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- Herausgeber: Pushkin Children's Books
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
The heart-stopping, epic sequel to Blade of Secret by bestselling YA fantasy sensation Tricia Levenseller"Exciting, romantic, and filled with magic... a book you'll want to read right away- and then reach for that sequel" JODI MEADOWS, co-author of My Lady Jane, on Blade of SecretsEighteen-year-old Ziva may have defeated a deadly warlord, but the price was almost too much. Ziva is forced into a breakneck race to a nearby city with the handsome mercenary, Kellyn, and the young scholar, Petrik, to find a magical healer who can save her sister's life.But the plan goes awry and Ziva and Kellyn are captured by an ambitious prince. Once again, Ziva is forced to use her powers for sinister purposes, magicking dangerous weapons meant for world domination.The forge, once her safe space from anxiety, is now Ziva's prison - and she's not sure how much she'll need to sacrifice to keep herself and Kellyn alive.
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For my fellow warriors who battle with social anxiety every day, You matter. I see you. Keep fighting. There is so much good to come.
“I have found it is the small things, everyday deeds of ordinary folk, that keeps the darkness at bay. Simple acts of kindness and love.”
— Gandalf,
The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey
CONTENTS
CHAPTERONE
We don’t have time for this.
There’s a fallen tree in the road, blocking our access to the bridge ahead.
I glance down to my sleeping sister, noting the red dotting her lips as another wheezing breath turns into a cough. I turn Temra onto her side to prevent her from choking on her own blood. We’re keeping her unconscious with a tincture so she doesn’t jostle her wounds and make them worse. The stitches at her arm no longer seep blood, but the slice to her side nicked a lung. Blood continues to ooze in, which is the reason for her labored breathing.
She’s fading away before my eyes, and we’re still days away from reaching the magically gifted healer residing in Skiro.
My murderous gaze lands on Kymora, the warlord tied up only a few feet away from me in the cart. She is the reason for Temra’s current condition, and if my sister dies, no force in the world can stop me from what I will do to her.
Kellyn stands from the driver’s bench, removes the scabbard from his back, and unsheathes the longsword I magicked for him.
“What is that for?” Petrik asks. “You can’t hack your way through.”
“Quiet. Slip into the back with Ziva. Keep your heads down.”
The scholar does as told, and I scan the surrounding trees, finally registering the danger we’re in.
Our party is small, and only three of us are trained fighters: my unconscious sister; Kymora, who is wounded, bound, and going to stay that way; and Kellyn, a mercenary for hire, who is somehow still tagging along after our group despite the fact he’s no longer being paid.
The latter is impossibly still, his eyes peeled for danger.
A company of men rushes up from the slope to the river, staffs and clubs held loosely in their grips. Petrik’s breath hitches, and I hover protectively over my sister.
The newcomers stop a mere ten feet away.
“Hi, friends,” one of the men calls out. He’s a big fellow, though not as big as Kellyn. He’s got a rounded sort of muscle about his gut and hands big enough to palm a horse. His club drags along the ground as he walks ever closer toward our cart. His eyebrows have grown into one straight line of hair.
“We want no trouble,” Kellyn says. “One of our party is sick. We seek help in the capital.”
The eight men behind the leader grunt, loose grins upon their faces.
“That’s good. We want no trouble ourselves. We’re here to offer our services, see. Fifty ockles and we’ll help you move this here trunk off the road.”
Since one of the men is not so subtly gripping an ax over one shoulder, it’s not hard to guess their game.
“That’s a problem, because we haven’t any money,” Kellyn replies.
The club-toting leader uses his pinkie finger to clean out one of his ears. “I must have heard you wrong, friend. Sounded to me like you said you didn’t have any money. Now, who travels to see a healer and doesn’t carry any money with them? The price just went up to seventy-five ockles for our generous assistance.”
It feels as though I’ve got a family of worms wriggling within my gut. I hate confrontations, but my anger and fierce need to protect my sister supersede all else.
I stand. “My sister doesn’t have long. Let us pass. We’ve truly no money. The healer is a friend of ours. We’re not paying for her services.”
A different man comes forward, his staff clopping the ground in front of his feet. He peers into the back of the cart, and Petrik shifts with his movements, keeping himself between Temra and the danger. “Your sister might as well be dead. You needn’t be in a hurry.”
I try to force the bandit’s fatal diagnosis to roll right off me, but I feel as though I’ve been punched in the gut.
He doesn’t know about the magical healer. She’s not beyond saving, I remind myself. There’s still hope.
“Devran,” the bandit continues, “they’ve got a woman tied up back here!”
The leader, Devran, tsks. “That’s not very nice.” He curves around the cart to get a better look at Kymora. “She got a bounty on her head? If so, we’d be happy to take her off your hands.”
They absolutely cannot take Kymora. She’s our bargaining chip. We need to turn her in to clear the bounty on our own heads. We’re hoping her capture will endear Prince Skiro to us and convince him to let us use his healer.
And we need to be moving. Right now!
“Move back,” Kellyn says, “and let us pass. I won’t say it again.”
Devran sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, looks around at our small party. “You’ll pardon us if we don’t take your word regarding that money. Lads, give ’em a thorough search. And if they don’t have anything on ’em, we’ll just be taking the horses and that sword.” He points to Kellyn’s longsword, Lady Killer. “It’s real pretty.”
Nine versus Kellyn, Petrik, and me.
We’ve certainly faced worse odds.
“It’s going to be okay,” I whisper to Temra, even though she probably can’t hear me.
I jump over the side of the cart and right myself. The man nearest me takes a step back.
“Whoa,” he says as he looks up at me.
