Zofi thought about the festivals she’d been to, the bejeweled women her mother had pointed out from time to time. Curseworkers, if you asked in the right way, at the right time. “One in particular?”

“Yes.” Akeylah surveyed her sisters. Drew a deep breath. “The one who helped me curse our father.”

Zofi’s jaw went slack.

“What?” Ren sputtered.

“It was an accident.” Akeylah tugged on one of her dark red plaits. “A horrible accident. I was trying to curse my stepfather—the man I thought was my father, Jahen, an abusive piece of…” She clamped her mouth shut. And her eyes. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is I worked the Vulgar Arts against Andros instead, and I’ve been trying to right that wrong ever since.”

Vulgar Arts? Zofi had wondered what dark secrets her sister was hiding, but even she could never have guessed this. “Is that what you’re always researching in the library?” she finally asked.

Akeylah nodded. “So far I’ve found nothing. I thought the curseworker who taught me in the first place might know a way to reverse it.”

“There are thirteen bands. Hundreds of Travelers spread out across the Reaches.” Zofi grimaced. “I can ask around, but the chances of locating her are slim, I’m just warning you.”

“Like I said, it’s a long shot.” Akeylah’s brows contracted. “But the mender says Father will only live another week or two. A slim chance is better than none.”

“Hurry it up, ladies,” the lead Talon shouted from back across the bridge. “That one needs to leave the city outskirts before nightfall.” He sneered at Zofi.

In the distance, the sun hovered at the horizon. At the back of her mind, Zofi felt a faint tingle; the Arts flooding back into her senses as the shield tithe lost its grip. At least she wouldn’t need to keep shielding herself anymore, now that she was about to ride out of the heir’s crosshairs for good. “What’s the woman’s name?” Zofi asked.

“She never gave it,” Akeylah murmured. “But I can describe her. Short, with bushy black curls like yours and a thin face, black eyes.”

“You’re describing nearly every Traveler in the Reaches.” Zofi rolled her eyes.

“She had a scar on her face.”

Zofi froze. Did she mean…? Surely not.

“Ladies.” The Talons marched closer.

“One more moment.” Ren backed away to head them off.

But Zofi had eyes only for Akeylah. Her sister lifted a hand to her cheek. Traced a finger from her eyebrow to her jawline in a half-moon. “It ran along her cheek like this. It stood out, even though it was thin, because it looked silver against her skin.”

A chill crept down Zofi’s spine. Impossible.

But there was only one Traveler who matched that description. A woman who had earned her scars—quite literally—decades ago, fighting as a mercenary in the Sixth War.