Chapter One
One week later
An icy wind, freckled with snow, smears the sea in blurs of silver.
The storm is a common one—the very same that invades Razam once it dips south, funneling into the currents of heat. But here in Brisendale, we call it Hail North.
And it has come early this year.
Only when I hear the shouts do I realize our ship has docked. The porthole frames my first glimpse of Kurst and the mountains beyond, crested with ice-covered pines underneath a full-bellied sky. My stomach writhes with nervous energy. Deep down, I never thought I would return home.
I turn from the window and gather my cloak, spiraling it around my shoulders along with a thick wool scarf coiled about my neck. I slide padded leather gloves up to my elbows, over my sleeves. The last touch is the hood, so I might hide my face.
My father can’t know I’m here.
Not yet. Not before we reach the Fortress of Sira—also known as the palace—where the Syndicate plans to meet.
Otherwise he would apprehend me before I could speak, lock me away.
For that reason, I couldn’t have joined Gustav’s envoy even if I had traveled back to Miridran.
If my father found me with them, he would have every right to take me back into custody.
And I’m not the only one who can’t get caught.
“Princess,” Prince Sundar calls over my shoulder, “it’s time we move.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” I say, tucking Anton’s pendant underneath my sweater and following Sundar from our modest cabin.
We’ve been traveling on a merchant vessel from Zar, managing to secure passage because of Sundar’s brief dalliance with Prince Raiden’s cousin, as we needed a way into Brisendale without drawing my father’s eye.
Sundar is as likely to be imprisoned as I am, considering it was a Razami prince’s uniform I wore when I killed King Rurik at Illian’s command.
But Sundar must speak before the Syndicate as a representative of Razam—a mission he volunteered for eagerly.
Even so, it took considerable effort for him to exchange his royal garb for a modest oilskin cloak and leathers for the journey, and even more to ditch his gold earrings and bracelets, because, as he told me, They go so well with the royal package. Meaning himself.
It reminded me so much of Anton that it hurt—even as I cracked a smile.
Anton, whom I left in Razam. Idly, my hand travels to where his pendant rests against my chest—a gesture I find myself making often.
But I remind myself that, soon, I will return.
And Fates help me, I will find a way to break Moranya’s curse—even if I must dig through every temple in Miridran and beyond to find a way to confront her.
A particularly chilled wind forces my thoughts into the present. My nose is numb the instant we emerge from the lower decks.
There I find Copelan. Our final companion.
“I found a coach willing to take us into Sira. It’s waiting for us,” he says, shivering in his cloak. He juts his chin over his shoulder. “Just past the sea market. They won’t come any closer.” He meets my eyes only to look away once more.
Our dance, these days.
He had requested Sadira’s permission to stay at my side, not wanting to leave me alone in Razam. Then, when Sundar and I announced our intention to make for Brisendale, he asked to join, citing that his perspective as the Master of Revels might help our cause at the Syndicate hearing.
For all his refusing to leave me, though, we have yet to have a proper conversation.
He nudges past me, his golden eyes narrowed against the cold, his pale hair buried beneath a scarf and hood. I try not to flinch as our shoulders brush.
It’s not that I’m still angry with him. It’s more that neither of us knows how to talk to the other.
We were never good at that before, but now, on a quest with even higher stakes, it seems we haven’t yet figured out how to balance the weight of the past, the present, and whatever future exists for us beyond this.
Still, I follow him off the ship, with Sundar on our heels.
The dock groans against our boots, the scent of frost and brine salting my tongue.
I always loved winter in Brisendale. Not so much the cold, biting as it is, but the bitter stillness of it.
Only a few sailors call out over the wind creaking through the ships.
There are dozens of them docked, shifting in the rising waves of an emerging storm.
Beyond the docks, Kurst is a winter haven, a cold, white fog smearing its atmosphere.
Rows of shops huddle together in piles of stone and sturdy wood painted in shades of gray and blue, stretching in long lines until they shrink into the haze.
The smell of smoked fish wafts from a cart to my left, a lone figure hastily packing it all away.
Smoke barrels from the chimney of a nearby tavern.
A minute later, it starts to pour.
Copelan takes the lead, and I follow as he and Sundar cut a path through the sleet, trekking through the slick, battered streets of Kurst, our luggage in tow. I hold my oilskin cloak over my head.
