by Bree Barton
“You’ll need to keep up, Killian. Those won’t be the last guards my mother sends for me.”
His laugh was hollow. “Those guards were looking for me, not you. You’ve been gone for weeks. Haven’t you wondered why no one was looking for you?”
Pilar frowned. Come to think of it, until the five men, she hadn’t encountered any guards since leaving the castle. But she’d chalked it up to good luck.
“Zaga doesn’t need you,” Quin said. “She has a new daughter in Angelyne Rose. A stronger daughter.”
“I know you’re just trying to hurt me,” she spat. “Stop dancing around what you really mean. You want to talk about Karri? Then talk.”
She hated that she could still see Princess Karri, Quin’s older sister, bleeding red onto the snow. Stomach pierced with an arrow. Pilar’s arrow. She could see herself, too, shrinking back into the woods like a coward, terrified by what she’d done. All because her mother told her to.
“I don’t care how many innocents you shoot with your bow, Pilar Zorastín d’Aqila.” Quin’s eyes blazed green. “Unless you can enkindle the whole kingdom—unless you, too, can crawl inside people’s hearts to make them want what you want—Angelyne is stronger.”
“Even if I was still using magic,” she growled, “I would never enkindle my Dujia sisters. That’s not how magic is meant to be used.”
“We are in violent agreement about that.”
Pilar turned and stomped through the forest. She refused to think of Karri, Angelyne, Mia Rose—anyone from that awful night. Instead she plunged her hand into her pocket and busied her fingers with the coin, tracing the name carved in the silver.
You’ll see how strong I am. Stronger than she ever knew.
Zaga was a liar. For years she had deceived the Dujia sisterhood, peddled magic as a way to “topple the old power structures.” Pilar had drunk it down like a frosty pint of ale.
Magic, as it turned out, was just another way to hurt people. The most dangerous way of all.
Now Pilar thirsted for revenge. First she would kill her mother. Then she would kill Angelyne Rose, queen of the river kingdom—and Zaga’s new pet.
But if Pilar was going to kill them without magic, she needed help.
She dragged her thumb over the first letter etched into the coin, a snaking silver S.
Snow Wolf.
If she wanted to join forces with the greatest Dujia killer in all four kingdoms, she had to find him first.
In the beginning, Pilar didn’t hate magic. What little girl wouldn’t fall in love with making her own flesh sing?
By five she knew how to coat her skin in pleasing shivers. At eight she could grow the bones back together after breaking her leg.
Pilar watched the other children on Refúj. When they were sick or hurting, their mothers mended their broken limbs and drew the fluid from their lungs. Zaga did none of those things. She was a whisper on the walls of the cave, a harsh invisible voice. Pilar knew if she wanted even a sliver of her mother’s attention, she’d have to be a good Dujia. Not just good: the best.
So she practiced. Night and day. She bent herself into the shape she thought her mother wanted. If Zaga lived outside her body, Pilar was physical. She had no interest in subtle magic tricks. She loved ramming her thumb into a person’s wrist, stopping the blood in their veins.
Pilar had another reason to like unblooding. This was the dark magic that had left her mother’s left arm dead at her side. Zaga never talked about who hurt her, but of all the magic Pilar could use to win her mother’s attention, surely unblooding would do the trick.
It didn’t.
Still, she practiced every day. Zaga had taught them all that magic was a way for women to reclaim their power. Pilar believed it.
After what happened in the cottage, she stopped believing in anything.
“I have to piss,” she said.
“Lovely,” Quin muttered. “By all means, don’t let me stop you.”
“I get the feeling you’re not used to frank conversation.”
“Frank is one word for it. I was going to say you’re egregiously blunt.”
“My finest feature. That and my jawline.”
Pilar loved her body—it was compact and supple, flexible and strong—but she resented the constant need for maintenance. That was the magical perk she missed the most: With magic she could compress the fluids of her body, go days without needing food or water. She could tweak her moon cycle, confining the flow of blood when she didn’t want to be bothered. She could even restrict her bowels.