Yes, up. I’ve always been taller than most men, reaching just over six feet. Normally, I hate my height. It makes me the object of constant staring and commentary. But right now, I like the way the brigand is looking at me. Like he’s intimidated.
His eyebrows lift when I pull my twin hammers out from my belt.
I may not be a trained fighter, but I am a trained smithy, and there’s nothing I know how to do better than swing a hammer.
Kellyn leaps down beside me, in front of my sister’s side of the cart. I watch as Kymora holds her hands out to Petrik, a silent plea to release her. I can help, her face says.
But Petrik wordlessly grabs a long metal pole from inside the cart and joins us. It was once used as a cart axle, but now it’s a magicked staff.
“Friends,” Devran says, “you’re outnumbered, and my men will be far more gentle if you put down your weapons. There’s no need for anyone to lose their heads today.”
“I can take them,” Kellyn says to me, “if you’d rather wait in the cart.”
“If I’d wanted to wait in the cart, I’d be in the cart.”
“Okay.” His response is quiet, but I don’t feel bad for snapping at him. Everything Kellyn says these days seems to set me off.
Devran listens to the exchange with amusement. “Maybe you got the wrong idea about us because we’re being so polite. But you realize we’re brigands and we’re going to use force to rob you if need be?”
“We’re aware,” I respond. “It’s you who has the wrong idea by believing we’re easy pickings.”
And I charge forward with my left hammer extended.
It’s magicked, of course, like everything I’ve ever made. This one works as a shield, an invisible barrier between me and any oncoming enemies. And should anyone approach me with force? The weapon rebounds on them.
The first brigand plants his legs and raises his club to ward me off, but I plow him down and step right over the top of him before charging onto the next fellow. He retreats several feet after seeing me trample his friend, before finding his nerve.
He sidesteps me, swings toward me with his staff. I fling my left hammer outward, catch the blow on the invisible shield, and the man falls on his rump from the strength of the magical rebound.
With the swing of my right hammer, which doesn’t have a lick of magic within it, I cave in his skull.
That’s two down. Seven remain, staring at me like they’ve seen some mystical creature fall from the sky.
“Let us pass,” I insist once more.
Flecks of red paint my fingertips. Blood and brain matter and Goddesses know what else. My stomach rolls over.
I’ve no taste for violence, but I’ll do it to protect those I love. Even when it horrifies me.
Devran hefts his club in two hands. “Charge!”
I let Petrik and Kellyn handle the rest, preferring to stay near Temra in case I’m needed.
Lady Killer, Kellyn’s beloved longsword, was magicked especially for the purpose of taking on multiple foes at once. Though Devran’s men surround Kellyn, the mercenary grins as they approach him.
He dodges a swinging club from the left, strikes out toward the right, thrusting the tip of his sword into another man’s gut.
Lady Killer encourages him to spin, nudging him in the right direction, and Kellyn just misses the tip of a staff jabbing where he once stood.
Three weapons swing toward him at once, and Kellyn bends backward in half, swinging Lady Killer in a wide arc to deflect every strike.
Petrik stands close to the wagon still, but that’s only because his weapon works better from afar. He casts the metal staff, which twirls end over end until it makes contact with one of the brigands. He wears no armor, and I hear ribs crack before the staff flies back toward Petrik, the magic causing it to return to the caster, always.
Five left.
Kellyn and Petrik wheedle down their numbers until only Devran and one of his men remain.
The extra man flees while Devran stares at us in wonder. “Who are you people?”
Kellyn Derinor, the mercenary.
Petrik Avedin, the scholar.
Ziva Tellion, the bladesmith.
Our relationships with each other are more complicated than ever. But we’re willing to fight, each and every one of us, to protect the other. Our adventures together have bonded us through blood.
Another cough comes from the wagon, and I’ve no choice but to wipe my hands on my own pants before climbing in to see to Temra.
“We’re travelers in a hurry,” Petrik answers, “and you’ve kept us long enough.” He throws the staff, catches Devran at the temple, and the leader goes down in a heap of limbs. Petrik runs after the bandit who fled.
I pull my sister’s hair away from her lips, trying to keep it from the blood gathering at her mouth. I look over my shoulder, about to throw another hateful glare at Kymora.
But there’s no one else in the cart.
I blink several times, as though that will conjure the warlord.
“Kellyn!” I shout.
When Temra’s fit subsides, I lower her gently to the floor once more and leap over the other side of the cart, where the cut ropes dangle.
Once my feet hit the ground, they’re pulled out from under me. My hands catch most of my weight as I hit the ground.
I flip over to find the warlord under the wagon. She rolls out, clambers atop me, and jabs the flat of her arm against my throat. I claw at her face, try to roll the woman off. My lungs search for air that won’t come.
And then Kellyn is there, hauling her away.
Kymora elbows him in the gut, and Kellyn bends in half as the air leaves him. I roll up onto my legs as she begins to flee. For a woman with a shattered knee, she limps along at an impressive pace, as though she doesn’t feel pain.
I race after her, grabbing for my hammers once more. On anyone else, it might be excessive, but Kymora is the most fearsome warrior in the whole of Ghadra. She intends to overthrow all the royals, to subject all to her rule. In our last fight, it took Kellyn, Petrik, and me working together with our magicked weapons just to bring her down.
This woman who brought my sister to death’s doorstep. Who made me an orphan. Who thought to use me to make magical weapons for her private army so she could take Ghadra without any resistance.
There is no one more dangerous.
She cannot be allowed to escape.
I dare not throw a hammer at her, for fear of giving her a weapon. The woman could make a twig threatening. Instead, I slam into her from behind with my shield hammer, sending her careening to the ground. She crawls along the grass, not missing a beat, reaching for a large stick—
“Touch it, and I will break your other knee,” I say, my voice dropping to a tone I don’t recognize.
