The baker purses her thin lips. “Aye, but a week ago, the king hadn’t doubled the tax on wheat. Not to mention the fees for the olive oil coming down from Provincia Zaharina. Barely breaking even now, aren’t I? I’m giving ye the loaves on the house on account of yer honeymoon. Fifteen for the cake. Five for the tart.”
Doubled the tax on wheat. Again. Last time this happened, the king and justice were funding their war efforts. I should count myself lucky. When I traveled with my rebel unit, we stole, scavenged, and hunted for food during missions. Now I have a purse full of coins. Of course, it is still stolen because I took them from Castian this morning after he’d left for the day with nothing but a note that read I will return for supper. Your Your husband. I balled it up and threw it into the dying embers of the fireplace. Then I dug into the hidden pocket in his pack that he thinks I don’t know about and stole a few coins.
But twenty pesos for some sweets is an indulgence we don’t deserve. After a fortnight of searching for Dez and the Knife of Memory, our trail has gone cold. Dez, once my unit leader, was the one who taught me how to hide my tracks. I thought I knew him well enough to find him. It was what Castian counted on. But perhaps Dez didn’t teach me all his tricks. Perhaps he doesn’t want to be found—not even by me.
The longer we go without a trace of Dez, the more the prince and I fight. I convince myself that the battles have earned me these cakes, and so I count out the large pesos and place them on the baker’s outstretched hand. She pockets them inside her apron, hands over the baked goods, and moves on to other customers.
On my way through the market, I’m hit with a wave of nausea. That’s usually how the occurrences start, followed by the sensation of someone taking a hatchet to my skull. I hurry down the road toward the inn, holding my basket against my chest. I try to focus on the hillcrest ahead, focus on the present and not the stolen memories trying to overtake me. Each labored breath gets me a few paces closer. I slip through the foot traffic and try to name the smells—roasted meat, vinegar, salted fish imported from several coasts. I try to recite my list of grounding truths, when I realize someone is watching me.
A bead of sweat stings my eyes, but I still see him. A bearded young man with strange blue eyes and a speckle of blood on his cheek. He weaves through sheep herded by a girl in a pale green dress. How long has he been following me?
I stop to smile at an elderly couple. He stops, too, and when the couple moves away, he keeps coming toward me. I pick up my pace. My heart leaps to my throat. Does he recognize me from the wanted leaflets? Most of them are poorly rendered and could be any girl in Puerto Leones with brown eyes and black hair. Besides, the Second Sweep would be looking for a filthy rebel, not a recent bride on holiday.
When I glance over my shoulder, the young bearded man shouts, but I can’t hear him over the music and ruckus of the market. I notice the knives at his hip and the crude sack over his shoulder leaking blood. I remember the stories the Whispers would tell in the dark of rogue hunters who work for the king. They’re not military or honorable. They simply hunt Moria, like me, cutting our body parts to sell as trophies.
I run.
My thighs burn from the quick uphill climb. I drop a loaf from my basket, but I keep going. I hate the fear that licks its way between my ribs. This is not how I’m supposed to get caught. Anger needles at me because I know I should have stayed in our room. I shouldn’t have left without Castian.
I reach the top of the hill, and the man yells for me again. This time he says my name. Not the name written in the leaflets. Wanted: Renata Convida. Robári. Murderer. Instead he calls me by a name only my father ever did.
For a moment, the inn vanishes. The marketplace is gone. There is only a void of black ahead and behind me. I squeeze my eyes shut. This can’t happen again. Not now.
“Nati!” His deep voice is right against my ear. “What’s gotten into you?”
The present returns in a cold rush. I drop my basket and succumb to the pressure at my temples. All at once I realize that I’m in Castian’s arms. I cling to the worn cotton of his tunic and feel his racing heartbeat under my palm as he holds me upright. Castian is the strange bearded man. I had completely forgotten about his illusion, the face he was wearing.
I can’t afford to forget.
“I—I didn’t realize it was you,” I say, and push off him. Gather my bread. The olive oil cake is a little smooshed, but even covered in dirt I’d eat it. “You scared me.”
