And not in the direction of Aeduan’s coins.

He was surprised by how much he didn’t care about the talers. In fact, Aeduan found himself thinking more about the person who’d stolen his coins than the coins themselves. He wanted to know how the talers had ended up in Lejna. How the man—or woman—who smelled of clear lakes and frozen winters had gotten the money there in the first place. As soon as Owl was safe again, Aeduan had every intention of finding answers to his questions.

At that thought, more tension fretted through Aeduan’s muscles. He wanted to run. To fight. He knew the feeling well by now—he’d encountered it often enough, whenever Monk Evrane had scolded or Guildmaster Yotiluzzi had schooled. It was a wall that hardened around Aeduan’s heart and sent his heels slamming deeper, harder into the soil.

Until Owl whimpered, her hand crushed in his.

Aeduan ground to a stop. He’d been dragging her. Because he was a demon, and that was what demons did. His eyes snapped down to her wide, pitiful ones.

“I’m sorry,” he told her, even though he didn’t need to. She trusted him. Fool child. He couldn’t believe his father wanted her. Why, why—after everything, why?

It was as Aeduan stared into her bloodshot eyes that a cannon boomed in the distance. South. Where the Threadwitch must now be.

Without thought, Aeduan drew in a long, deep breath. His power stretched wide; his witchery latched on to the scent of his own silver taler, still dangling from her neck.

Yes, she was south. Hurry, he thought, for clearly violence was breaking loose.

It always did in the Contested Lands.

Aeduan let his magic subside, spool back in like a length of twine, when new blood-scents crashed against him.

Hundreds of them, rising from the forest, marched this way from the north, some on horseback. Some on foot.

Aeduan could only assume they were the same Baedyed ranks he’d passed yesterday—yet for some reason, they must have turned back. They now traveled south through the pillar-filled gorge.

Aeduan stopped. Right there in the forest with Owl at his side. The men on horseback would arrive soon … He sniffed, letting his magic swell and reach.

More people approached from behind, exactly as Aeduan and Iseult had seen from the ruins that morning. Soon, the two groups would converge.

Aeduan looked down at Owl, who surveyed him in silence. Always silent.

“We have to run now, Little Sister. I’m going to carry you. Will that be all right?” At her nod, he knelt. “Climb onto my back.”

She obeyed.

Aeduan ran.

* * *

Safi had every intention of following the Hell-Bards and the Cartorran navy. After all, leaving the arena was undoubtedly the next logical step.

It would seem, however, that the gods had something else in mind. For as Safi raced after Vaness and the Hell-Bards, she caught sight of someone familiar.

Just a glimpse in the corner of her eye, and not instantly recognizable. She merely saw the man’s square jaw, and the faintest recognition tickled at the base of her skull.

It wasn’t until she reached the tunnel beyond that the words ’Matsi-lovin’ smut ran down Safi’s spine.

Nubrevnans.

Not just Nubrevnans, but sailors from the Jana. From Merik’s old crew.

Safi slung back on her heel midstride. In ten bounding steps and with water kicking high, she reached the man’s cell.

Somehow, the slaves roared louder now. They clanged at the bars and sloshed water. Free us, free us, free us.

“You!” Safi yelled in Nubrevnan. She advanced on the square-jawed man, who made no move. Offered no reaction. “How did you get here?” When he didn’t answer, she thrust close to the bars. “How did you get here?”

Still, the man held his tongue. His companions, however, did not. A bare-chested boy with braids scurried near. “We’re part of the Foxes, lady. Out of Lovats.”

It meant nothing to Safi. “You are not part of Prince Merik’s crew?”

“No,” said another sailor. An officer, Safi guessed, from his navy coat and the witch-collar strapped to his neck. “We work for Princess Vivia. Our mission is to gather food and seeds and livestock—anything we can take back to our people.”

“Nubrevna has turned to piracy?” called Vaness.

Safi flinched. She hadn’t noticed the empress approaching. Hadn’t seen her sidle close through the dim torchlight and water’s splash.

“Hye,” the officer told Vaness. “But we failed, for our ship was taken by the Baedyeds two days ago. And the crew—we were sold here to the arena.”

“It’s worse than that,” the boy cut in, yelling over the building madness. “They took our ship and filled it with seafire. It’s on its way back to Lovats right now, ready to kill everyone!”

Safi’s jaw sagged, and even the Iron Empress swayed back a step.

“Help us,” the officer begged, looking first to Safi, then to Vaness. “Please. Just free our Voicewitch. She can send a warning to the capital—that’s all we ask.”

“Please.” The boy’s braids shook. “The pirates killed our prince, and now they’ll kill our families.” As he spoke, his words humming with truth, a new figure shoved through the ranks.

A woman with a collar. The Voicewitch.

Yet Safi hardly noticed. The pirates killed our prince. So explosive in all its simple utterance.

“Prince Merik,” Safi repeated, “is dead?” When the boy didn’t hear her, she slung in closer, shouting, “Prince Merik is dead?”