She ignores me, her hand catching hold of the branch. She uses it and a nearby tree to hoist herself to her feet.
By then, Kellyn arrives, his sword at the ready.
“Get behind her,” I order, but he’s already moving that way.
“There’s nowhere for you to go,” I say. “Surrender.”
Kymora flicks loose, greasy strands of hair out of her eyes. Her usual no-nonsense bun has come free, and she’s slipped off the gag that was hiding the smooth scar on her cheek. Somehow, her disheveled appearance only makes her look more intimidating.
“How much time will you waste chasing me when your sister needs to reach the capital?” the warlord asks. “I would have thought every second counted by this point.”
Her words do their job, infuriating me, renewing my sense of urgency, probably making me reckless.
I grind my teeth as I leap forward, and Kellyn does the same from behind the woman. She can’t properly deflect us both with only one good leg to stand on, but that doesn’t keep her from trying. Her stick catches my hammer, and she spins into me to avoid Kellyn’s strike. My instinct is to step backward, away from the hateful woman.
I ignore it and kick out at her shattered knee.
Kymora screams as she falls, dropping the stick.
I grab one of the warlord’s arms, attempt to pin it to her back. Kymora swings outward with her other arm, tries to catch me in the head.
I pull her pinned arm up higher, straining the muscle and bone. The older woman grunts as I shove her forward, forcing her to the ground. I fumble with her other wrist, try to also get it pinned to her back. Meanwhile, I’ve got my full weight pressing into the woman.
“Yield!” I shriek at her.
“Never!” She tries to throw her head back, the movement making her look like a beached fish.
“If it’s a choice between letting you get away and killing you, I will kill you,” I say. “You’ve taken everything from me, and you deserve to die!”
Kellyn adds his weight to mine, practically sitting on her legs so she can’t kick them outward. He produces a length of rope, and I use it to secure her wrists once more, tighter than is necessary.
We each grab an arm, haul her upward, and carry her back to the cart, Kymora fighting the whole way.
Petrik comes running out of the trees and bends over to rest his hands on the tops of his thighs. “The last man got away.”
“Never mind him,” I say. “Help Kellyn.”
Despite his fatigue, Petrik helps haul his mother into the cart. When she’s secured once more, he inspects the severed ropes. “How did she get free? She couldn’t have stolen a weapon during the skirmish. These men had clubs and staffs, and the ax is still on the ground.”
“Maybe somebody gave her something sharp,” Kellyn says.
“I would never.”
Ignoring the two men, I search under the wagon, looking for a dagger or something else to explain the warlord’s attempted escape.
“Blood runs thick,” Kellyn says.
“I hardly know this woman. She may have borne me, but there is no love between us. You know that. Why would I free the woman who hurt Temra?”
“Shut up, the both of you,” I say as I right myself. I hold out the sharpened metal. “Hair clasp. It was holding her bun in place. She took it out days ago. Must have been waiting for the right time to use it.”
Kellyn won’t meet Petrik’s eyes. “Sorry,” he grumbles.
“When are you going to trust me?” Petrik asks. “I’ve done nothing but help. I may have kept my parentage to myself, but I have never betrayed the Tellions or you.”
“We have bigger problems than your squabbling.” I eye the bridge. “We’re still blocked, and anyone who could have helped us move the trunk is unconscious, dead, or run off. Is there another way around?”
“Yes,” Petrik says, “but it will add a half day’s journey.”
I want to sob. The timing is too close as it is. The healer back in Amanor said we had only a week before Temra would die from her wounds.
The exact time it takes to reach the capital.
Rage as I have never known floods my limbs as I haul myself back into the cart. I pull my unmagicked hammer from my waist and swing it toward Kymora’s good leg.
The crack is sharp. Kymora’s shriek is muted behind her replaced gag. Petrik’s intake of breath and Kellyn’s look of horror fill me with guilt, but—“A promise is a promise,” I utter.
She won’t be escaping again.
CHAPTERTWO
We travel all night to make up for lost time.
The road is awful, full of ruts and holes, but we don’t feel the worst of it. Before we left Kellyn’s hometown, I magicked the metal beneath the cart to provide Temra as smooth of a journey as possible.
Still, I don’t sleep, not with Temra’s constant coughing, Kymora’s moaning, the crack of Kellyn’s neck every time he looks over his shoulder to check on me.
I want to scream at him, to rage at everyone. They should all hurt the way I hurt right now. My body is in some weird state of exhaustion and extra alertness. I take to counting my sister’s breaths to pass the time.
When a body moves, I raise a fist, worried that Kymora has somehow broken free again, but it is only Petrik, climbing into the cart bed next to me.
“You should rest,” he says. “Let me watch over her.”
“Thank you, but I’m okay.”
“If there’s another fight, you’ll be more useful after some sleep.”
I think the exhaustion is what compels my honesty. “I’m afraid she’ll die if I close my eyes.”
“She’s tougher than that,” Petrik says, all confidence.
It’s so nice to hear, even if he has no way of knowing for sure what Temra’s body is equipped to handle. He’s a well-learned man but not in medicine. Petrik is a scholar from the Great Library in Skiro’s Capital, and he’s spent his life studying ancient magics. I met him initially because he was writing a book on known magics throughout the world. He wanted to learn everything there was to know about me and my blacksmithing abilities.
Along that first journey we took together, he fell in love with my sister. He’s never said as much, but I can tell. How can anyone not fall for my brave and feisty sister? She’s strong and stubborn in all the right ways.
When we learned that Petrik hid the truth about Kymora being his mother, Temra was furious. Personally, I don’t much care so long as he gets us the help we need. His words from before were true. He’s never betrayed us or done anything to suggest we can’t trust him. He just kept one secret.
