Page 7 of The Lure of Wolves and Whispers

My sister pulls her fingers back with a sigh and shivers, too. “Then let’s get going.”

Officially, Finn’s partner, Keeva, sells herbs.

But behind the baskets of yellow rock rose petals from the western cliffs and wild thyme and hickory from the southern valleys are the kinds of tinctures no one ingests by choice—concoctions so lethal and so discreet that even members of the High King’s inner circle turn to her for help disposing of rivals that shine a little too brightly.

The Lady of Shadows has even been known to stop by personally when Keeva brings in an unusual poison. Shards of the elusive ore cinnabar, capable of driving a person mad. Or rarely, the creatlach that causes excruciating death; even poisoners fear it in high-enough doses.

Each time, the royal spymaster pays in gold coin and promises of immunity from the snooping reach of the gardai. And each time, she leaves a little more terror in her wake.

Keeva never lets us anywhere near when she knows the royal spymaster might come calling. It’s like she thinks keeping us a secret can keep us safe. She might’ve barely known our mother, but they would’ve gotten along.

Secrets are your greatest shield,my mother used to whisper between hums of a lullaby so faint I can hardly remember it. The words always slip from my mind each time I grasp for them in the loneliest hours of the night.

The defiant, aching melody, though—that haunts me still.

Just like her screams when the gardai came for her.

They’d razed the Martyr’s old temples when the uprisingcollapsed five years ago, ripping the mages and apprentices from their posts. It wasn’t the first time the High King ordered raids on the temples that sang for the Martyr. Ever since he’d banished her, they’d hunted anyone who called for her return and for the rise of a new king who would let her restore Eireann’s magic.

As if that was even possible.

But after the uprising backed by the mages and a handful of noble families, the gardai’s brutality turned monstrous. I guess it didn’t help that two of the High King’s children from the new High Queen died during the chaos of those months and her Cymrean allies blamed the mages and the rebels.

So, the High King banned all magic. He executed whatever mages he could find, and wiped out the nobles behind the uprising. Then he named his only surviving child as his heir.

The one all of Dyfflin calls the Bloody Prince.

Just the name sends ice curling down my spine, as if he might find us even here.

The warm, simple scent of soda bread wafts out from a window cracked open to the cold mist as I follow Finn through the lanes. My stomach growls, and she elbows at my side. “Don’t tell me you skipped breakfast again.”

“I didn’t skip it,” I protest. “I forgot. And I was a tiny bit busy worrying you might be food for crows on the Black Quay.”

“You’re never going to pack on the muscle you need for hand-to-hand fighting or a real sword if you don’t eat more.” Finn taps a finger along the thick ridge of muscles down her arms, then ruffles my dark hair. Tangles wisp along the edge of my face where they’ve escaped from my long braid. “I love you, but you’re shit in a fist fight. Well, unless it’s knives. But your enemies won’t alwaysgive you a chance to draw a blade. You need to be able to take blows and give them back twice as hard.” Her eyes darken, turning serious. “One day, your life might depend on whether you’re willing to get your hands bloody.”

I arch a brow. “What kinds of enemies do you think I’m going to make?”

It’s not like I’m going to enter the Assay.

There’s a strange look in Finn’s dark gaze—like she wants to say more but swallows it down. “Trust me, Maeve. You don’t need to make enemies. Most of the time, they findyou.”

A long beat of silence stretches out between us.

How am I supposed to respond to that? I’m not fierce or strong like Finn, or brutal like our father, or brave and bold like our mother always was. Isurvive. It’s what I do best.

Finn coughs and brings a hand to her side again. When I reach out for her, she pins me in place with a look.

“Don’t skip meals. It’ll make you weak. And if you eat breakfast every day from now till your birthday in four weeks, I might just find it in my cold, shriveled heart to splurge on a sword we haven’t stolen from our father.”

The gleam of the short sword at her side is too tantalizing to ignore.

I roll my eyes. “Okay,Mother.”

The word is out before I even think about it, and regret rips at the scar of grief behind my ribs—the one I thought I learned to live with years ago.

Finn’s eyes squeeze shut.

I reach out a shaking hand and fight the wedge tightening in my throat. “I didn’t mean—”