They devoured half the sackcloths’ contents before they really settled in to ride. Zofi figured they could make their next trading post by nightfall, as long as they kept a hard pace. But fatigue from the previous day’s ride and their now-full bellies had them lagging by the time the sun set. The merchants’ road went darker than ever under its thick jungle canopy.

Here and there, lamps illuminated the road, though not brightly enough for them to ride any faster than a trot. Zofi couldn’t see the holes or wagon ruts in which a horse might twist its hoof.

Finally, near a signpost for the Dawn Mountains’ low road, which cut east through the jungle, Zofi called to Vidal. He’d been riding a few paces ahead, since his uniform served to deter anyone who might be tempted to pick a fight with Zofi. She’d bound her telltale curls in a scarf, and wore a shift to conceal her leather armor, but her short stature and narrow features still stood out, marks of her heritage.

Vidal wheeled around to meet her.

“We’re still a couple hours’ ride from our next stop,” she said. “By then it’ll be midnight; the inn will be shut. We should just camp here.”

It was a mark of his exhaustion that, despite the fact that he’d been talking all day about having a nice warm bed for a change, Vidal nodded.

They pitched the tent in silence. Almost before she’d finished rolling out the bed mats, he was sound asleep, snores rocking the tent. Zofi felt just as exhausted, but when she laid down at last, sleep wouldn’t come. She stared at the tarp overhead and pictured every way this could go wrong.

The heir could already have taken control of the throne. Ren could be dead. Akeylah could be, too.

Finally, mind still churning, Zofi rolled over and slid Mother’s journal from her saddlebag. She crept outside, careful not to wake Vidal—though she doubted a whole stampede could do that right now—and lit the lantern they’d hung near the horses.

By its flickering candlelight, she drew her longknife. Pricked her fingertip and traced the small well of blood down the spine of the book.

As far as she could tell, it didn’t do anything. The book just sat in her lap, looking like a book. But when she peeled apart the pages this time, instead of blank velum, spidery handwriting greeted her, inked in a dull brown color that reminded her suspiciously of blood.

More of Mother’s secrets.

She leaned against a nearby tree trunk, wider than she was tall, and settled in to read.