I clasp my hands behind my back, gripping my fingers tight, and speak a half-truth. “I believe the shamanborn might have information that will help me find someone—a former mentor. I haven’t yet been able to summon my craft, and I think she can help me.” In case he doubts my intentions, I add, “Saengo will stay here with the shadowblessed healer.”

He appears to genuinely consider my request. My heart thunders, and my palms grow slick with anticipation.

At last, he says, “Very well. You may accompany me to Sab Hlee and speak to the shamanborn. I intend to remain there for three days. After that, I will return to Spinner’s End. If you haven’t located your mentor and returned by that time, you’ll have to find your own way.”

He means to make this into another test. Without Ronin as an escort, getting back to Spinner’s End on my own would be all but impossible. Still, I nod, my thoughts already racing to the challenge ahead.

SIXTEEN

The next morning, I’m given an hour to pull together a satchel of necessities. There are only five of us leaving—Ronin, two soldiers, Phaut, and myself.

Saengo waves from the front steps of the castle, her face pale and worried. I whisper a prayer to the Falcon Warrior to keep watch over her safety until I return. As we pass beneath the white drape and enter the Dead Wood, everyone in our party seems to hold their breaths. Even the soldiers look nervous, tugging their cloaks closer. We follow Ronin’s path through the trees, thankfully away from where I encountered Kamryne.

Ronin walks purposefully, his steps never faltering. He’s the only one in our party who isn’t wearing a spidersilk cloak, choosing instead a simple jacket and sash over leather armor. The woods shrink before him, clearing his path.

Every creak of the trees sends magic coiling beneath my skin, magic that I’m not at all confident I can call upon. The roots rustle and spasm but never quite complete the threat of tripping us. Withered bark splits, baring black rot. Those burl eyes track us as we pass.

The soldiers try not to look afraid in Ronin’s presence, but their body language gives them away. Their hands never leave their swords. What conversations they manage are short and stilted.

A face rises through the decayed bark, its mouth screaming soundlessly. I look away. They can’t tear free of the trees. They’ve been dead so long that their bodies have long merged with the Dead Wood, the branches becoming their arms and the roots their legs.

My gaze searches for somewhere to rest that isn’t pitted and rotten, and it finds the ornate pommel of Phaut’s sword. I gesture to it. “Where did you get your sword?”

She doesn’t look away from her scrutiny of the trees. “I made it.”