The towering spruce trees of the Pfeist Mountains block the splitting sunlight from Tygoh’s tanned skin. It is a welcome respite. Hours of harsh sunlight wash away as the dewy needles collect droplets and fall leisurely upon his forearms. His horse steps gingerly through the rugged underbrush, ears pricked forward to the chitter of birds. The smell of damp and root flood into his nostrils.

  Tygoh’s pack, squeaking against the leather of his saddle, is stuffed with dried mountain elk and pine nuts purchased from the street vendors of Nelivian. He heads westward toward the capital city of Denand, through the trees and into the valley of springs.

  Tygoh had ridden his horse hard, thundering through the desert until he reached the tree line. Only then had he stopped to refill his water skin and stock up on supplies. His horse, foaming with sweat, had hung his head and slept the moment they reached camp. Tygoh took the time to remove his tack, slicking the sweat off his coat with his hands. He poured water in his roughened palms to offer, waking the beast for a moment, feeling the splash of water over his hands and onto the ground as the soft muzzle drank up the cool liquid. A few rips of grass later and the horse was asleep again. By morning, the dew had washed them both clean, and a quick breakfast of grouse and greens sent them on their way.

  The magnificent spruce trees above their heads were the oldest in Vaeba. Anarah spoke of them on the nights they would lie together, remarking on how she dreamt of their heights. A shadow of regret follows him through the rough outcropping that opens up before them, ferns and boulders underfoot. In his selfishness, he had left her behind. Perhaps his father knew him better than he understood, always chastising him for exploding at the smallest of things. Even if he were never around, Lord Dacre was still his flesh and blood.

  Yet the Xelinites certainly looked as he did. Dark of skin, dark of hair. His father’s looks had manifested in his fiery hazel eyes and his chin that split like a peach, hairless and smooth. His father’s wife was a tan-skinned high lady from the province of Cale, so the nobles never questioned his lineage. She had come from a family of farmers, as rich as the blackened soil. She had never so much as acknowledged Tygoh’s existence, and for the longest time, Tygoh accepted this as the norm. His father, when he did visit, showered Tygoh in gifts made for a prince; a glimmering tunic belt, a ruby-hilted sword, an embroidered bridle for his stallion. They were apologies and compromises more than gifts of praise. As a boy, he took them gratefully, never without grace, but always considering his father’s absence in the back of his mind.

  If it were true--if his mother was a Xelinite—it would mean the Dacre family was well on its way into extinction, just as the Xelinites were. The marriage was desecrated, his mother a commoner. There was no respect for the needy loins of noblemen and even less for the bastard children born of adultery. He was a bastard, a commoner with a noble sire of the most ignoble resolution.

  He drives his gelding up a short ravine, wandering through the low-hanging boughs of the spruce trees. In the distance, he hears the clang of metal on metal, a blacksmith’s hammer, echoing off the walls of the valley ahead. He listens close, straining to hear the sound of voices. The spruce needles make a soft shushing noise below the hooves of his mount, and the calls of screeching crows overtake the hum of the city below. Cresting the hill, he gazes down into a sprawling gorge, sheltered by the foothills that bloom up the mountainside. A small stone castle lies near the rear of the canyon, surrounded in every direction by homes and shops. Smoke rises through the trees, billowing from the stick and brick houses that line the crowded streets.

  Tygoh pulls his horse to a stop under the nearest tree, jumping from his saddle. He pulls out his waterskin, unties the leather strap, and gulps down a few swallows. Then he reaches into his pack for a slice of elk jerky and bites into the meaty piece, chewing as he removes a battered sight glass from the bottom of his bag. The Dacre family sigil of the wyvern is engraved on its side. He extends the neck of the eyeglass, pressing his left eye to the viewfinder and searching through the tree limbs to find the castle.

  The great stone mass is simplistic, its gatehouse leading right onto the streets of the city. Two guards fashioned in padded leather jerkins and dented helms are stationed outside the gate. The streets are filled with merchants and farmers, their clothes ragged. Looking toward the far reaches of the valley, he scans the foothills. Farms and cattle pens line the outskirts. He peers through the sight glass, hoping to find a barracks set with soldiers for war. He finds nothing. He looks again to the west, searching the foothills. Nothing.

  Their predictions were wrong. There was no army. If Silon did possess an army, it was laughably small, fitting inside the trifling mound she called a castle. Unless the capitol sought to keep their army out of reach, the threat of Denand was insignificant.

  He lifts the sight glass again, peering around the castle. A storehouse, a whorehouse, a stable. A blacksmith standing out front of his shop, hollering and waving his arms. Then he moves the sights on a building larger than the others. No guards line the doors. The roof is shingled with spruce planks, moss growing on its face. A woman goes in, then comes out moments later, carrying what looks like a chamber pot. She moves quickly, removing another pot, then another, depositing the contents into a large barrel sitting outside. He waits, watching. The woman, her dress dirty and hair a bird’s nest, waits outside for a moment, her hands on her hips, watching the streets. A horse cart pulls up moments later, loaded with baskets of bread, fruit, and scraps of meat. She unloads each basket, straining under the meat as the driver sits in his perch, fiddling with his hands. The girl carries the food inside the small door, returning one last time to tip the driver and wave. She disappears inside the door and doesn’t return.