Who wouldn’t want to hide the fact they’re related to this monster?
But monster or no, she’s still his mother.
I whisper, “I’m sorry I hurt her like that in front of you.”
Petrik swallows. “It had to be done. We can’t risk being slowed down again.”
“I wasn’t being spiteful; I told her I would do it if she—”
“It’s okay, Ziva. Really.”
His dark eyes sweep over Temra’s face, her mahogany hair, her bow-shaped lips, her unblemished face—all barely visible in the moonlight. “She hasn’t gotten a chance to yell at me for the secret I kept. She needs to do that. To tell me she doesn’t want to hear my excuses. She’ll want to throw things at me.”
I let out a weak laugh to keep from crying. “She will. All of that will happen. Have you been working on the explanation you’ll give her?”
He shakes his head. “I have no explanation. Only the truth. I was scared you would not let me come if you knew who I was. There are some who would not believe I don’t have any warm feelings toward her.” At that, he flicks his gaze in Kellyn’s direction.
“I know why you did what you did,” I say. “I don’t hold it against you.”
“You are a good friend, Ziva, and an even better sister.”
“I failed her.”
“You haven’t. You’re still fighting. We will reach the capital. Temra will be healed. Our names will be cleared, and Kymora will get the fate she deserves for her treachery.”
I want to believe him so badly, but horrible scenarios flash through my mind in a loop and carry into my dreams.
It’s the stillness that wakes me.
The cart has stopped. I immediately check on Temra, even as I call out, “Why aren’t we moving?”
“The horses need a break,” Kellyn says. “If we push them anymore, they’ll give out before we can reach the capital.”
He’s pulled us off the road, and Kellyn already is in the process of unhitching the horses. Petrik leaves with his pack, likely off to prepare food.
That leaves me with Kymora and Temra.
I swear the warlord never sleeps. Every time I look over at her, she’s perfectly alert. Her eyes rove over the scenery, our camp, searching for any opportunities to escape.
“Here,” Petrik says sometime later. He hands over a bowl of broth. “I can feed her, if you’d like?”
“No, I’ve got it.”
“I’ll still help.” He kneels behind Temra and raises her to a sitting position, while I bring a spoonful to her mouth on trembling fingers.
I force open her lips, pour in the broth, tilt back her head. I breathe out a sigh of relief when I watch her throat working to swallow.
“We’re going to make it,” Petrik says.
“This healer you spoke of—is she good?”
“She can work the body the way you work iron. She’s good, Ziva.”
The next spoonful of broth ends up being coughed out with yet more blood.
“She can mend the hole in Temra’s lung?” I ask.
“I’ve seen her reattach limbs.”
The hope burning in my breast is dangerous, but if I lose Temra, I’ll lose the last of my family. I’ll lose my heart.
Kymora really will have taken everything from me then.
When Temra’s eaten enough, Petrik’s gaze lands on his mother. “I guess I’d better go feed her.”
He leaves me, scoops out another bowlful of broth, and pads over to his mother. He removes the gag gently, offers her some water first. Kymora drinks and drinks and drinks. She paces herself, as if not to show weakness, but by the amount she swallows, I can tell she’s suffering from the journey. Her limbs must be aching from the way she’s constantly bound. Her wrists and ankles are red and swollen from the tightness of the ropes, not that they would be forefront of her mind with her more severe injuries.
I’m glad she’s suffering, and I feel no shame for that.
Temra’s face has turned whiter over the last four days. Her lips are cracking. Her lungs are weakening. She has sores from lying in the same position for so long. But I dare not move her too much, lest I make her injuries worse.
These might be the last days I spend with my sister, and I don’t even get to talk to her.
I try to will my thoughts elsewhere.
Petrik and Kymora converse in whispers when she’s drunk her fill. I can’t hear the specifics of the conversation, but Petrik winces at something she says. He spoons her up some broth and feeds it to her. Says something in response. Her face gives nothing of the conversation away, and I begin to wonder if I should move closer.
Then Temra begins coughing.
I gently turn her on her side and rub her back. Her shoulders heave, and her body tenses. Blood spills from her lips.
“I’m not leaving you,” I say. “I’m here, Temra. Nothing is going to happen to you.”
Movement out of the corner of my eye has me turning. Kellyn bends at the knees to scoop out some soup for himself. His towering six-and-a-half-foot frame has a long way to go to reach the cooking pot. With golden-red hair and soft facial features, he’s a beauty in every sense of the word, even covered in grit from traveling.
He once meant so much to me. We were … together for a time. But instead of running to help my sister against her fight with Kymora, he came after me and the men who tried to steal me away.
He saved me instead of her.
And if she dies, I will never be able to forgive him.
Even if she survives, I don’t think I can forgive him. He knows my sister is my whole world. He knew I wasn’t in any real danger. Kymora wanted me alive. But she wanted my sister dead to teach me a lesson.
Still, he came after me.
He chose wrong, so how can I choose to be with him?
When he has his food, he pads over to my side of the cart. A jolt of awareness shoots through me to have him so close. I don’t know how he can still affect me when we’ve spent so much time together. Yet it’s always the same with him. Excitement and anxiety rolled together in a confusing mess.
“I’m sorry I doubted Petrik,” he says.
“Again,” I remind him.
“Again.”
“It pains him to see his mother bound like she is, but every time she says something, trying to manipulate him into helping her, he looks at Temra. Reminding himself why his mother is a prisoner and must be kept that way.”
“I know. I just worry. I can’t help it.”
“He shouldn’t have kept his parentage a secret from us. But he’s nothing like his mother. He’s here with us now. Leading us to help.”
I’d been staring at Kellyn’s chest while we talked, but feeling his eyes on me now, I raise my own.
