I open sticky eyes to a yellow morning. Impulsively I shift to look for the light from the tiny window in my cell wall, only to realize the light is everywhere. Morning is everywhere, not trapped beyond dingy adobe walls but rising, nudging, laying wet over the cloak wrapped around my shoulders. I shiver and then regret it—the movement replaces the hazy sleep with a spiky headache.
“Tamsin?”
I roll over, clumsily, because half my body doesn’t feel like it belongs to me and the other half feels full of rocks. A face swims just a few inches from mine, golden-pale against the loose fall of black hair.
“Ia’o,” I say, and wince.
“Tamsin,” he says again, and I wonder if this is just what life is now, repeating each other’s names in lieu of conversation. He shifts upright a little more, and I realize the warmth along my back wasn’t from the cloak, but from him pressed up against me.
“How are you? Did you sleep? Don’t . . . you don’t have to try to speak.” A hopeless kind of look crosses his face, as if he can’t come up with a suitable alternative. “Just . . . do you want to sit up?”
I wrap my grimy hand around his and let him help me struggle upright. I hang my head for a moment, waiting for the throbbing in my temples and tongue to lessen. It doesn’t. Iano rubs my back.
Memories of the last twenty-four hours are coming back to me—the flight from Pasul into the hills with nothing more than a half-lame horse and the clothes on our backs, hours of silent travel uphill, probably a few more hours where I fell asleep on the horse’s back, and then the short foray off the trail to find a decent place to lie on the ground and continue sleeping. I lift my head. The place we chose is little more than a marginally flat place on the upper slopes of the Moquovik Mountains, populated by talus, wind-bent juniper, and a dastardly breeze. The horse stands a few paces away, cropping the pitiful strands of grass clinging to the rocks. I realize that we aren’t quite as unequipped as I thought—leaning against the horse’s tack on the ground is Iano’s bone-white longbow and quiver of blue-fletched arrows.
“I think we’re getting close to the rainshadow,” Iano says. “We got higher than I thought we would last night. Tonight’s camping . . . may be harder.”
I’ll say it will be. The eastern slopes of the Moquoviks are cold and sparse but dry, at least. If we cross the rainshadow today, though, chances are high we’ll be soaking wet as well as cold, and we have only Iano’s traveling cloak to share between us. Realizing said cloak is wrapped only around my shoulders, and not his, I start to slip it off, but he puts his hand on mine to stop me.
“Keep it on a little longer, Tamsin. You look . . . you just keep it.”
I look atrocious, most likely, spider pale and sheep shorn, cheeks swollen with the unhealed wounds in my mouth. As if following my thoughts, his gaze drifts down to my lips.
“Would you let me see again?” he asks quietly. “In the daylight. I didn’t get a good look yesterday.”
Gingerly I part my lips. He places his thumb gently on my chin and tilts my face toward his. I’m facing into the morning sky, so it must be no trouble to see the swollen split in my tongue. His chest rises with a short breath, and he draws me against him.
“I’m sorry.” His voice is anguished against the murdered fuzz of my hair. “Tamsin, I—I’m sorry. I never thought . . .” His grip tightens. “I’m going to find them. They’ll pay for what they’ve done, I swear it. And then I’m going to marry you and crown you queen of this country.”
Now that’s an amusing image—me floating silently around Tolukum court in Queen Isme’s scarlet silks, with her twin jeweled combs perched on my shaved head. I shake my head against his chest and lean back, in part because hearing him talk this way turns my stomach, and because his shirt button is pressing into my lip and it all hurts too much.
I swipe a patch of dirt beside us and scratch a few letters with a twig.
HIRES, I write.
He frowns at my word. “The Hires?”
I nod.
“What about them?”
I circle my hand, wanting him to think about the group of fanatics who planned the attack on my coach. One of my captors, Poia, was a Hire—a group with the firm political belief in the hierarchy that places slaves and bond laborers at the very bottom of society, while wage earners like herself occupy a higher rung.
