selfish. His cheek throbbed, and his mother’s voice rang in his head: “Don’t shoot arrows

at someone who wants to shoot them back at you.” She’d say that after every fight with Rowan.

He’d gotten so much better at controlling his temper; how could Emilie always do this to him?

Because, when she fought, she flung his deepest fears and ugliest truths back in his face.

He was selfish.

Eric hugged himself and rolled to his side. The last moments of their fight flashed over,

and over; had her eyes looked glossy? The memory was already fuzzy. He hadn’t paid attention.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

He shot up. “Emilie? What do you mean, you didn’t have a choice?”

Her shoulders stiffened around her neck. The hum of crickets and frogs rose, but she re-

mained silent.

“She’s quite the minx. Feisty, if you like it that way . . .”

Oh, Eric, you stupid shit. How could he have been so blind? What else had he not no-

ticed?

Emilie never responded, and they both lay in silence as even the frogs drifted to sleep.

***

The first blush of dawn outlined the boulders as the dew settled, birds chatted, and, way

off in the distance, a rooster crowed. It was so loud. Emilie closed her eyes, and her head spun.

Had she slept at all?

Metal clacked, and leather groaned. Eric was tacking up and whispering to the horse.


Self-righteous, controlling, vindictive bastard. Her fists clenched. Her stomach rolled.

Boots crunched on grass, followed by clanking in a bag. She squeezed her eyes shut as he

approached. She didn’t want to talk to him. She didn’t even want to know he existed right now.

“When you’re ready, chew on this. It will help your hangover.”

She waited until he was well away before opening her eyes. A white, shriveled root sat on

the grass in front of her. It tasted of nutty, grassy sod as she chewed it, and the fibers lodged be-

tween her back teeth.

“We’ll leave when you’re ready.”

She didn’t even want to hear him.

It wasn’t long before the root settled her stomach, and she could turn her head without the

ground turning with her. Why did it have to work so quickly? She hadn’t heard Eric in a while—

just birdsong and the swish of the horse’s tail. He was waiting on her, and as soon as she got up,

he’d start on her again. “Self-sabotaging yourself.” “Protect you from yourself.” “What do you

mean you had no choice?”

Fine. She knew what to say to make him hurt, too. Controlling her vertigo, she sat up.

Eric sat on the log, the horse sniffing his hair as he ate a piece of cheese. “There’s

sausage and cheese in that pack there,” he nudged the horse’s muzzle away, “if you’re inter-

ested.”

She glanced at the pack—something to look at that wasn’t him—but she wasn’t hungry.

Instead, she rolled up the blanket and tried to pretend she was safe in her loft above Master Ray-

mond’s shop.

“Master Raymond . . .”


“They released him when you didn’t show up at Mensfield,” he said, slicing his cheese

with his knife.

A grip let go of her chest. She hadn’t completely ruined his life. She leaned to grab the

flask. It was empty.

Eric put his knife away and continued packing. The light of the fire orb faded as he

stuffed it in a sack, followed by his rolled blanket and a book . . . and another book. He’d had

three books out. She’d thought she’d heard pages turning in the middle of the night. Why would

he risk traveling with his books? They were the only things he still had of his father’s. He kept

them in a basket near the door, in case there was a fire. Untold horrors could happen to them

while traveling, and Eric had fits if a page was bent.

There was only one reason he would risk traveling with them: he wasn’t going back to

Harbor Point.

“Eric . . . what are you doing here?”

He was on the other side of the horse tying a pack to the saddle. “I don’t think I can an-

swer that without starting another argument.”

“You can’t be here. What are you doing here? You’re drafted!”

“Please, don’t lecture me.”

“You can be hanged for this! If they find you—”

“We’ll just have to make sure they don’t find me.”

“Eric—”

“What’s done is done. There’s nothing we can do about it now.”

He’d just submitted himself to a life of fear in the shadows, and for what? Her sake? She

was going to throw up.


“Are you ready?” Everything was either on the horse or on his back.

“Where are you going?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I know a monk, two days ride from here, who is sympa-

thetic to illegals. That’s where I’m going.” His hand fell to point at her ankle. “I don’t expect

you’ll get far like that, so you’re welcome to the horse. But the horse comes with me.”

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