Myraden scrambled back along the sandy bottom of a training pit, clutching her shoulder and gasping. Blood poured out from between her fingers, and her arm refused to support her weight. The severed skin and muscle slid within her, creating a sickening sensation. She gagged. With a thud, she fell back into the sand.

  It shouldn’t have been so bad. It was a deep wound, sure, but the blade had pierced no major vessels or arteries.

  But she was only a Kindling-stage wizard, and her blood was thin as could be.

  A memory from years ago.

  It wasn’t over yet. The Hand and his four disciples stood in front of her. Two men, a seafolk, and a satyr—and their Familiars. Hate burned in the disciples’ eyes. They’d found out who she was, where her allegiances lay, and that she was only here to gather information for Sirdia.

  The Hand only watched with a plain, empty expression.

  Kythen nipped at the back of her neck and clutched her cloak, pulling her away from the angry disciples. She pushed through the sand with her own feet, trying to reach the circle of trees ringing the training pit.

  “Let me kill her,” said Nael, the satyr, who had already advanced to Catch. “I’ll make her pay for this treachery!”

  “No,” said the Hand. “Let her leave.”

  Myraden had never understood why he’d let her go. He could have killed her and saved himself a great deal of trouble.

  But he held his sword out to the side, blocking Nael’s path. “You have orders, disciple. Stay where you are. She will die in those woods.”

  She hadn’t died. With Kythen’s help, she had bandaged her wounds and snuck aboard a cargo transport, then navigated back to Sirdia. Until these past few months, she’d never seen the Hand again.

  Myraden and the Hand walked to the palace under the light of dawn. They strode across the street in their overcoats, their breaths condensing into steam. She rubbed her eyes, trying to purge the nightmare from her mind and concentrate on the present. It didn’t work.

  “Why did you let me live?” Myraden asked softly.

  “Pardon?” The Hand tilted his head, but he didn’t look at her. It’d be improper for a marshal of his status.

  She pulled her overcoat away from her shoulder. There was no scar anymore, but she could still imagine the lump of pale white flesh where she’d cauterized the old wound. “Back at Pliath Castle, during my initial training.”

  The Hand snorted, letting out an abrupt puff of steam. “I knew your father. We had been friends during the Seisse uprising—and he helped me. I couldn’t kill him back then, and I couldn’t kill you either. Perhaps my greatest failure.”

  “Do you regret it?”

  “Yes. Not a day passes where I don’t wish you were dead, that I had caught Pirin and delivered his head to the Emperor, and set everything right.”

  “Then kill me.”

  Again, the Hand snorted.

  “Could you kill me?” Myraden asked. “Are you strong enough?”

  “Yes. One against one, I could kill you.”

  “Then why not take your revenge?”

  “We are past that point, don’t you think? The Emperor is dead, my name means nothing, and killing you would serve no purpose—if I could even bring myself to do it.”

  They passed through a hedge gate, then down a central trail through the garden. Hedges rose on both sides, blocking out the garden from view and funnelling well-dressed guests into the palace for a morning gathering. The leaves were withering, and their edges were browning, but hedges were some of the last plants to turn orange in the fall.

  Myraden made sure to keep a few steps behind the Hand, and Kythen trotted along a few paces behind.

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  “We will hang back,” said the Hand. “There will be a large gathering, where they will discuss empty nothings and minor matters. Squabbles with pirates, among others. Quelling local rebellions, the like.”

  “We will watch?” Myraden tilted her head.

  “If you are going to hunt for your elixirs, now is the time. I fear we won’t stay undiscovered for long after we speak with Marshal The?mir.”

  “Find him,” Myraden said. “I will find the elixirs and meet back up with you.”

  They walked up the steps to the palace’s front gate and passed through the open doors, then entered an open foyer. Straight ahead was the old king’s hall, but a line of Dominion soldiers blocked off the entryway. To the left was a different meeting hall, with two risers of seats on either side. Light poured through stained glass windows and illuminated the swirling dust.

  It was a parliament chamber—from when Greatsaad had been a constitutional monarchy. But that had been before the time of the Dominion. Now, its green-velvet upholstered benches held military minds.

  To the right was a banquet hall. Currently empty, though servants darted about, preparing tables and cleaning chandeliers, replacing candles in the sconces and trimming the wreaths.

