No one called me Myrthe. I was “Wishtress” now. A new identity wholly detached from my person. I tried to mount, but a hand pulled me back to the earth. I shoved it off, panic building in my throat.

“Let’s go!” Sven’s shout silenced and stilled the crowd. They scattered like children caught sneaking sugar from a baker’s box.

Sven sounded firm. Maybe even angry, but then I saw his face. Pride. Pleasure. He devoured the attention as though it were due him. In a way it was. The people saw him as the one who secured the loyalty of the Wishtress.

I could vomit.

Kees offered me a foot up on the mare again. I ignored him. I ignored everyone. I clambered atop the mare and nudged her forward. Sven said nothing to me and I preferred it that way. He saw their fawning as a good thing. Their threats, even. He thought my fear would keep me clinging to his side.

I couldn’t wait to prove him wrong.

*  *  *

When we made camp that night, it was with bows strung and arrows within arm’s reach. Sven relied on his foresight to keep the group hidden from the king’s militairen, but if they knew the details of his Talent, I doubt they’d sleep with daggers sheathed.

The group was small enough to set up in a clearing but large enough that we had scouts patrol the perimeter. I saw Luuk and Archer set out for the first shift. Fires were allowed at dusk and dawn. Once the darkness of night fell, people laid out beds of coal beneath rock slabs to sleep on warm stones.

Only Sven had a tent, and it was the size of a small cabin. It set him apart from the rest—made him both a target and an idol. After a few woodsfolk pounded the last peg and unrolled the final animal skin, I made my move.

I wasn’t tired. Wasn’t hungry for anything other than action. I swept into the empty tent as though it’d been assembled for me alone. Sven wasn’t in it yet, but his belongings were.

I tore into them.

I dumped everything out onto the closest animal fur. Unrolled every shirt and cloth. Unsheathed every weapon—two daggers and a spare bowstring. I even dug through the wad of beeswax inside the small tree bark jar used for protecting his clothes and boots against the wet. I shoved a hand into each of his skates and even searched inside the grooves of his skate guards.

No map.

Nothing.

There wasn’t much else in the tent, but I turned over every blanket, glanced under every rug, even felt among the seams of his pillow—he had a pillow!—and came up empty. A small table rested in the center of the room.