Pilar had yet to meet another Dujia who could magically condense a shit.
She ducked behind a tree and unbuckled her trousers. Quin whistled a tune—to cover the sound of her piss hitting the blue needles, she guessed.
“Do all bodies make you nervous?” she said. “Or just mine?”
“I wouldn’t say nervous . . .”
“You should sing yourself a lullaby next time I take a squat.”
She could practically hear him grimace. “You’re a little rough around the edges, aren’t you?”
“I didn’t grow up with servants emptying my chamber pot every night.”
Quin coughed. “I emptied my own chamber pot by the time I was eight.”
“Commendations for your bravery.”
“You’re impossible.”
Pilar yawned. “I must act different from the girls you grew up with.”
“Differently.”
“And look different, too.”
With her chin-length black hair, angular brown eyes, and amber skin, no one would mistake Pilar for a river rat. All the Glasddirans she’d met were fair skinned and liver hearted. Light eyes, dark hearts.
“Naturally,” Quin said. “You’re from the fire kingdom.”
She smiled, proud of her Fojuen heritage. But her pride soured. As her mother always reminded her, she was only half Fojuen.
Her mother could rot in four hells.
“To be honest,” said Quin, “other than my mother and sister, I didn’t grow up with many women.”
“Aren’t you forgetting Mia Rose?”
Silence.
Still crouching, Pilar peeked out from behind the tree. Quin’s brow was creased. If she’d meant to get under his skin, she’d succeeded.
Pity flashed in her chest, followed by resentment. Why was everyone so smitten with Mia Rose? She was cocky, entitled, self-righteous. A classic river rat. Only a girl that pigheaded could think she knew everything when she knew nothing. Not even how to save her own neck.
Of course no one else remembered it that way. By stopping her heart, Mia had become a hero. Mia Rose, the martyr. Mia Rose, the warrior. And so on.
Pilar hated how even the most awful people turned into saints the moment they died.
“Are you finished?” Quin called out, gruffer than before. “We should get going.”
She stood and buckled her trousers. Checked to make sure the silver coin was safe in her pocket. Rounded the tree until they stood face-to-face.
“What’s the hurry, Killian? Got somewhere to be?”
“Yes.” His eyes bored into hers. “As far away from that castle as I can get.”
The heat of his words surprised her. Before she could respond, he turned on his heel and walked swiftly through the forest.
“Now who’s egregiously blunt,” she muttered.
Quin didn’t hear her. He was already blazing past the tall twisted trees, confident she would fall in step behind.
Pilar was curious about Quin. Growing up on an island of magical women, she hadn’t met many boys. No princes.
During her months disguised as a scullery maid in Kaer Killian, she’d watched him from a distance. In the beginning he struck her as a typical spoiled royal. At least with those full lips and high cheekbones, he was less of an eyesore than the shriveled grandfathers of Refúj.
Then, on the night before his wedding to Mia Rose, she’d heard him play piano.
&n
bsp; For a long time she lingered in the shadows outside the library, struck by the sad, sweet melody. Watching Quin at the piano—the fierce way he touched the keys—made her fingers ache for her violin.
When his would-be bride barreled into the library, the music stopped abruptly, and Pilar hurried back to the scullery with hardened resolve. She’d come to the Kaer to complete a mission: kill Mia Rose. She pushed Quin’s song away as she sharpened her arrow in the dark.
Of course then she’d failed to hit her mark—not her finest moment—and one week later, a still-very-alive Mia and Quin appeared on Refúj. When the prince danced drunk and shirtless, batting his eyelashes at Domeniq du Zol, Pilar realized he’d been bottled up for years. All it took was one generous dose of spirits to crack the bottle.
She wished she had a dose of spirits now.
As they walked through the white and blue trees, Quin broke the silence.
“Why don’t you go back to Refúj?”
“My mother broke the most sacred rule of the sisterhood,” Pilar said. “She killed another Dujia. They’d put my head on a spike.”
“The women I met don’t seem like the heads-on-spike type.”
“Everything is different now.”