I leave him at the top of the hill and resume my retreat to the inn. His long legs allow him to catch up to me in a few paces.
His hair is a muddy brown, matted at his temples. He tugs on his short brown beard. “I scared you?”
“Maybe you should have chosen a more memorable face!”
“Maybe you should just tell me the truth.”
“What are you talking about?” I wince at the headache that started building in the market.
A grumble starts at the back of his throat. “Something is wrong, and it would be advantageous to the remainder of our mission if you wouldn’t shut me out the way you’ve done since you chose to follow me out that window.”
We reach the Sagrada Inn. One of the servant girls who moon after Castian watches us yell at each other as she arranges a flower arch over the door. I whirl to face him. There’s dirt on his forehead. I want to brush it away, but I clench my fist around my wicker basket.
He sighs, defeated, and says, “We should go upstairs.”
“No, go ahead. You’re the expert on honesty. What exactly do you think I’m keeping from you?”
I know he won’t say it. Not when we might be overheard. It isn’t fair of me to dare him.
“Ahem,” comes a high-pitched cough from a source I’ve come to know too well. The innkeeper and owner, Doña Sagrada. Her graying hair is neatly twisted in a bun, and a festive red rose is pinned behind her ear. She smooths the front of her apron and beams wide brown eyes at Castian. “I thought I heard my favorite lovebirds. You certainly fight and make up like a married couple, Señor Otsoa, but please keep it down. We’ve had some complaints from the adjoining rooms. I’ve told them that you’re here for Carnaval on your honeymoon. Which reminds me, your deposit won’t cover any damage to the bed.”
I think of how yesterday, I may or may not have thrown Castian’s boots at him when we were discussing his brother. How once again we lost his trail. How once again I failed.
“I assure you—” I begin to deny any sort of marital bliss, but Castian interjects with a dizzying smile.
“That we will show more restraint.”
“It’s no bother at all. Now, did you bring it?” Doña Sagrada asks Castian, clapping her plump little hands together.
Castian avoids glancing at me, but even his Illusionári magics can’t hide the red creeping up the open front of his tunic, to the tops of his cheeks. He hands over the bloody sack. “Yes. I had luck and caught two of them. One is for you.”
“Oh, Señor Otsoa!” The matron beams, resting her hand on his muscular forearm. “Bless you!”
“Please, I told you. Call me Will.”
“What is it?” I ask.
The innkeeper clucks at me. “Ruin the surprise, Marcela, why don’t you! But when Will said you’d been craving the rabbit fricassee that we ran out of, I said the butcher only had beef and pork for Carnaval, but if he caught me a rabbit, I’d whip it up for you.”
Yesterday, after we hurled cruel words at each other, I was tired and hungry. We ate fried pork and salted potatoes, and I said offhandedly that I missed the rabbit fricassee. Then I crawled into my pillows and covers on the floor and went to sleep in front of the fire.
Castian won’t meet my eyes, but he is an expert at charade in a way that I am not. He gently takes my basket. I didn’t realize he had picked up the loaf I dropped in my haste.
Doña Sagrada nods. “It’s my great-grandmother’s recipe. She was a cook in the old palace for the Sól Abene royals back in thos
e days. The Duque Sól Abene himself still comes to eat here when he isn’t in the capital. He always comes home for Carnaval, but I don’t expect him during these troubled times.”
I smile painfully. “Yes, you’ve mentioned that.” Once or fifteen times.
Castian quickly takes the innkeeper’s hand and kisses it. She blushes and gives me a look, as if she thinks I’m the luckiest new bride in the whole kingdom. “We thank you, Doña Sagrada. Truly.”
We. Me and Castian. A bolt of pain drives between my eyes, and I can’t tell whether it’s my broken mind or just the hatred for him I haven’t been able to shake.
As we follow the matron inside the tavern, I catch sight of a red uniform. Two young soldiers belonging to the Second Sweep are sitting at a table drinking from glass pints. They’re laughing, and before one of them can look up at me, I whirl around and cling to Castian like I can’t get enough of this man, my husband. He doesn’t bat an eye, but I feel him tense.
