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Chapters (61)
  1. Dedication
  2. Prologue
  3. Ashyn: One
  4. Two
  5. Three
  6. Four
  7. Five
  8. Six
  9. Seven
  10. Eight
  11. Moria: Nine
  12. Ten
  13. Eleven
  14. Twelve
  15. Thirteen
  16. Ashyn: Fourteen
  17. Fifteen
  18. Sixteen
  19. Moria: Seventeen
  20. Eighteen
  21. Nineteen
  22. Twenty
  23. Twenty-one
  24. Twenty-two
  25. Ashyn: Twenty-three
  26. Twenty-four
  27. Twenty-five
  28. Twenty-six
  29. Twenty-seven
  30. Twenty-eight
  31. Twenty-nine
  32. Thirty
  33. Moria: Thirty-one
  34. Thirty-two
  35. Thirty-three
  36. Thirty-four
  37. Thirty-five
  38. Thirty-six
  39. Thirty-seven
  40. Ashyn: Thirty-eight
  41. Thirty-nine
  42. Forty
  43. Forty-one
  44. Forty-two
  45. Forty-three
  46. Forty-four
  47. Forty-five
  48. Forty-six
  49. Forty-seven
  50. Forty-eight
  51. Forty-nine
  52. Moria: Fifty
  53. Fifty-one
  54. Fifty-two
  55. Fifty-three
  56. Fifty-four
  57. Fifty-five
  58. About the Author
  59. Back Ad
  60. Credits
  61. About the Publisher

“It’s not a cur,” Wenda said. “It’s a Hound—”

“Yes, yes,” Barthol said. “It’s a poxed Hound of the—”

He broke off as Tova rose. Then he stared at the huge hound. Behind him, the smaller man whispered, “By the spirits . . .”

“His name is Tova,” Ashyn said, as loud as she could while keeping her voice steady. “I am Ashyn of Edgewood. I am the Seeker who guards the Forest of the Dead. He is my bond-beast.”

The smaller man dropped to his knees. “My lady. I meant no offense with my joking—”

“Oh, don’t grovel,” Barthol muttered. “She’s a girl, barely old enough to be sold to a whorehouse.”

“Barthol!” the other man said.

Another man stepped forward, still hidden in the dark. “Fyren’s right, Barthol. Our customs may not be yours, but you ought to show some respect. The girl is blessed by the spirits.”

“I know what a Seeker is. A rare and valuable creature.” Barthol smiled, teeth shimmering. “The empire will pay well to ransom her.”

“Ransom?” Fyren choked on the word, sputtering. “A Seeker? They’d exile us all to her forest . . . after they burned out our tongues for blasphemy.”

Noises of assent came from the darkness.

“It’s true,” Ashyn said. “You cannot ransom me. But if you found me and the child—the last survivors of our village, dying of thirst in the Wastes—and you gave us water and escorted us to Fairview, you would be handsomely rewarded.”

“Last survivors?” Fyren said.

“I can explain,” she said. “When you bring water for the child.”

As Ashyn soon realized, the bandit leader—Barthol—was not a stupid man. One doesn’t rise to that position without at least a feral intelligence. He dismissed her stories of shadow stalkers and death worms as the panicked ravings of a girl who’d spent too long in the sun without water, but her suggestion of a reward struck him as rational and sensible. They would escort Ashyn and Wenda to Fairview.

The bandits had plenty of water and food, and strong men willing to carry the child. Fairview was less than a half day’s walk, they said, and they set out immediately, lighting the way with lanterns.

As they walked, Ashyn watched for Ronan. She did not mention him—the bandits might fear competition for that reward and send a runner ahead to make sure he didn’t reach Fairview alive. Wenda took the hint and stayed silent as well.

Thirty

Thirty

It was barely midmorning when they reached Fairview. Wenda had seen it first, from her perch on a bandit’s shoulders. She’d cried out so suddenly that the man nearly dropped her. Ashyn looked up and there it was, the whitewashed clay buildings shimmering under the sun.