Even from a level above Ranka could scent the winalin in the syringe. She could scent the Kerth’s fear, sweaty and sharp, with resentment burning under it. The princess kept her eyes on her, and what could Ranka say to this girl who had lost so many already? Who had every reason to turn her back on this broken, wretched country—and was risking everything to save it instead?

Ranka lifted her head.

“Tell me what I have to do.”

38

WARM LIGHT SPILLED INTO THE room, but it did nothing to chase the cold from Ranka’s bones. The seconds ticked by in agony. The board Aramis had carefully pried loose lay beside her. The princess sat with a foot braced on either side of the new hole in the floor—and her loaded dart shooter pointed through it.

One of the Hands dragged the Kerth into an upright position.

Calm descended over Ranka like snow blanketing a field. She rose, cradling the instant-click torch Aramis had swiped from a half-drunk guard outside. The door behind her swayed on its hinges, bleeding light and laughter into the room.

The Hand uncapped the syringe.

The Kerth witch moaned out a prayer.

“Ranka,” Aramis whispered. “Now.”

Ranka lit the torch—and hurled it into the center of the inn.

For a breath the torch hung in the air, flames suspended in time, and then it dropped. It vanished into the crowd, swallowed by the press of bodies, winking out of sight like a single fallen star. Dread rose in Ranka.

Then someone shouted fire!

And flames overtook the room.

They spread from the floor to the walls, eagerly snapping up dry wood and spilled alcohol. Humans screamed, stampeding backward, and the Hands inside the back room turned toward the commotion.

Aramis fired.

The dart shot through the air—and slammed into the woman about to inject the Kerth.

She jerked, the syringe tipping in her hands. The Kerth’s head swung up, nostrils flaring, and she headbutted the Hand in the stomach. The woman cried out, swung wildly, and dragged the needle across the back of the Kerth’s leg.

“They got her,” Ranka blurted. “No, they—”

Faces whipped toward her voice.

“Someone’s up there!”

The Kerth staggered, her nails flickering from black to gray, black to gray, as if the winalin in her veins was at war with the witchery still ruling her body. She crashed her way through the Hands and out onto the main floor, reeling in the face of the flames and the humans who screamed at the sight of her before lurching sideways, staggering out a side door and into the street.

Ranka caught Aramis by the elbow. “We have to go.”

“Find them!”

Ranka turned. The stairs were blocked. The Hands spilled onto the main floor, shouting and pointing. “Hold on.”

Aramis’s eyes widened. “What are you—”

Ranka hoisted Aramis onto her back, her injured muscles straining. “Don’t let go.”