“We will be in our room, Doña Sagrada,” he says, and the roughness in his voice tells me I’m not alone in fearing the closeness of the king’s presence.
The innkeeper places the back of her hand on my forehead. Her knuckles calloused but warm. For a flash, I remember something I had locked away for so long: my own mother checking my temperature. I only see her face for a moment, but it’s enough to make me wobble. Castian tightens his grip around my waist, and I don’t fight him. For now, I’m grateful that I’m not alone, even if I have to be with him.
“Oh dear. You’re flushed, Señora Otsoa. I’ll send up fresh water and a manzanilla tea. It worked wonders for me in the first few months I was with child.”
Castian is so startled that I can see his illusion flicker ever so slightly in the gold that shimmers in a lock of his hair.
“That would be lovely!” I say, saccharine and shrill. “Let’s go, darling.”
I yank Castian by his hand up the stairs, leaving the kind and clueless innkeeper clutching a bloody bag full of game. I spare one glance at the soldiers, getting up without paying, as they return to their patrol.
Castian fumbles with the skeleton key and unlocks our door. When he slams it shut, his illusion falls away, revealing the true blue-green of his eyes, his long golden hair curling against broad shoulders. A rough ridge breaks the straight line of his nose, and the thick brown beard returns to burnished gold scruff.
“We need to talk,” he says, then looks down at his feet.
I set the basket of baked goods on the table. “Let’s.”
But we only stand there, neither saying a word. I might prefer the fights to moments like this.
There are so many things we should discuss. I’d start with the fact that we’ve been here a week and this is the first time guards in royal red have arrived. I still have the thick scar on my neck from my last tangle with the Second Sweep, soldiers Castian once trained himself and are now commanded by the king and justice. Then there’s Dez, Castian’s brother and my former—everything. How I didn’t deny Doña Sagrada’s herbal tea because I fear the possibility that she may be right. There’s the not knowing whether our quest will make any difference or maybe push the kingdom closer to destruction. And then there is our very tangled past. How Castian, years before he was this monstrous prince, was my very best friend. My only friend.
Castian and I agreed to work together, but how can we, when we don’t trust each other? He’s right, I have been keeping something secret. But when I look at him, truly look at him, I know something else is wrong.
“What is it?” I ask.
He withdraws a balled-up piece of parchment from his pocket. Even as I stand right in front of him, he doesn’t meet my eyes. I take the parchment but watch his features. Anger in the furrow between his brows. Hurt in the single tremble of his bottom lip. Denial in the way he inhales deeply, crosses his arms over his chest, and sighs.
I uncrumple the parchment, prepared to see a new sketch of my face with a new reward. Instead, there is a single sentence scrawled across the center.
Stop following me. I’m already gone.
It’s Dez.
NO MATTER HOW MANY TIMES I READ THE WORDS, THEY DON’T FEEL REAL. I TUG off my gloves and run my fingertips along the familiar handwriting. What did I imagine? That the ink would be raised, like the rivers of scars that run across my hands? That I’d be able to lift some sort of memory from this?
Stop following me. I’m already gone.
I spent weeks believing that Dez had been killed. His execution in Andalucía might have been an illusion created by Castian, but the desperation and the grief I endured was real.
“Dez knows we’re tracking him,” I say.
Castian puts as much distance between us as possible. The honeymoon suite is the biggest room in the inn. There’s a private bathing tub, a fireplace, a bed large enough to fit a small Leonesse family, a dining table for two, and plush rugs and throw blankets, which over the last few days, I’ve hoarded for myself. And yet this space has never felt so suffocating.
I rub the emerald wedding ring I’ve worn since we left together. “Dez knows that I know he’s alive.”
Castian is aware of this, but I have to say the words because otherwise I’ll convince myself that this is a cruel trick.
“He must have been following me,” he says, pushing open the curtains. Afternoon rays glint off the silver hand mirror and brush on the table. He rolls up his sleeves, pours water from the pitcher into a porcelain basin, and scrubs his hands with a bar of soap. “He pinned it to the tree where I’d set my trap.”