  That was her target.

  She pulled off her overcoat and opened her void pendant, then tucked the overcoat into the pendant. She covered Lejavüdkue with the overcoat, then sealed it again.

  Her dress flowed behind her, half made of smokey mesh and half of brown fabric, and at a sparing glance, it’d seem fancy enough. She walked down the center of the banquet hall, dodging meek servants. They were all men or seafolk—no ostals—and they kept their heads down in the presence of her and Kythen.

  Even if she was a sprite, they recognized her power as a wizard. She took a few shaky breaths, and for a few seconds, wanted to just command one of them. To see what would happen. Would he listen? Would he obey?

  But she restrained herself. Such power was the realm of the Dominion, and she had to be better than them.

  She walked to the end of the banquet hall unobstructed. A curtain blocked a smaller door to the kitchen, and an ostal supervisor in a white coat stood at its side, watching over the entire hall. He held his chin high, radiating superiority, and tapped a sheet of parchment irritatedly.

  “Greetings, madame,” he said after a few seconds—after she tried to duck through the curtain and slip into the kitchen beyond. He held out an arm in front of her. Though she could’ve pushed through with ease, she stopped. No need to make a scene.

  Good restraint, Kythen said inside her head.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she whispered.

  “Are you lost, miss?” the ostal asked. He tilted his head, then observed her attire. Her runebond markings shone through mesh cutouts in the dress, and if the ostal had any sense or education, he’d know what she was.

  But she was still a sprite, and her standing here was more than obvious.

  “I will help you find the marshal you were brought here to guard, whoever it was, and I will report you for wandering off. This is entirely unacceptable behaviour for a Kaless-Ost of the Dominion!” He reached forward and grabbed her bicep, then pulled her away from the curtains and the kitchen.

  Sorry, Kythen, she thought.

  But it was time to start a scene.

  She threw the ostal’s grip off with a shrug of her shoulder, then, with a light palm strike, flung the ostal back into the nearest banquet table. He crashed through the wood, shattered porcelain dishware, and scattered cutlery. It didn’t kill him, but he wouldn’t be chasing after her any time soon.

  The nearby servants scrambled away, shouting and exclaiming in fright, and Dominion soldiers rushed into the banquet hall from the foyer.

  Not good.

  They can’t hurt you unless you let them—or there are thousands of them, Kythen remarked.

  “And there aren’t,” she replied in íshkaben. “But they can cause a bigger commotion and make it harder for the Hand to do his job.”

  She sprinted into the kitchen beyond, Kythen close on her heels. Inside was a low-ceilinged chamber with smoke clouding the ceiling and hearths lining the walls. Workers cooked over stoves, stirring pots or kneading dough, mashing herbs with a mortar and pestle or turning rotisseries.

  What are we looking for? Kythen asked.

  “We need to go deeper!” Myraden exclaimed. She dodged a chef with a cooking knife, then leapt over a boiling pot. The hem of her dress caught flame and ignited, but Kythen stomped it out with his hooves.

  I can’t help you if you don’t tell me!

  “Read my mind!”

  I’m trying, but it’s hard when you’re not focussing!

  Should’ve done that earlier. No time to explain now. She swung around a pillar, then sprinted to the back wall of the kitchen. A supply of kegs rested in a wall, but it was just ale.

  Alcohol. Should’ve been illegal according to Dominion law, but no one would be inspecting the depths of the kitchen.

  You’re going to get drunk? That’s your plan?

  “Is something wrong, miss?” a cook asked. He’d been filling a cooking pan with ale—probably for some sort of odd-tasting meal that she had no desire to try. “Do you need directions back to—”

  “Do you refine your own spirit wine here?”

  The cook blinked. “Sorry?”

  “Where is your wine cellar?”

  “Down that stairway, first door on your left.”

  A group of Dominion soldiers pushed through the curtain Myraden had entered through. “The sprite! Stop her!”

  Myraden and Kythen slipped around the cook, who pressed himself up against the wall. At least there was someone here who wasn’t suicidal.

  She sprinted down the stairway he pointed to, then entered a dimly-lit, tight hallway. Pantries lined the wall. Pushing open the first door to her left, she charged into a dark room filled with barrels and amphoras.

  The wine cellar.