His brown meet my blue, and a hurricane of emotions battle for dominance in my chest. Fear. Want. Hate. Resignation.
I was once terrified of speaking to him. Couldn’t even get a word out without my anxieties taking over. That changed slowly. During the journey where Temra and I hired him for safe passage to Thersa. From there we had to flee across two more territories, eventually landing in his hometown of Amanor, where I met his family. Where I felt like I truly knew this man and wanted him to know me.
I maybe even started to lo—
The thought hurts, so I don’t finish it.
Because liking him, trusting him, wanting him—it all feels like a betrayal to the one person who has always been there for me.
Temra doesn’t have my anxieties. She’s protected me from awkward encounters my whole life.
And when I should have protected her, when I called on Kellyn for help, she was mortally wounded.
It’s my fault. It’s Kellyn’s fault. It’s Kymora’s fault.
I can’t be with him without hating myself.
He looks at me now, want and hurt in his own eyes. I watch his lips start and stop, looking for the right words to say.
But he and I both know there aren’t any.
Kellyn gets in a quick nap before we’re moving again. He and Petrik take turns with the horses, while I stay in the back, stuck between the person I love the most and the person I like the least.
A week has never felt longer.
Seconds sluggishly crawl by, while the day inches toward night again. Time has no meaning for me, except for the toll it takes on Temra. She grows paler, thinner, weaker.
We’re running out of time.
Kellyn asks, “What’s the plan when we reach Skiro?” Since the words are quiet, I assume they’re not meant for me.
Petrik sits up straighter. “We’ll immediately ask for an audience with Skiro. He’ll get us everything we need.”
“You sound confident,” Kellyn says. “Why would the prince bother to speak with us? We’re fugitives, for all he knows. We’re not in a place to ask for anything.”
Petrik looks off to the side of the road, his gaze falling into the passing trees. “I thought you would have pieced it together by now.”
“Pieced what together by now?”
“Kymora is my mother. You haven’t guessed who my father is yet?”
Kymora was King Arund’s general. The late queen died not long after giving birth to Prince Skiro. He was alone and grieving, and then there’s fierce Kymora, who gives birth to a child and sends him away to be tutored far from the palace …
By the Twins. He’s the king’s bastard son. Sent away so as not to be in the way. But when the realm was split, Skiro took leadership of the territory housing the Great Library. Petrik would have grown up close to this brother.
I should have put two and two together much sooner.
When Kellyn doesn’t get it, I help him out. “He’s the king’s son.”
“What?” Kellyn’s voice raises an octave.
Petrik says, “I’m very close with my brother. We grew up together. He’d do just about anything I asked, including helping the woman I—Temra. Including helping Temra.”
When Kellyn finds his voice again, he says, “Seriously? Is there anything else you’d like to share with the group? Any other secrets you’d like to just casually drop?”
“That wasn’t a secret!” Petrik says. “Everyone who knows my brother Skiro knows who I am to him.”
“Kellyn,” I say. “It doesn’t matter who his father is. It wasn’t ever relevant to our plight.”
“Really? It seems to me like knowing he has such a good relationship with his prince of a brother would have come in handy while we had Kymora chasing our asses!”
“If we had gone to Skiro for help, Kymora would have declared war on him and the innocents of that territory!” Petrik counters. “Would you put that on them? We can only go to my brother now because Kymora is no longer a threat! And besides, Ziva would never have allowed us to seek refuge from someone in a position of power like that while Secret Eater was still a problem.”
He’s certainly right about that, and Kellyn knows it, too, for the mercenary has nothing to say in response.
“So that’s the plan,” Petrik says, circling back to the matter at hand. “We ask my brother for help. He will give it to us. There’s nothing more to worry about.”
Except for Temra dying before we can reach the prince.
CHAPTERTHREE
I’ve never before felt relieved to step foot in a big city.
Ordinarily, I find them horrifying. Too many stimulants: the people, the animals, the smells, the sounds.
But as the horses carry us up the steep incline, through the city gates, into the fuss of city life, I feel like I can breathe for the first time. Kellyn urges the horses faster, and the people of the capital leap away from the wagon, shouting curses at our backs.
We’ve arrived later in the day, so the streets aren’t as packed as they could be, but folk are still closing up their shops or rushing to find the last of their groceries.
The capital lies in the mountains, and the rumor is that Prince Skiro wanted to set up his rule as far from his elder brother Ravis as possible. The people are bundled in loose furs and thick boots. Fall hit the city early, it seems.
Petrik directs Kellyn toward the palace, taking us up winding roads with inclines that grow ever steeper. I can see hints of our destination peeking over the tops of the homes and businesses. The castle towers are the tallest structures in the city.
When we finally reach them, I see they’re connected to a vast wall surrounding the palace grounds. The gate is left lowered, admitting us within its boundaries.
Two massive figures line either side of the palace doors. One carved in whitest marble, the other deepest granite. Ebanarra and Tasminya, the Sister Goddesses.
When the wagon rolls to a stop, a patrolling guard steps up to us. “Petrik, you’ve returned!”
“I’m sorry, Leona, but I don’t have time for pleasantries. Please tell the prince at once that I’m here. I have a high-profile prisoner for him, and I beg the use of Serutha for our wounded companion.”
I don’t know if Petrik knows all the guards or if one just happened to be stationed who knows him, but I’m glad things are being set in motion. Leona shouts a few words to servants stationed by the doors, who disappear inside.
In just a few minutes, a pallet is carried out toward the wagon, and it’s followed by a small garrison of guards bearing chains and manacles. I help the caretakers place Temra on the pallet. The guards wrest a wriggling Kymora off the wagon and bind her properly. She puts up quite the fight, earning her a few more scratches and bruises.
