Morning songbirds began to whistle. Monkeys chattered in the branches. Every now and then, one would swing into her view upside-down and peer at her while she walked, checking whether she had any food to steal. Zofi waved her empty hands, and the monkeys bared their teeth in disappointment, swung back into the trees.

My mother is a curseworker.

Mother, who spent hours telling stories around the communal fires at night—sweeping sagas about the First Six or Traveler Queen Claera, or even personal tales of towns where she’d negotiated her way out of tight corners. Duels she’d won and damsels she’d rescued.

The same mother who let Zofi sleep in her tent for weeks after the Silver Prince’s death.

Zofi shouldn’t be surprised. If anyone in the Reaches would have forbidden knowledge about the Vulgar Arts, of course it would be Deena. But why had Mother offered that knowledge to an outsider? She taught Akeylah how to work a Vulgar Arts curse strong enough to fell a king, but she never shared the knowledge with her own band.

That went against every bone in Zofi’s body. Your band was your family—they shared everything. Food, money, weapons, any advantage they managed to grasp in a world set against them. Yet Mother hid this enormous capability.

Hooves sounded again, louder. This time, Zofi didn’t bother to move off the road. Dawn had already lit the sky, and there were gaggles of other passersby here and there. She felt safe enough not to hide in the bushes.

The hoofbeats slowed.

Zofi’s shoulders tensed. Had she made a mistake? Her hand drifted to her longknife. She glanced back, expecting trouble, and froze.

“Zofi?”

Behind her stood an enormous stallion. Eighteen hands high, his pelt bright silver, he snorted in greeting. Next to him paced a familiar chestnut mare, a grinning boy in a Talon’s leather vest on her back.

Despite herself, an answering smile split Zofi’s cheeks. “What in sands’ name are you doing out here?”

“Looking for you.” Vidal dismounted in a cloud of dust. “I can’t believe you walked this far already. I doubled back twice, thinking I must have ridden past you.”

She shot her eyes skyward. “Have you no faith?”

Then his arms were around her, and Zofi sank into them, more grateful than she cared to admit for the familiar embrace. “My mistake,” he murmured into the nest her hair had become after three days’ hard journey without a scarf to tie it back. “Next time I’ll take into account the fact that you walk as fast as a horse yourself.”

She snorted, the sound muffled by his leather tunic. “Not nearly.” Then she tilted her chin back to assess him. Aside from a faint sheen of sweat on his brow, he looked good.