But a king and queen had died, and no one had called foul. A king had kidnapped a grandfather, and no one suspected him.

A one-eyed king.

It was a Grace. Or if it was not, it was something unnatural.

THE PATH grew thinner and more overgrown, and they walked with the horses more than they rode. And now all the trees seemed to change color at once, the leaves orange and yellow and crimson, and purple and brown. Only a day or two to go before they reached the inn that would take their horses. And then the steep climb into the mountains, with their belongings on their backs. There would be snow in the mountains, Po said, and there would not be many travelers. They would need to move cautiously and watch for storms.

“But you’re not worried, are you, Katsa?”

“Not particularly.”

“Because you never get cold, and you can bring down a bear with your hands and build us a fire in a blizzard, using icicles for kindling.”

She would not humor him by laughing, but she couldn’t suppress a smile. They had encamped for the evening. She was fishing, and when she fished he always teased her, for she didn’t fish with a line, as he would have. She fished by removing her boots, rolling up the legs of her trousers, and wading into the water. She’d then snatch up any fish that came within range of her grasp and throw it to Po, who sat on shore laughing at her, scaling and gutting their dinner, and keeping her company.

“It’s not many people whose hands are faster than a fish,” he said.

Katsa snatched at a silver pink glimmer that flashed past her ankles, then tossed the fish to Po. “It’s not many people who know that a horse has a stone caught in its hoof even when the horse shows no signs of it, either. I may be able to kill my dinner as easily as I kill men, but at least I’m not conversing with the horses.”

“I don’t converse with the horses. I’ve only started to know if they want us to stop. And once we’ve stopped, it’s usually easy enough to find what’s wrong.”

“Well, regardless, it seems to me that you’re not in a position to marvel at the strangeness of my Grace.”

Po leaned back on his elbows and grinned. “I don’t think your Grace is strange. But I think it’s not what you think it is.”

She grabbed at a dark flash in the water and threw a fish to him. “What is it, then?”

“Now, that I don’t know. But a killing Grace can’t account for all the things you can do. The way you never tire. Or suffer from the cold, or from hunger.”

“I tire.”

“Other things, too. The knack you have with fire in a rainstorm.”

“I’m just more patient than other people.”

Po snorted. “Yes. Patience has always struck me as one of your defining characteristics.”