The girl’s warning told her two things: that the girl had not fled as she’d ordered, and that Papa was now bearing down on her.

She snatched the spear from the second Scab, who was now falling from his horse, twisted in her saddle, and hurled it with all her strength. She was halfway through the hurl before adjusting her sword to take out the Scab rushing her.

The blade struck him in his chest, but his momentum carried him crashing into her. They toppled to the ground as one.

She struggled to disengage the heavy, dead Scab who’d landed on top of her and finally succeeded, only to find Papa standing over her, sword extended.

“Good fight, Forest Dweller. But I’m afraid it’s come to an end.”

And he is right, Darsal thought. Her own sword lay on the sand, five paces away; her horse, which carried her other sword, had bolted across the clearing, taking the book with it.

This behemoth of a Scab had a blade inches from her throat.

“Do you know who the girl is?” Darsal asked.

“No. Should I?”

“Karas. Daughter of Witch.”

Papa continued to grin, but his face suddenly appeared wooden. “Is that so? I had heard she was missing. Then I’ll let Witch decide what to do with her.”

“No,” Karas said behind him. “You won’t.”

She had dismounted and was walking toward them carrying nothing but the book.

“And if you know what’s good for you,” she said to Papa, “you will bathe in some of the water we’ve brought and cleanse your mind of the disease.”

“Stay back,” he snapped.

Karas stopped and looked up at him. “Are you going to kill her?”

“I have to. If you really are the daughter of Witch, you know that.” Then he added to make it clear, “Not that I don’t want to kill her, mind you.”

Karas tossed the Book of History toward Darsal. “Then at least let her die in peace.” The book thudded to the sand, two feet away.

Darsal’s mind spun through her alternatives and settled on the only course of action that made sense.

“Thank you.” Slowly she reached her hand to Papa’s sword. “Please, let me die with blood on the book. It’s the only way I can find paradise.”

“What kind of nonsense is that?” he said. But he held his blade steady.

She drew a single finger along the sword’s edge, then pulled it away. “See? Blood.”

Papa stared at this new ritual he’d never heard of—how could he when she’d fabricated it just now? Darsal felt her hand tremble as she reached for the book. It was going to work. Please, Elyon, let this work . . .