I freeze.Ten silvers! Ten!
I hate that the promise ofsilveris making me consider this.
But if my father has already embroiled us in …whateverthis is … the damage is already done. And if she’s willing to paymeinstead ofhim, there’s a chance I can earn enough to pay off the tax collector. At least I can make sure the silver doesn’t go right into the pocket of the local brewer.
My heart is pounding, but I take the folded parchment. “How often has my father done this for you?”
“Often enough.”
“And you trust him?”
She laughs softly. “Of course not. I don’t trust you either. But there is nothing in that message that can be traced back to me. And who would believe a crippled blacksmith over a well-respected governess from one of the Royal Houses?”
I bristle, but she’s already turned away.
I think of Callyn and little Nora, who are probably thinking of splitting a boiled egg for their supper, just so they don’t waste something they could use for the bakery. I consider the way Callyn stormed into the barn this morning, her ax swinging, her eyes full of torment and desperation.
She’d pass this message without hesitation if it meant a chance to save her farm. Cal wouldn’t stoop to treason, but she has as much reason to hate magic as anybody.
The Crystal Palace is a long way off anyway. No one there cares about us, or about Briarlock—not any more than we care about their political intrigues. What’s one little note?
I slide my fingers along the parchment, feeling the grooves in the wax seal.
Ten silvers.Whatever is inside this parchment must beveryimportant. I look at the mud clinging to the hem of the lady’s richly embroidered skirts, at the jeweled rings encircling her fingers. I consider the way she curled her lip at the state of my leg.
“Lady Karyl,” I say. “I am not my father.”
She turns back, and her eyes seem to darken. “So you will not do as I have asked?”
“Oh no, I will.” I hold up the note between two fingers. “But my father is a lazy drunk. If you want this crippled blacksmith to help you out, it’s going to cost you twice as much.”
CHAPTER 3
TYCHO
No matter how many times I make the journey from Ironrose Castle in Emberfall to the Crystal Palace in Syhl Shallow, the sight of the guard station in the mountain pass always makes my heart skip. It means I’m only a few hours from home. The sun beats down, stealing some of the chill from the air, melting the snow that must have fallen overnight. It’s turned the road to a slushy mess, but my mare has always been sure-footed, and today is no different.
I can—and do—make this ride in an easy four days, but this time it feels interminable. I’ve been at Ironrose Castle for six weeks, and I’m not usually gone so long. I miss home. My saddlebags are packed with gifts from Prince Rhen and Princess Harper, trinkets and toys and jewels intended for the royal family in Syhl Shallow, the public reason for my journey.
Tucked safely behind the breastplate of my armor is the real reason: a folded packet of reports from the Grand Marshals in Emberfall, detailing the movements of the Truthbringer faction and the warnings of violence.
They’ve spread more deeply into Emberfall than Grey suspected.
King Grey. Even now, it’s hard to reconcile. When we first met four years ago, we worked side by side as stable hands. I was fifteen and he was twenty—and he was hiding from his birthright as the true heir to the throne. Instead of ruling a country, he was shoveling manure and teaching me to hold a sword.
Now he doesn’t hide from anyone, but his position as king and the magic in his blood makes him a target. When rebels forced their way into the Crystal Palace, they killed guards and soldiers in their efforts to get to the royal family. It was too sudden, too overwhelming. The king was forced to unleash his magic, and it led to a lot of deaths on all sides.
Both countries are said to be united, but that doesn’t mean the people feel that way.
A horn sounds through the valley, indicating I’ve been spotted by the guard station. At the upper level, one of the guards stands in the turret, looking down at me through a spyglass. There are longbow archers up there, too, but they’re well hidden. I sit down in the saddle, drawing Mercy to a slow trot, then put two fingers between my teeth and whistle my pattern to them. The mare jerks at the reins, as eager as I am, prancing sideways as I wait for the guards to wave me through.
I rub a hand under her black mane and she settles, champing at the bit.
“Me too,” I murmur to her.
“King’s Courier!” the guard shouts in Syssalah, and they begin to roll the gates. It’s not my first language, but like the guard station, hearing it is a reminder that I’m almost home.
Another man joins the first on the turret, and I recognize him. Captain Sen Domo. I lift a hand to wave.