When Iano doesn’t comment, I write in the dirt again.
STILL OUT THERE.
“Well, of course they’re still out there,” he says. “I didn’t know they might be involved until last night.”
Surely he must realize that we can’t accomplish anything until we can pinpoint who in our court is affiliated with the Hires. It’s not a desirable or admirable label to be branded with, despite the fact that some of them have literally branded themselves with tattoos stating exactly that. Those can be kept hidden, though, and whoever the traitor is has clearly kept their association a secret to avoid losing allies. But those extremist views must have colored all of their politics, and that, ultimately, is what makes them dangerous—a vocal supporter could be pinpointed and their influence diluted.
A quiet one, a secret one, who can influence without being exposed . . . that’s the real threat.
I try to put some of this into words, scratching them carefully in the dirt, but there are too many, and the soil is too pebbly. Iano puzzles at my work, and my frustration spikes at the piling up of words I can’t speak. My head still aches, my body buzzes with fatigue, and my stomach rumbles, ravenous again after breaking my hunger strike. But before I can muster the energy to clear the ground for writing again, we both freeze.
From the direction of the path comes the unmistakable sound of horses’ hooves on rocky ground. We’re about a bow shot off the track, but there’s little cover between here and there, only a few boulders shielding us from view. All anyone would have to do is . . .
“Hang on, look,” says a muffled voice. “Doesn’t that look like prints? Somebody veered off the path.”
“Probably a shepherd.”
Yes, it is absolutely a shepherd, listen to your idiot friend, please listen. My mind wheels and I lock gazes with Iano. His fingers creep toward his bow and quiver, but hesitantly, as if he’s not sure what he’ll do with them once he gets them in his grip.
“Tending what, rocks? There’s no grazing up here, not even for goats. Come on, let’s just take a look and then we’ll head on down. The captain won’t notice a five-minute delay.”
Hooves crunch on stone; rocks go slithering down the slope. Behind us, our horse lifts his head from the grass.
Iano’s fingers close on his bow, but by now we both know who’s coming around the bend—two soldiers, in the black-and-white livery of Tolukum Palace, with the redwood cone crest on their chests.
They’re in single file, so the first one rounds the nearest boulder and practically falls off his horse in surprise.
“Oh!” he says. His gaze flicks between the two of us. “Oh . . .”
“What?” says his companion, still behind the boulder. “What is it?”
He’s young, and wearing the orange belt of a new recruit; he’s probably never seen a portrait of Iano, let alone been in close enough proximity to see his face. And neither of us is looking particularly royal at the moment—Iano’s hair is loose and rumpled, with no pin or jewels, and his shirt and trousers, though finely made, are filmed with dirt and mud. I, of course, look worse. Maybe we can pass for innocent travelers.
But the soldier’s gaze doesn’t linger on Iano—it jumps to me.
“Oh!” he says again, and his hands begin to fumble around his saddle.
“Dammit, Olito, what is it?” demands his companion, attempting to edge his horse around the boulder.
“That’s—it’s the accomplice!” Olito says frantically. “It’s . . . look, look—she’s just as the orders said . . .”
Accomplice?
I realize now what he’s fumbling for. A crossbow. He wrenches a quarrel from under his saddle flap and jams it in place, awkwardly winding the crank.
“Let me see, Olito, move your damned horse—”
Iano jumps to his feet and draws his bow. It’s a beautiful movement, graceful and fluid, wonderful for a relaxed afternoon of targets at the royal hunting lodge, but not at all comforting when facing the prospect of two loaded crossbows. All the thrilling appreciation I’ve ever had for his clever handling of his artisanal bow vanishes as I wonder why on earth he didn’t choose a more modern weapon to train with.
Olito draws his crossbow up to sight, but his companion is finally maneuvering his horse around his, making the animal sidestep and bob and Olito’s aim waver.
