The trees weren’t as tall here as they were to the east, back near the River Merra. It was mostly copses of fingerbone birches, bare with winter. Crier took the lead, listening as always for any danger, and together she and Ayla picked their way up into the foothills, navigating around boulders and thick clumps of saplings. A few hours passed with no sign of anything unusual, anything connected to the blue smoke. They had been traveling on foot since early in the morning, and judging by the sun’s position it was nearing midafternoon now. Crier kept a close eye on Ayla. They’d passed a couple mountain streams, so Ayla had been able to drink her fill of water, but she hadn’t eaten since last night.

Finally, just as Crier was about to suggest they stop for the day and find shelter, they found a gap in the trees, a clearing ringed with young birches—and strewn with the remnants of a human camp. By the looks of it, the camp had only recently been abandoned. The humans had tried to hide their tracks—the pale ashes of a campfire were strewn at the edge of the clearing, purposefully mixed with the dirt, and piles of dead leaves had been scuffled around to hide boot- or hoofprints. But Crier could smell those ashes, a sharp back-of-the-tongue scent mingled with the muted scents of earth and decay, and more than that, she could smell . . . something else, something stronger, like the ozone snap of a powder bomb but not.

“Crier,” said Ayla. She was crouched over the roots of a tree, frowning. “Come look at this. Don’t touch.”

The second Crier crouched down beside Ayla, she knew this was the source of the powder bomb smell: there was a strange scar at the base of the tree, like it had been struck by lightning, the bark scorched and peeling back around a deep, piercing wound. There was a shard of stone lodged in the center of the tree’s wound. Blue gemstone, a blue deeper than lapis lazuli, deeper than sapphire, like it wasn’t stone at all but a piece of the midnight sky. Was this what caused the blue smoke? Was it some sort of . . . shell, for the powder bombs? Or was this the deadly substance itself?

Crier turned, scanning the rest of the clearing for more clues. She didn’t see any other pieces of the blue stone, but she did see a spot of bright color on the ground, half hidden among the dead leaves and the underbrush. Caught in a bramble, like a butterfly in a spiderweb, the only reason it hadn’t blown away.

One of Queen Junn’s green feathers.

“Hey,” said a voice.

Crier whipped around. How had she not heard someone coming? At the edge of the clearing there was a human boy. No older than Crier herself. He was carrying a loaded crossbow, the bolt pointed at Crier. She’d definitely been on the run too long, because her first thought was: Oh, not again.