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  Tygoh slips the sight glass shut, shoving it back down into his pack. He jumps into the saddle again, flicking the reins and stepping his horse through the trees and down into the valley, finding the street that leads to the castle. As he approaches, the civilians look up from their work, some smiling as he passes. Their clothes are dirty and worn, but their faces are clean. He spots a cart full of winter melons and thinks only for a moment about buying one for the king. A young girl with hair the color of honey runs out to him, begging to feed his black gelding a slice of apple. Before he can stop his horse, her mother interrupts, chastising the girl for giving away food, apologizing fiercely as she leads the child away. He passes the blacksmithing shop with the roughened, shouting smith, and the man, a portly bald-headed fellow catches his attention.

  “Fancy a new sword?” he calls. The man looks Tygoh up and down, finally dipping his head. “My Lord,” he says, blushing. “I’m sorry, sir. You look fit for a king. We don’ see your kind around these parts much.”

  Tygoh gazes blankly. He eyes the smith’s scratched leather apron and tunic stained with sweat, then remembers his own garments. He wears a belted tunic, open at the chest and fastened with two silver-buckled straps. His sword, sheathed at his side, gleams in the sunlight, jeweled and polished. His leather boots alone are worth more than the smithy’s anvil.

  “No worries,” Tygoh replies. He halts his gelding beside the pudgy man. “You may be able to help me with something else, however. I’m looking for a woman. She is being held captive. Dark skin, dark hair, like myself. Do you have any idea where I may find her?”

  “Oh, one of the Xelinites, you mean? Yeh, she’s probably bein’ taken care of at the holding cells. Right down the way, just a street over. You’ll meet Natty. She’s the maid there. Are you sure I can’t interest you in a new sword, sir?”

  Tygoh purses his lips. “No thank you. And thank you for your information.” He nudges his gelding forward.

  The smithy yells at his back. “Most would expect pay for givin’ information, sir!”

  Tygoh takes a narrow alleyway to the next street over, dodging carts and animals. He spots the large refuse barrel sitting outside the building he had seen in the sight glass a few buildings down. The girl, Natty, comes out to empty another chamber pot, retches slightly, and returns inside. He reins in, stopping beside the doorway and sliding from the saddle. The smell hits him first and he struggles to control his gag reflex. He peers inside, seeing a set of double doors just inside, leading to the rear of the building. Inside the foyer, there are baskets of food, clothes, and buckets of water scattered about. He steps into the storage room, knocking gently on the double doors. The dirty-faced girl answers.

  “Yessir?” she chimes. Her left eye is a pale blue, her right a deep brown.

  “There is a woman here by the name of Drair. May I speak with her?”

  The girl hesitates, peering behind him into the street. “If you’re quick, come on in.” She opens the door, stepping to the side and waving him in.

  The chambers are dark, dimly lit with torches lining the walls. The floor is hard-packed dirt. Numerous cells line the walls. In them are families of three, four, even eight or nine Xelinites, all bearing the darkened skin of the desert.

  “This way,” Natty whispers, leading him down the center. “You shouldn’t be here. I don’t know how you got in without the guards noticing. They’d have you kept up in here with the rest of them, poor souls.”

  A child in a cell halfway down the aisle nearby bashes his head on the bars, reaching his hand through them to grasp for Tygoh’s tunic.

  “Please, sir, I cannot be here! They’re going to kill us all! And you, if you’re caught!”

  He is the same age Tygoh was when he received his first sword, around thirteen. Tygoh studies them all. Families huddle together in the dark, their eyes closed in what looks like prayer. Some cells hold only one captive, clutching the cell bars, or vomiting into their chamber pots. At the far back of the building is Drair, sitting in the dirt at the rear of her cell, alone. Her boots and the leather bracers around her arms are missing. She sits quietly, eyes closed, unmoving.

  “She’s very quiet.” Natty shakes her head. “I can’t unlock the cell. Only the guards have keys, but you can talk to her out here. Are you family?” she says, folding her hands in front of her.

  “No. Thank you,” Tygoh says, staring at the assassin.

  “Of course,” the girl bows. “They only have a few days before the next ship comes to pick them up.”

  Natty removes herself, resuming her duties. Drair, sitting with her back against the log wall behind her, opens her eyes. Her left eye is bruised and swollen. She smirks.

  “Dacre,” she drones.

  “We don’t have much time, Abidan. What do you know?”

  Drair clears her throat of the dirt in the air and speaks quietly. “Scouts came in the night. Three of them. Not Pfeist Mountain scum, but trained men. They overtook me, tied me to a horse, and dragged me through the mountains. They’re selling us to Tauris for money. Denand is destitute. There was no army waiting.”

  Tygoh nods. “I saw.”

  “Are you here to release me or leave me to rot?” she asks.

  He hesitates, index finger tapping the hilt of his sword. “I need your help.”

  “Useful tool,” she replies flatly, raising her eyebrows. Tygoh catches a glimpse of the Lynac tattoo on her brow bone, then looks away just as quickly.

  “Taeg is marching this way at the advice of the Grand Master and General Stoles. I came to see for myself what Silon is up to. There was no way she would come into a power as great as yours and sell it as soon as she gets her hands on it. It’s the buyers I’m worried about. We need to realign our strategy.”

  Drair sighs. “I’m not much help locked away.”

  “No,” he hums, looking around at the others. “You’re not.”