Page 43 of The Lure of Wolves and Whispers

“I’ve known him since we were children,” the first voice sneers. “I can get him to do whatever I want. Whateverwewant.”

Bodies shift in the alcove, and Aoife yanks me deeper into the shadows.

My breath catches, and the blur of a young woman with raven hair storms past. A long moment later, a second emerges from the alcove. Tall, with reddish-gold hair, and the bent shoulders of someone already exhausted by a battle that’s barely begun.

Neither of us moves.

Not until their footsteps disappear, and the tense crackle of torch wicks snap and pop.

Aoife takes a shaking breath, finally stepping out of the shadows.

“Andthat,” she says, voice trembling, “was Oona of House Dunluce. Her father’s the High King’s third cousin, and she’s the favorite in the bets being placed so far. She’s… lethal.”

A sneaking fear climbs up my spine. “Would she support Cymrea?”

“Her family’s estate is right in the thick of the nobles who rebelled in the uprising. Cymrean mercenaries kept the dissent from spreading to hers, and the High Queen apparently helped strike a deal that wouldn’t bankrupt Dunluce. Oona’s family never would’ve been able to afford the mercenaries otherwise.” Aoife glances up at me. “So, the short answer is yes.”

Part of me is afraid to ask for the long answer.

The scope of what I’m walking into bears down heavily on the back of my neck. Every whispered stitch of information I manage to gather only seems to pull apart the tapestry I’m fighting to weave in my mind. The more I learn, the more the edges fray.

To make it worse, the noble daughters here aren’t just the foolish girls I always imagined them to be, fighting over a prince’s heart and a crown. They’reruthless. And cunning. And desperate to secure their families’ positions, willing to do whatever it takes to be the one who survives. And if the Assay is shifting into a bigger battle between those who support annexation by Cymrea and those who recognize the threat the Cymreans pose to Eireann and any hope for a better future…

A suffocating weight claws into my shoulders.

The world is shifting under my feet. I can feel it, even if I can’t name all the ways the world will look different one month, six months, or a year from now. But the grim certainty that change is coming lights the marrow of my bones, quick and sharp.

My breath comes fast and shallow until a dangerous—and admittedly, wild—idea slithers into my mind.

What if while I’m here, I could remove the High Kingandthe noble daughters who support Cymrea’s annexation plans? Even if I’m determined to survive the Assay without having to marry Prince Cashel at the end of it, theremustbe some way. Maybe taking out those who would hurt Eireann will make all of this worth it in the end. Maybe killing them all would buy more time for the Whisperers to gather another uprising.

That has to be why they want the High King dead, surely—and to replace him with a leader who would let the mages bring magic to Eireann.

For the first time since I got here, the ground feels a little more solid beneath me.

I arch a brow at Aoife, who watches me carefully from the flickering torchlight dancing along the walls. “After you.”

TWELVE

Steam hits me in the face like a wall.

The smell of it is so familiar, so much like the mist of Quayside that my heart flares, and for a second I can’t breathe.

Home.

The memory is like a physical pain, blooming behind my ribs and swelling, as Aoife leads me through a set of doors to where tiled floors split off in two directions.

“The men’s baths are that way,” she says, gesturing to the left. “Women’s are this way. We can all choose the one that fits us best.”

An attendant at the end of the women’s hall smiles a little too brightly. She sets me on edge, even though all she does is offer me a towel.

Everything in me tenses, scanning for danger.

The Assay’s first test hasn’t started yet, but could someone try to kill me even now?

Stripping down, I wrap the towel around myself and try to ignore the empty feeling where my blades should be against my skin.

More than a few eyes follow us from the women’s baths, whispers in their wake.