Saengo’s eyes soften. She stands and pulls me into a hug. “You’re going to make the finest Shadow Evewyn has ever known. Kendara would be a fool not to have you, and we both know she’s no fool. But if that isn’t what you want anymore, then I expect you to come back to me. We’ll travel Evewyn first and then the world.”

I hug her back. Through the vise squeezing my throat, I whisper, “It’s a promise.”

FOURTEEN

It takes less coaxing than I anticipated to convince Phaut that I need to venture into the Dead Wood. Ronin never forbade me from going in there, so although she’s wary, her curiosity over my craft wins out.

Ronin won’t be happy about my decision to destroy the trees rather than control them, but he doesn’t need to know. Not just yet. And maybe Thiy shouldn’t need the Dead Wood anyway. Maybe what Thiy needs isn’t a wall to divide its peoples but a bridge.

But the first step is to learn how to summon my craft. Theyen said only genuine danger might invoke my magic, and the most dangerous things here are the trees.

Phaut and I garner quite the attention passing through the gate. Servants stare and the soldiers watch, perplexed, but nobody stops us for questioning. I’ll bet this is the first time they’ve seen anyone willingly step out of the gates without Ronin. They don’t even know how they should react.

Saengo waits in the courtyard, practicing her archery. She wanted a more physical means of exorcising her anxiety. We have that in common. With Ronin’s permission, the soldiers have set up a wooden dummy for her. She’s already loosed arrows into the dummy’s head and chest by the time I even step past the troll-bone palisade.

As we reach the white drapes, it takes every bit of courage I possess to lift aside the veil and keep walking. The first gnarled tree stands less than ten paces away. Its branches press against Ronin’s webbing, which snares around its knots and angles.

My breaths quicken. I reach for my swords.

“I’ll be right here,” Phaut says softly, as if afraid to draw the attention of the trees.

My fingers flex around the hilts of my swords. I take several deep breaths as I recall the sting of Kendara’s stick against my legs, raising welts. One strike for every flinch, every wince. One strike for every time my face gave away a moment’s pain or indecision. She repeated the lesson for weeks until my legs were bruised and swollen, until I could end a fight without betraying a single emotion.