She had other reasons, too. Even before Zaga’s betrayal, Pilar wasn’t exactly beloved on the island.
“Why don’t you go back to Glas Ddir? Those are your people.” She frowned. “Now that your father is dead, aren’t you actually king?”
“Right. I’ll just waltz back in and tell them I’m the rightful heir. I’m sure Angelyne will happily abdicate the throne, as long as I ask politely.”
“Who said anything about politely?”
“Says the girl with a death wish.” He jerked a thumb toward the forest at their backs. “You don’t take on five men otherwise.”
“Wanting to fight and wanting to die are two different things.”
“Who taught you to fight like that? Your mother?”
Pilar laughed. “That’s like asking if a snake taught me to walk.”
“Whoever she was, she should be commended. I wouldn’t last five seconds in hand-to-hand combat with you.”
Quin was wrong. He wouldn’t last three.
He was also wrong about her teacher being a she.
“What’s in Luumia?” Quin asked.
“Ice leopards, the White Lagoon, bottles and bottles of warm buttery vaalkä . . .”
“You know what I meant.”
Pilar shrugged. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Me as well.”
“Want to tell me who?”
“I do not.”
Pilar arched a brow. “How are you planning to find this mysterious someone? You’re a river rat who’s hardly ever left the Kaer. The snow kingdom is massive. With lots of snow, I hear.”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“Mine won’t be hard. He’s a Luumi warrior. When the Weeping Moon rises on the last night of Jyöl, he stands on the steps of the Snow Queen’s palace, cloaked and masked. They say he can go up against the most powerful Dujia—and win.”
Quin frowned. “You’re a Gwyrach. Why are you looking for a man who kills Gwyrach?”
“Dujia. Not Gwyrach. I don’t answer to that word.”
“I don’t care much for ‘river rat,’ either.”
“Fine,” Pilar growled. “No demons, no rats.”
Quin nodded, satisfied. He plunked himself down against a tree and pulled a hunk of stale bread from his satchel.
“Aren’t you going to offer me some?” she said.
“No.”
“Royal ass.”
Quin chewed and swallowed, then folded his hands over the leather pouch on his belt. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes.
For a moment he looked exactly like his sister—the first time she’d seen the resemblance. Something about the hardness of his jaw, the way he lifted his chin. It startled her.
Pilar plopped down beside a twisted tree and closed her eyes. It was useless. No matter what she did, Karri was always there.
All those months Pilar had watched the prince in Kaer Killian, she’d also watched the princess. Karri had no shortage of talents—she bagged a boar on every hunt, trounced her weapons master in every fight.
She was also kind. More than once Pilar saw her filch a stallion from the castle stables and ride into Killian Village. Karri talked to people in smithies and alehouses, pubs and brothels. Even children hungry in the streets. She didn’t just talk: she listened. The Glasddirans loved her for it.
Her father did not.
Pilar knew how it felt to have a parent hate you for who you were.
Karri would have made an excellent queen. And now she was dead. Pilar could never forgive her mother for telling her to shoot that arrow. But she could never forgive herself for doing it.
Pilar shook her head to clear it. Regret was passive. It eroded you from inside out, like a poison.
Revenge was active. Like a blade.
She had the dream again. Alone in a dark cave. Staring into a black sheet of ice. Sometimes she took the form of a demon, sometimes a witch, sometimes just a girl. Behind her own face, she always saw the same thing in the reflection: Princess Karri bleeding out onto the snow.
Pilar drove her fist into the ice, again and again, until it shattered like glass.
But this time, there was someone else.
Mia Rose stepped out of the shadows. She stooped. Wrapped her fingers around a broken shard. Looked up at Pilar.
It’s over, Mia said.
She raised her arm, the shard glinting silver.
Pilar awoke to Quin’s screams.
Chapter 3
Dirt and Blood
“WAKE UP. WAKE up!”
Pilar shook Quin by the shoulders. She whispered his name. Yelled it. Even grabbed her leatherskin and doused him with water. A powerful sleeping terror had taken hold, his screams loud enough to rouse an army.