“Hold your quarrel, Olito, hang on, let’s just make sure—by the colors.” His companion finally gets a clear look at me, twisted halfway in the saddle as his horse negotiates the rocky slope. “You’re right!”
I do the only thing I can think of given the circumstances.
I flee.
I scramble on leaden fingers and toes for the cover of another boulder. I hear the whir of a crank, and a quarrel skips off the rocks where I’d been sitting.
“Hold your quarrel!” Iano roars behind me. “How dare you—by order of the crown, hold your quarrel!”
But several things then happen at once. There’s another wind of a crank, and then a twang of a string as Iano releases, and all those afternoons of targets and darts and fox-in-the-hole funnel right into his arrow as it punctures the young soldier’s throat. Olito slumps in the saddle, his reloaded crossbow clattering to the rocks. The horses spook, their frantic movements dislodging rocks and adding to the disarray. The second soldier panics, first grabbing for his crossbow, and then abandoning it for his saddle horn as his horse bolts instinctively down the mountainside. But the terrain is too loose, and too steep, and the animal makes it only a few strides before it stumbles. The soldier is half-thrown from its back, but he barely makes it to the ground before the horse rolls right over him. There’s a horrible sight of four flailing hooves in the air, of flying rocks, and then the horse disappears over the sharp lip of the mountain, the sound of grinding stone following it down.
The soldier doesn’t move. He stays facedown in the rocks, one of which bears a wet, straggled line of red.
Iano drops his bow and stumbles backward.
“Oh, Light,” he gasps.
Slowly, I rise from my half-crouch by the boulder. I wish I felt ashamed for running, but I don’t—staying put would have only earned me a quarrel. I wobble back toward Iano, who’s staring at Olito still slouched half out of his saddle. As we watch, the horse takes a few nervous steps down the path, and the soldier’s head bumps the boulder. With a slow, terrible slide, he falls to the ground.
Iano’s palms fly to his head, his lips white. “Oh, Light . . .”
I grip his shoulder to steady both of us. His frantic gaze jumps to me.
“He was . . . he would have shot you! But I didn’t . . . I didn’t mean . . . oh, Light . . .”
I squeeze him, fighting down my own panic. His gaze moves down the slope, where the second soldier is still unmoving on the rocks. There’s no sound from beyond the lip of the cliff.
Iano suddenly bends at the waist, his hands on his knees, gasping as if he’s going to be sick. I sink with him—my legs are reedy and trembling from my burst of movement. I peer up into Iano’s stricken face.
“I killed him,” he whispers to the ground. “I killed them both. Our own soldiers . . .”
Perhaps it’s because I know I can’t offer any condolences, but suddenly there’s something else I want him to focus on. I swipe at the ground below his face and drag my fingernail through the dirt.
ACCOMPLICE? I write.
“Who’s an accomplice?” he asks.
“Me,” I say. I point to the soldiers. “Called me . . .” I point to the word in the dirt again.
“They called you an accomplice,” he says, and then his brow furrows. “They must have had you confused with someone else.”
They’d seemed pretty certain, though, and there was no hesitation in how they should act upon it. They were ready to shoot on sight.
I rise and slowly approach the riderless horse, stepping carefully around Olito’s body. The horse tosses its head, still uneasy, but I grasp its dangling reins and reach for the saddlebag.
“What are you doing?” Iano asks.
I gesture to the bag, unhooking it from the saddle. Bringing it back to Iano, I open it and rifle through the contents. The topmost items are camping goods—packets of food, a tinderbox, a canteen. But below these things is an oilskin pouch, crinkling with parchment inside. I pull it out and open it.
It’s a stack of documents, all marked for the captain of the garrison in Pasul. I unroll the first and come face-to-face with Lark, the woodblock-printed image staring out in crisp black ink from under her broad-brimmed hat and raised bandanna.
Wanted: Dead or Alive
The Sunshield Bandit
for the Murder of Ashoki Tamsin Moropai, Abduction of Prince Iano Okinot in-Azure, and Attacks on Moquoian Industry.