At the edge of the market, we find the waiting coach—a dark slab of wood pulled by two stocky Brisendali mares.
And all at once, it hits me that I’m back, and that Emilia isn’t here to greet me.
I swipe at the flurries that cross my line of vision, battling to pull in a breath. At least I’m not alone.
Yet so much is at stake, and I feel like it depends on me.
My anxiety heightens as I reach for the handle of the coach, only for my hand to move through it.
I try again, but I swear—I swear—I see my hand pass right through the brass. Clenching my teeth, I attempt it once more, and this time, my fingers wrap around the handle as though nothing happened. Neither Sundar nor Copelan takes notice.
It must be the lack of sleep. Fates, I hadn’t realized it was affecting me so.
“Weather always like this?” Sundar grumbles once we’re settled inside, shaking the ice from his shoulder-length dark hair and taking the seat across from mine.
At least the coach is large enough for him, considering he’s a head taller than I am, and twice as wide.
Copelan eases in next to me, his calf brushing mine.
I hug my arms against a shiver. “Only near the coast. Inland is…well, it’s rather beautiful. Cold but calm, and always bright with sunshine.”
Inland—where my stone-wrapped fortress of a home resides, atop a small mountain. Haloed by taller peaks, it always felt as though it were positioned by the sun itself.
I still wonder what has become of it. What I’d feel if I ever returned. It was there that I witnessed Emilia’s murder. But it was also our home, Emilia and me. Where we’d strung sheets and scarves into forts. Where we baked and pranced and acted out stories. It was a haven. Our happiest dwelling.
As our journey takes us farther inland, the buildings grow scarce, and snow dusts the air in plumes.
Copelan, leaning against the other side of the coach as if to afford me space, falls asleep swiftly.
I don’t know how. Cold seeps through cracks in the coach, and Sundar blessedly offers me his cloak, which I refuse on principle—only for him to insist. Outside, tall white pines begin to knit overhead, their branches draped in curtains of ice.
There’s something about Brisendali forests.
Unlike Miridran come winter, these trees do not shed their leaves.
The forest is alive with birdsong, the rustling of branches, the patter of icicles breaking and falling about.
Though after a while, the trees grow so thick it might as well be night, frost lacing the windows like a veil of ice.
Sundar falls asleep, too, some minutes later, his cheek flat against the wooden siding.
Though the journey has been taxing on my frail body, my fatigue mounting, my mind is too scattered, too worried, to sleep.
I drag my finger along the window, through the condensation, twirling it this way and that, until I’ve wiped away a clearing.
Several wayward honey-brown curls are glued to my forehead, though I brush them away, unable to look at my own reflection for long.
Instead I gaze past it, idly watching as dark shapes flit past the window—trees, the occasional deer, I think.
Until something materializes in the glass.
Hazy and ghostly white, like a whirl of pale smoke. Then its edges sharpen, lengthen. Details emerge the way they did with Anton’s stills, developing rapidly—
Dark, familiar eyes. A slash of mouth.
A dark curl of hair…
I leap from my seat, my heart slamming into my throat. Copelan rustles next to me. My pulse ratchets to full speed, but I blink, scrub my eyes—
The vision is gone.
My heart pounds a quick staccato. Shaking, I force myself to breathe. In through the nose, out through pursed lips.
I must have dozed off. Or it’s yet another sleep-deprived hallucination, just like when I grabbed the handle.
It must be, because there’s no way what I saw was real.
Or rather…who I saw.
The next afternoon, after spending the night in a modest posting inn, we come upon a clearing, a long ribbon of sea flowing inland from behind a tall jut of stone.
Upon that jut is the Fortress of Sira, the castle where the Brisendali monarchs have resided for the past two centuries.
On the outside, it is an unimpressive sight despite its size—stacks of weathered stone battered by decades of frigid, unrelenting wind.
A forest creeps onto the ledge on the right, and in the distance are nearby towns—clusters of homes and buildings.
Even from here, I can see the nearest port packed tight with Syndicate ships.
Beyond them, the sea churns underneath a stir of rain that has yet to reach land.
The wind pushes the carriage to and fro, sending it tottering on its wheels. Even Sundar looks nervous, his large fingers clamped on either side of the bench as we pull up to the main entrance. Copelan has only just begun to stir.