“Please,” Petrik says. “Be as gentle as you can within reason.”
More guards spill from the front entrance, all decked in deep blue tunics bearing a yellow sun on their breasts.
There’s a faint murmuring from inside the palace, steadily growing louder. Then, “Just let me through!” a voice insists, pushing past all the others.
And he can be no other than Prince Skiro. He wears a deep golden tunic with the same sun as the guards beneath an open sapphire robe. Prince Skiro’s brown skin is darker than Petrik’s, his head shaved, and his features are so smooth that Temra would probably describe them as pretty. He’s taller than Petrik but not so tall as me, though he comes close. He bears no special ornamentation to mark his standing, but he wears a jeweled dagger sheathed at his waist. He is the youngest of the royals, and I would place him at not a day older than twenty.
The prince eyes the wagon, my sister on the pallet, Kymora in chains, before his eyes land on Petrik. His face alights in a bright smile. “Petrik!” he exclaims as he embraces his brother. “Is it just me or have your muscles finally come in? And what are you wearing? I can’t recall the last time I saw you in anything other than your scholar attire.”
“Forgive me, Skiro,” Petrik says, “but we’re in a hurry. We need immediate help. One of my friends is severely wounded. She doesn’t have much time. We need Serutha. Can you please call for her?”
Skiro’s eyes land on Temra and her white face. “Come inside, all of you. Any friends of my brother’s are friends of mine.”
Every second that ticks by feels like a lash against my skin.
I watch as caretakers use warm rags to clean the travel away from my sister. They are so gentle with her, but I’m impatient for this Serutha to arrive and work her magic. One of the caretakers unbinds the bandages on her arm, and a rotting smell fills the space. It’s infected, and a healer begins cutting the stitches away and reopening the wound so she can lance the injury.
But where is the magical healer?
When the door opens, I spin in relief, prepared to greet and beg and do whatever it takes to get my sister the immediate attention of the finally arrived healer.
But it’s only an attendant of some sort.
“Petrik sent me to collect you. I’m to show you to your rooms so you can clean and rest. The prince would like for you all to be his special guests at dinner.”
I blink at him.
Dinner and clean and rest?
My sister is dying. Dying. And they expect me to—
“Excuse me,” someone says from behind me. I turn, already tense and wanting to rush over to my sister’s side.
It’s one of the caretakers. “We have her. She’ll receive the best care we can give her. You should go.”
“I’m not leaving her,” I say.
“I don’t know how to put this delicately, but you’re contaminating our sterile environment.”
At that, I look down at myself. There’s dirt under each of my fingernails. My clothes are torn from wrestling Kymora, stained from travel. I can’t tell freckles from grit on my skin. And I can only imagine the smell.
Embarrassment seeps in, but it doesn’t override my need to see Temra whole. “Are you saying it’s safer for her if I leave?”
The caretaker nods politely.
“I can return as soon as I’m clean? And you’ve sent for this”—I don’t know if the magical healer’s abilities are widely known—“Serutha?”
“You may return, and the prince has all of his resources at your disposal.”
I take her meaning.
“Very well,” I say, exhaling a breath. The attendant looks relieved when I turn back to him.
The room I’m shown to is clean and lets in lots of natural light. There are many fine carpets and draperies throughout, beautiful designs that look like they would have taken years to complete. A bath has already been drawn, and I hurry to it, knowing the sooner I’m clean, the sooner I can see Temra again and watch the magical healer work on her.
The water feels nice against my skin, and I allow myself to enjoy it while I scrape a week’s worth of grime from my body. I towel off when done, brush through my hair quickly, and leave it down—it’s far too short to do much with anyway. When dressed, I see myself back out through the door and nearly run into Petrik. He’s also taken advantage of a bath and new clothes.
“Do you have news?” I ask. “How is she?”
“Unchanged.”
What? “Why? Why hasn’t she been healed? Where is this healer you promised? Why is everything happening so slowly? Do I have to go banging on doors in the castle?”
Petrik stops me before I can ramble further. “I don’t know the answers to those questions yet, but Prince Skiro wishes to speak with us all.”
Good, then I can demand answers from him myself.
I let Petrik lead me down a hall covered in the richest of tapestries. Music drifts to us from some faraway room, and I cannot guess the instrument. Something with strings. Petrik doesn’t stop moving until we arrive in a room also decorated in woven tapestries and fine rugs on the floor. Between the tapestries are bookcases lined with shelves of tomes. The music is louder in this room, though the players are not within. Perhaps they are in the next room over.
A modest table is heaped with food. Rich sauces over juicy meats and no less than five different casks of wine. The prince’s personal guard line the walls, Skiro himself seated at the head of the small table, Kellyn beside him, taking large bites of buttered bread.
I shouldn’t be angry at them both for eating while Temra is dying, but I am furious.
“Ah.” Skiro looks up. “Please be seated. Fill your bellies. You must have quite the stories to tell after such a journey.”
Neither Petrik nor I move, and I couldn’t be more grateful to have him at my side, united in my cause.
Skiro sighs and drops the leg of chicken he’d been bringing to his lips. “I am beyond grateful to you all for bringing me the traitor Kymora, though I am surprised, brother, that you would turn on her.”
“I learned of her plans to kill you and the others and take the entire kingdom for herself. I couldn’t allow that to happen. It was Ziva who learned of it and stopped her.” He gestures to me. “Her sister is the one dying, and we beg the use of Serutha.”
Skiro’s eyes land on me. They light up, and a far-too-bright smile stretches over his lips. He shakes himself, as though just remembering something before turning back to his brother. “You should not have told them about her—I don’t care how good of friends you are.”
“I consider them family now,” Petrik answers.
“Is it a life debt that binds you to them? Is that what caused you to betray the trust of our friend Serutha?”