If more guards arrived, she could take them. But if her mother sent Dujia instead of men? Even if Pilar did use magic, she couldn’t fight off theirs. Not alone.
Only twenty-six days till the Weeping Moon. Pilar’s best shot at finding the Snow Wolf was to be at the queen’s palace on the last night of Jyöl. She couldn’t afford to be captured.
She punched Quin in the face.
Not hard. She didn’t want to hurt him, just wake him up.
She succeeded.
“Where am I?” Quin sputtered as he jolted upright. He rubbed his nose. “Did you just punch me?”
“Yes.” Pilar was many things, but she was not a liar. “You were about to get us both killed.”
“Nice to know you have my back.” Quin let out his breath, his shoulders slumping. “She was right beside me. I saw her. Touched her.”
He’d been dreaming about Mia Rose.
In the castle, when Zaga paraded Mia’s lifeless body through the Grand Gallery, Pilar had felt a tangle of emotions. Mia was naive, yes—and disgustingly superior—but did she deserve to die?
Then again, did she deserve not to? Mia had been so intent on saving her sweet baby sister, she’d dragged them all back to the Kaer and straight into a trap. Mia was the reason Karri was dead. She was the reason Pilar and Quin and everyone else got enkindled. She’d played right into Zaga and Angelyne’s hands, and been too stubborn to see it.
“Since we’re both awake,” said Quin, yanking her back to the forest, “we might as well keep moving.”
She watched him pluck the blue needles off his jacket, face raw with pain. When he saw her looking, he stood. Wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
Pilar didn’t understand what Quin saw in Mia Rose. But she didn’t have to. Despite all the death and misery she had dumped into his life, one thing was certain: the prince was still in love with Mia Rose.
Mia Rose was dead.
Pilar and Quin made decent fugitive companions. She was better at tying strong knots. He was b
etter at cooking dead things. But the banter they’d struck up the first day had ground to a halt after he dreamed of Mia.
Typical. Mia Rose wrecked everything, even from the grave.
“Ask me a question,” Pilar said as they trekked south. “Anything.”
“All right. How did you escape?”
“Not to brag,” she said, clearly bragging, “but I knew where the scullery maids kept the spirits they smuggled in. Most Dujia are less powerful when drunk, or at least sloppier. So I stole some rai rouj and slipped it into my mother’s cup. Angelyne’s, too.”
She cocked her head. “How did you escape?”
Quin hesitated.
“Have you seen my father’s Hall of Hands under our new queen?”
Pilar shook her head.
“In the slivers of a moment when Angelyne’s enthrall weakened,” he said, “when I came back to my senses, I would go to the Hall. There are no longer hands swinging from the rafters. There are bodies stacked on the floor.”
“Bodies?”
“Your mother sends guards to every village to demand allegiance. All those who refuse to kneel to Queen Angelyne get carted back to the Kaer, where they’re subjected to all sorts of magical atrocities. A tower of bodies rotting in the Hall.”
Pilar frowned. That was dark, even for her mother.
“What about the smell? Don’t people get sick?”
“Angelyne can heal those she wants to. But yes. Agreed about the stench.” He ran a hand through his blond curls. “Most of the men carried protective stones. Rings and amulets made of uzoolion and other rocks. I assume they grabbed hold of anything rumored to fight magic. I saw runes, charms, talismans looped around their necks or tucked into their pockets, and I—”
“You looted the bodies.”
He let out a long breath. “I needed some way to withstand the enthrallment. I would never have been strong enough.”
When Quin’s eyes fell to the leather pouch on his belt, her eyes followed.
“That pouch isn’t full of gold,” she said, realizing. “Those are the stones you stole.”
He stiffened, like he was afraid she would scold him. Honestly, she was impressed. Never in her wildest dreams would she have imagined gallant Prince Quin pickpocketing the dead.
Pilar felt a stab of excitement. “Killian. You know what this means? If we have enough of the right stones, we can weaken Angelyne’s magic. She’s beatable.”