“Tomorrow morning I’m teaching the valkerax again, right?”

She nods, tightening the belt of her grand feathered robe. “Obviously.”

I watch her beautiful face. I know she knows I went to see Gavik today. I might as well come clean.

“Do you know?” I ask. “About the ‘Hymn of the Forest’?”

Varia smiles wanly at the glass of jade-colored yolshil. “How do you think I found Gavik’s pet valkerax in the pipe below the East River Tower? I scoured every inch of this city before I faked my death, looking for ways out. Of course I know about the temple’s library and their little hymn.”

“He told me,” I press on. “About the Bone Tree and the Glass Tree.”

There’s a beat, and for a moment I swear the only noise is the sound of the three moons setting over the garden hedges outside her windows.

Finally, Varia looks to me, her smile gone, her eyes tired. “Don’t bother with the past, Zera. The future is where you’ll find your freedom.”

With that, she stands, drains her glass, and disappears into her bedroom.

21

21

Goldblood

The morning sun isn’t forgiving, slatting through the high windows as I walk the palace halls to my carriage. Neither is the crowd gathered on the grand front steps.

With seeing Evlorasin on my mind, I have little care for the nobles and servants knotted around a marble step until I see a woman collapse, her great skirts billowing as she lets out a strangled cry into her handkerchief. Her friends gather around her, whispering comfort and helping her to her feet.

With her absence, I can see into the center of the crowd. There, standing in blackened, half-scorched clothes, stands a young boy. He trembles from head to toe, something clutched in his hand. The crowd offers him a blanket to cover his ruined clothes, water to quench his unmoving tongue and ease his sweat-stained exhaustion. The ruined black feather in his hat marks him as the stableboy of a noble family. The crowd’s whispers resound.

“It’s all right, young one. You’re safe now.”

“Did he really run all the way back from Hardetting? That’s nearly seventeen miles!”

“Someone get the guards!”

I knit my brows and look more closely at the boy—his eyes are so tired, they look deadened, filled with lead, as if he can’t hear the words or see the reality around him. The only time he makes a move of his own accord is when someone tries to touch him; he flinches back instantly, eyes flashing with pure terror.

A guard suddenly calls for room and pushes through the crowd, armor glimmering in the sun. The guard kneels, his voice low as he speaks to the boy, who simply stares at him with those dead eyes. After a long moment, the boy is persuaded to open his tightly closed fist. From his fingers cascades a golden symbol.