“It’s Temra.”
“The dying girl.”
“I love her, Skiro. And I need you to save her.”
I shift uncomfortably at the words. I had guessed, of course, but hearing Petrik admit something so personal aloud has my secondhand embarrassment kicking in. But if it gets Skiro to finally act, then—
“Oh, I see.” Skiro’s expression deflates. “I’m so sorry, Petrik, but she’s not here.”
“Who?” Petrik asks.
“Serutha.”
“Well then, send for her! Where is she?”
“A few weeks ago, our dear brother Ravis sent spies into the palace. They learned of Serutha’s abilities and snuck away with her in the dead of night. She’s in Ravis’s Territory by now.”
A desperate cry looses from my lips as I sink to my knees on the floor. No no no no no nononononono …
We made it. We brought Kymora. Temra survived the journey.
But the healer isn’t here.
My sister is going to die.
I feel my breathing pick up, but I force words through my lips. “Pack the wagon, then. We’re going to Ravis.”
“You can’t move the girl,” Skiro says. “Another journey would surely kill her, and she doesn’t have the time left that it would take to get there.”
Kellyn has all but forgotten the food in front of him. “You must have sent men after your healer? Surely they’re returning with her now?”
Yes, that would make sense. I cling to Kellyn’s reasoning.
“I did send men,” Skiro says. “They were supposed to report back days ago. They’ve likely been found out and killed.”
My last shred of hope slips through my fingers, and my cries fill the new silence as I crumple all the way to the floor. Petrik leaves my side, steps over to his brother. Meanwhile, Kellyn crouches next to me, even dares to wrap his arms around me.
My despair is too great to even care.
I don’t lean into him, don’t return the embrace. I just feel and hurt and—this must be what dying feels like.
All at once I stand. If Temra only has moments left to live, I’m going to spend them with her. She can’t be alone.
“Wait, Ziva.”
I turn, can barely see Petrik through my tears. I clear the moisture from my face, attempt to focus.
“Skiro,” Petrik says, a harsh plea at the end of whatever conversation they’d just been having.
“It’s far too dangerous,” Skiro says. “If my trained men didn’t make it back through, your friends can hardly be expected to return with Serutha. Besides, I’m not going to risk the doors like that.”
“For me, brother.”
“They’re going to die.”
“No, Temra is going to die!”
“You know I love you, but the answer is still no.”
Petrik growls, rounds on me. “Ziva, I ask permission to tell my brother who you are and why we’re perfectly equipped to undertake this rescue mission.”
“No,” Kellyn answers for me.
Rescue mission? We’ve already established that we couldn’t get the healer back to the capital in time and Temra wouldn’t survive another journey.
Anyone powerful knowing my identity has not gone over well in the past; why would Petrik ask me to reveal myself now?
At my hesitation, Petrik adds, “It could mean saving Temra’s life.”
I don’t understand, but I nod, because what else can I do? And Kellyn is not permitted to speak for me. Ever.
“This is Ziva Tellion. Magically gifted bladesmith. We all carry weapons she’s forged. We took on what must have been forty men back in Amanor. The three of us brought down the warlord together. We can get Serutha back. And isn’t retrieving your healer worth the potential cost of the doors?”
Skiro’s eyes land on me. I look to the ground, uncomfortable with the scrutiny, but my thoughts are still on my sister.
“Really?” the prince asks. “How does your ability work? What weapons have you made? How do you—”
“Skiro!” Petrik interrupts.
“Sorry.” He thinks a moment. “I still don’t like it. Those doors are the only advantage I have, Petrik.”
“What would it take to convince you?” he asks desperately.
“How about a solid plan?”
At that, Kellyn perks up. The prince is speaking his language, but I’m still thoroughly confused by the whole conversation.
Petrik says, “How did you get your last spies into the palace?”
“They traveled on foot. Wore disguises to blend in with the people from Ravis.”
“Do you still have clothing from the territory?”
“… Yes.”
“Then we will dress the part. We’ll take the door, stash our weapons somewhere, do reconnaissance. We’ll infiltrate the palace staff. Do you know where Serutha is being held?”
“She wasn’t in the dungeons. My spies did a sweep of the castle, covering every floor save the one housing Ravis’s rooms. He’s keeping her close. That was the last I heard before they were found out. They must have gotten too close.”
“That leaves us only one floor of the castle to search. We’ll find her and bring her back straightaway.”
“She’ll be guarded,” Skiro says. “You won’t be able to just take her.”
“We have magical weapons,” Petrik reminds him. “We’ll cause a distraction if need be to lure them away. Lessen their numbers.”
Skiro still wants to say no. I can tell.
“Ziva will be indebted to you if you save her sister’s life,” Petrik finishes.
At that, Skiro looks to me before looking down at the hammers around my waist. He sighs. “Fine, the mercenary bloke can go. Ziva and you will stay here.”
“I’m going,” Petrik and I snap at the same time.
“You’re far too important to risk,” Skiro says to me.
“You just barely learned of my abilities! You don’t even know me. That’s my sister dying. I’ll be damned if I stay behind when I can do something to save her.”
Skiro cracks a small smile. “I like you,” he says.
For some reason, that statement makes Kellyn shift awkwardly next to me.
“I’m going, too,” Petrik says again.
“You’ll be recognized.”
“I’m the only one who knows the layout of the palace. It has to be me.”
“You haven’t been there in years.”
“I’ve a good memory.”
“I don’t want to lose you, brother.”
“If she dies, you’ll lose me anyway.”
Skiro reads that loud and clear. If he doesn’t concede, Petrik will never forgive him.
“You’d better cover your face, then,” Skiro says.
“I will.”
