I would gladly beg if it meant finding my brothers. Even if it meant shedding what little pride I had left. But begging would be futile. Mrs. Dainan would see me and take the coin away.
That little voice dug deeper.So you’ll rob him.
Yes. If that was what it took to find my brothers, I would do just about anything.
Dusk took its time to arrive, with shadows falling over the inn and the burnished light of sunset filtering through the cracks in the narrow corridors.
While everyone was eating dinner, I hauled my mop and a bucket up the creaky steps to the guest rooms to wash the floors and change the lantern candles. My last chores before I could take my own meal and end the day with sleep.
I saved the sentinel’s room for last. Mrs. Dainan had given him the best chamber, which didn’t mean much: only that he had a window that faced the water, a teapot that didn’t leak, and a stool that didn’t wobble when one sat on it.
Usually I kept the door open while I worked. But tonight I closed it. Firmly.
Gathering my courage, I began to search his room.
The sentinel hadn’t brought much. His cupboard was empty, and he’d kept his sword at his side—likely his money too. But I didn’t need much. Just enough to buy my passage south.
On the clothing rack hung his bow. It looked expensive, carved of the finest birch and painted a deep, rich blue. But I wasn’t foolish enough to try and sell a sentinel’s weapons.
His cloak, however, folded up neatly on his cot, was a different story. Sadly, it was more ragged and torn than it’d looked. Holding in a sigh of frustration, I shoved my hands into its pockets. Nothing inside.
I spun, ready to give up—until I saw he’d left behind his knapsack, in a shadowed corner. Unexpected, for a man who seemed so careful.
The contents of the knapsack confirmed my judgment of his character: there was a gourd for water, a copper tinderbox, a bundle of muslin with a fine bone needle and a knot of thread, extra woolen socks, and an excessive number of books. There were volumes on poetry and classical painting and history. And there was the sketchbook I’d seen him with earlier—filled with drawings of mountains and crescent boats on a river, and a little girl with pigtails holding a rabbit. The art was pleasing, but I was here for makans, not paintings.
Then…at the bottom…something soft…
It was the slipper I’d been wearing when Raikama cursed me! The one I’d thrown into the sky after I thought I saw my brothers.
The slipper was little more than a rag, yet I would have recognized it anywhere—the bright pink silk, the finely embroidered cranes, the stains from grass and pebbled road. I held this last remnant of my past and wondered about the sentinel. How did he come across this?
Curious to know more, I dug deeper into his bag. In one of the side pockets were two thin blocks of wood, tied to hold something that was clearly important.
I grabbed it.
My fingers worked quickly, unraveling the cord. Between the blocks were the remains of a scroll. My brow furrowed with confusion. A letter in A’landan?
I opened it wider, wishing I’d paid more attention to my language tutors. Unlike Kiata, whose mainland and many islands had been united for millennia, A’landi was an enormous country divided into dozens of contentious states. Our faiths and traditions overlapped in many ways, but that didn’t mean I could read the language fluently.
Thankfully, the message was simple:
Your Excellency,
Four Breaths appears an elegant solution, but I fear it is no longer necessary—
Four Breaths? I frowned. I’d heard of the poison before. Its recipe was a secret among only a handful of the most skilled assassins, highly prized because even its smell was noxious—putting its victim into a deep sleep. When ingested, though, it was deadly.
Someone had once tried to send Raikama a sachet of incense laced with Four Breaths, but she’d detected it almost immediately, earning Father’s admiration.
“It smells sweet,” she had taught my brothers and me. “Like honey. Assassins will always mask the scent. And they use very small doses, for the poison leaves gold traces on the skin when inhaled, and blackens the lips when drunk.”
Thinking back, it was no shock that a snake like Raikama had a talent for discerning poisons. If only we had known.
I returned my attention to the letter. A section of the middle was ripped out, dried blood staining the edges, but another fragment remained at the bottom of the message:
The princess and her brothers are gone from the palace. I will meet you and the Wolf, as agreed, to discuss our next course of action.
A shiver raced down my spine. Who was the Wolf, and what did he want with my brothers and me? I put the letter back between the blocks of wood, certain I had come across some dark scheme to hurt my father—and Kiata. Could that be why Raikama had cursed my brothers and me? To strip my father of his defenses and leave the kingdom vulnerable toattack?