Subject Should Be Considered Armed and Dangerous.
Reward: Two Hundred Crescents
Fifty Crescents for Accomplices, Dead or Alive
“Oh no . . . ,” Iano breathes, reading over my shoulder.
My own chest is locked tight with dread. Lark is being blamed not just for my faked murder, but for Iano’s disappearance, too? My gaze travels down the page, where there’s a splash of red wax at the bottom. Iano’s fingers jump to grasp the parchment, lifting it closer to be sure. He draws in a sharp breath.
It’s his mother’s seal—the stamp of Queen Isme Okinot in-Scarlet.
We lock gazes—his eyes are creased with shock.
“Not . . . ,” he begins. “I mean . . . just because . . . she authorized the bounty, it doesn’t mean that she . . .” His anguished gaze drops to my lips. “Does it?”
I shake my head, but it’s a worrying thought, that Queen Isme might have been the one behind my attack.
“She’s not a Hire,” he says firmly, almost angrily.
I don’t say anything. I can’t. Instead, I tap the phrase at the bottom, with the reward for accomplices.
“Vee,” I say.
“V?” he repeats, and a full five agonizing seconds pass before his expression clears. “Oh—Veran?”
I nod.
“I suppose this puts him at risk too—assuming he finds her.”
I nod again, release the bounty sheet, and rifle through the other documents in the pouch. They’re all copies, meant to be posted throughout Pasul. They’re hastily made—the woodblock was clearly carved in a hurry, with uneven spaces between the letters and smeared ink where they hadn’t been left to dry long enough. I close the oilskin pouch and lift out the one beneath it, also full of parchment. I have a sinking feeling in my stomach, a growing dread at why, exactly, the two soldiers recognized me as an accomplice.
I open the pouch and pull out the first sheet.
“Great Colors of the Light,” Iano blurts out in shock.
Sure enough, there’s my face, or as near enough as the woodcarver could come. It’s rounder than it appears now, more like it used to be when I was a healthy weight, but the most damning thing is my hair. It’s gone, just as mine is now, suggested only by a few sparse black lines on my head. At the bottom, just like Lark’s, is the queen’s seal.
Wanted: Dead
Accomplice of the Sunshield Bandit
Name Unknown
Moquoian National. Amber Si-Oque, Possibly Forged. Shorn Head. Mute.
Subject Should Be Considered Armed and Dangerous.
Reward: Two Hundred Crescents
We stare in silence. I fix on that one word at the top, the finality of it lending some sense to our soldiers’ panicked reactions. Dead. I’m not supposed to be brought in alive.
“What . . . how?” Iano finally asks, his voice weak. “How could someone know what you look like? How could they know that I gave you back your si-oque? How could they know that you’re . . . about your tongue?”
I turn the heavy parchment over and sweep the ground for a pebble. I roll it in the dirt and use it to form an inelegant scrawl.
OUR BLACKMAILER DID THIS.
It’s the only answer I can think of. The court had already been twitchy about the Sunshield Bandit, but the only person I can think of who would know these details about me, besides my now-dead captors, is the person who orchestrated the attack itself.
Which means they must know that I’ve escaped. And this is their way of getting rid of me before anyone finds out that I’m the ashoki who didn’t die.
Iano’s right—just because his mother’s seal is on the bounties doesn’t mean she’s the mastermind. But it does mean she’s been drawn into the lies.
It means we’re even less safe than we thought.
Iano scrubs his face. “We need to get to Giantess Township. We have to get to Soe’s, find somewhere we’ll be safe. This is getting out of control—someone in Tolukum is somehow one step ahead of us. I just hope they haven’t figured out where we’re going.”
I don’t know how they could, but we can’t afford to linger anyway. Together we pile the bounty sheets back in the saddlebag. For one terrible moment, we both pause, and then simultaneously look to the riderless horse.
Iano inhales.
“You get on,” he says, his voice tight. “I’ll get the rapier.”