Skiro reaches for a cord necklace he had hidden underneath his tunic. With a sigh, he hands it over to Petrik. The prince calls for an attendant, mutters something to him, and then returns to the table. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like anything to eat first?” he asks me.
I don’t answer. I’m still not certain what is happening, and I’m such a mess that I don’t know what would come out of me if I did speak. I settle for a shake of my head.
When the attendant returns, it’s with three sets of clothing. Petrik gathers them, walks over to me, grabs my upper arm, and hauls me after him. He’s practically running through the fine halls, and I nearly trip in my haste to keep up with him. Kellyn plods along behind us.
“I knew he couldn’t say no to Ziva once he learned who she is,” Petrik says. “My brother is a lover of all art. Music. Books. Paintings. Tapestries. He’s especially interested in the art of magic. He collects magic users, you might say. Inviting them to his court, paying them generous wages. Offering them safety and his silence.”
We turn down another hallway, Petrik’s boots squeaking along the stone floor.
“Did you have to tell him Ziva would be indebted to him?” Kellyn asks. “What if he asks for something she doesn’t want to give? And what are these doors you kept mentioning?”
“We’re almost there. You’ll understand soon.”
A few more turns. A set of stairs.
Petrik turns the necklace over in his hands. I spy a bronze key between his fingers.
We reach a door that has at least a dozen guards surrounding it. The man at their head nods to Petrik as the scholar promptly unlocks it before ushering us inside. When we’re through, Petrik immediately locks us in.
I walk to the middle of the room and spin in place, taking in the gorgeous portraits on the walls. There are five in total, spaced at even intervals. Each is shaped in a long oval, each taller than my person. The first one is of a woman. She looks older than I am but not by too much. Her skin is a deep brown, with rosy cheeks, and hair separated into tiny braids that rain down over her shoulders. She smiles, showing off a row of perfect white teeth. She looks mischievous, as though hiding a secret from whoever looks upon her.
The second is of a man, perhaps the same age or slightly older than the woman. Also dark-skinned, hands in his pockets, eyes looking at something over my head. He wears his hair to several inches in length, and it stands up on end in a glorious halo around his face. He wears an earring in one ear, rings on his fingers.
After the man, there are two girls, and then a final man on the end. All with brown skin, different expressions, though similar features.
“Are these …?” I ask.
“The rest of my half siblings,” Petrik says. He turns to the portrait on the left of the door we just entered through. “Meet Ravis, because we definitely don’t want to run into him in the flesh.”
The oldest of King Arund’s children appears to also be the shortest. He wears his hair shorn close to his scalp—the same way Petrik likes to wear his. But unlike Petrik, Ravis’s eyes are more hooded, his nose smaller, his lips fuller. He looks dead-on at whoever’s watching, as though daring them to challenge him. He must be near thirty years of age.
“The detail is extraordinary. You’d almost think they were in the room with us,” I say.
“That’s because these were done by a magically gifted painter.”
Kellyn and I both shift in Petrik’s direction.
“I won’t disclose his name or identity because I’ve also been sworn to secrecy on his behalf. It’s no matter. We only need his paintings, which are magicked into portals.”
“Portals,” I repeat stupidly.
“Yes, if he paints the exact same image—detail for detail—in two different areas, they work as a bridge between the two places.”
I take in the paintings again, stopping at Ravis’s. “You mean—”
“With these, you can get to any capital in the span of a heartbeat just by stepping through them.”
I reach a hand out toward Ravis’s face, but Kellyn snatches it back.
“This is awfully convenient,” he says. “Why didn’t we use them to get here in the first place, then?”
“Like I said, the portals connect the capitals. You must be in one to get here. We were in Amanor.”
“What about when we were in Lisady’s Capital fleeing from the warlord? We could have traveled here and been safe!”
Petrik grunts. “I don’t know where the portals are within each capital. I haven’t gone through them before! I just know they exist. I’d have to be able to take us to the portal directly. But once we walk through this one, we’ll keep track of where we go so we can bring Serutha back through it.”
The breath expels from my lungs. “You’re saying we can still save Temra.”
“We can save her.”
“Tell me what to do,” I say at once.
“First, we need to get dressed.” Petrik passes out the clothing, shakes out the wrinkles from his own garment, and begins to disrobe.
There’s nowhere for me to turn for privacy, so I do the same, trying my best not to think about the male bodies behind me.
I get the garment on and then reach under the skirt because I’m sure the material must be caught on something.
Nope.
What must be a knee-length dress on a shorter girl, is midthigh on me. It must be warm in Ravis’s Territory, because the dress also hangs off only one shoulder. I shrug my boots back on, but there’s still too much skin between the top of the boots and the bottom of my dress for me to be comfortable.
This is for Temra, I remind myself.
When I turn back around, Kellyn and Petrik are both staring at my legs.
My cheeks heat to burning.
“Stop it!” I whisper-shout to both of them.
Petrik shakes himself upright. “Sorry. It’s just, I don’t think that disguise is going to work in your favor.”
Kellyn raises his eyes slowly until they burn into my own. “You—I—You have really long legs.” He swallows audibly before turning away.
“Yours are longer!” I say defensively. How dare he make fun of me right now. Of all the times.
Petrik coughs. “I promise he meant that as a compliment. You have very nice legs, Ziva.”
“Stop talking about my legs!”
“Right.” Petrik coughs unnecessarily again.
Kellyn wears knee-length shorts with a loose shirt above, while Petrik has some sort of skirt on beneath a similar shirt. The scholar has also wrapped a headscarf about him to hide the features of his face.
Without any further prompting, I thrust my hand against the portrait of Ravis. Instead of meeting the resistance of the wall, my fingers disappear down to the knuckles.
I take a breath and step through, slamming my eyes closed.