“He couldn’t have gone far,” I say. “The village has one main road. He’ll want to avoid the patrols there. He’ll take the woods.”
“You said Andrés was the best hunter among the Whispers. He could be anywhere by now.”
I crush the parchment in my fists. “What do you want me to do? Nothing?”
Castian leans on the vanity and cranes his head back, like he’s searching for strength from the Six Heavens. “It is clear my brother does not want to be found.”
I angrily close the distance between us, but my delicate slippers don’t give me the stomping effect I would prefer. He turns to face me, drying his hands on a towel as I slap the crumpled parchment against his chest.
“You’re the one who convinced me to come with you. You’re the one who wanted to find him.”
Castian simply lets the message fall to our feet. I want him to be furious. I want him to want to do something.
“That hasn’t changed.” Exasperation steels his words. “But my informant is arriving tomorrow with the forged documents we need. The Second Sweep is downstairs. Even if I cloak us with an illusion for as long as my strength will hold, do you have any idea where Andrés would go from here?”
Hearing Castian speak Dez’s birth name is still so strange. Dez himself didn’t reveal it to me until the night we slept together. The night before he was captured. No, the night before he let himself be captured. When did Dez notice us? Has he been watching Castian and me pretend to be married all this time? Dez was the best hunter and tracker in the Whispers. But what’s left of the rebels fled to safety across the sea.
Stop following me. I’m already gone.
There’s a tightness around my chest, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
“No,” I admit. “I don’t know where Dez would go from here.”
Castian opens the doors leading onto a narrow balcony. The cool breeze carries the scent of the Acesteña forest and the roasting meats from down below. Villagers mill about preparing for tomorrow’s festivities. Everything outside this room continues, and I have never felt at such a distance from the world. I grip the rail and inhale deeply, but my heart still races, my mind fires too quickly.
I think of my old rebel unit. Are they safe? And why should I care, after they left me to rot? I think of the king’s weapon, somewhere out there, and the chaos we left behind in the capital. The growing patrols in even the smallest ham
let. I worry that the damage I have done to my mind may be irreparable. Worst of all is that there is a small part of me, like the first drop of water signaling a storm, that is glad I’m not alone. Even if I am with the prince of Puerto Leones.
“What happened to you earlier?” Castian asks tentatively.
I know that he means the occurrences, but I don’t want to talk to him about it. Not after reading Dez’s note.
I realize I’m hungry and leave him on the balcony. After a moment of hesitation he follows. I break off a piece of the fresh bread from my basket and offer it to him.
“I’m sorry I took your pesos without asking. You can’t blame me. I’m a thief.”
Castian plops the bread in his mouth and shuts his eyes. I wonder if it’s the first thing he’s eaten today.
“You could have asked me for the coin,” he says.
“Well, what if you’d left for good? What if this morning you’d decided that you changed your mind and returned to your father?”
Castian gestures in the direction of the forest. “I left to hunt.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“I know you didn’t ask me to. I just—I wish you’d have waited for me. We promised that we wouldn’t venture into the village alone. And I wouldn’t leave you without a word,” he adds harshly, strangling the air with his fists. His knuckles are scarred, and I remember the spiked gauntlets he liked to wear. How slick with blood they were after he was finished. “You should know that by now.”
“All I know of you, of the man that you are, is what I’ve seen for myself. The destruction you left behind. You might have hidden your Moria powers from the king and Puerto Leones, but that doesn’t make you the same as those who have suffered and died under your family’s reign for decades.”
I see the hurt that flashes across his face. As still as he is, Castian resembles a gilded statue. Despite my frustration, my breath catches at the sight of him because he is so impossibly, infuriatingly beautiful. I thought that long ago, once. How can someone so hateful look the way he does? But Prince Castian is made of shadows and lies. He orchestrated his reputation for years. And to what end? The kingdom is no closer to being fixed by his actions, and now we are here, bound by a single purpose: the hunt for his brother and the legendary Knife of Memory. It seems we are no longer in search of one of those things.
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