by Amber Argyle
Table of Contents
Newsletter
Of Sand and Storm
Epigraph
MAP
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Author's Note
Daughter of Winter
Epigraph
MAP
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Winter's Heir
Epigraph
MAP
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About the Author
Copyright
In the predawn haze, Cinder held her cloak tight to ward off the chill as she hurried down the nearly empty street. Before her, a ragged man whistling an eerie tune pushed a cart filled with piss pots he had collected during the night. Cinder found herself counting the beats of the song, a child’s rhyme she couldn’t place. She held her veil tight over her mouth and breathed shallowly, trying not to notice the liquid sloshing in the pots.
Glad she hadn’t eaten breakfast, she arrived at the tannery twelve steps ahead of the man. But when she opened the door and stepped into the crumbling building, the fetid stench sent her straight back outside. The man with the piss pots chuckled under his breath just before Cinder lifted her veil and vomited bile onto the ground in the alley. A pile of dirty blankets shifted and a drunk squinted at her. He cursed her roundly before turning over, his fleas jumping grumpily at the interruption.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her arm, then blotted her face to make sure she hadn’t sweated off her dark makeup. So far so good. Counting to ten to calm down, Cinder forced herself to march back to the tannery—past the piss-pot man, who watched her with close-set black eyes above an equally black veil. She entered the dimly lit building with its long row of hides stretched tightly across frames. Men stood scraping off the fur with flint or steel or stone. The early morning breeze flowed through an open door to the back yard, where men and women stirred the huge pots of leather soaking in urine or dye.
Cinder made sure her veil was in place and looked around nervously. The man who’d been pushing the cart leaned against a wall, one skinny leg cocked as he looked at her. Something about him seemed off, like he didn’t belong here. Her gaze lingered on his clothes, and she realized it was because he was so clean.
Before she could dwell on it, a man in black robes approached her. His hands were stained unnaturally dark. “What you want?” he growled.
Three little words, but the answer to his question would take dozens. “A job,” Cinder said simply, keeping her eyes downcast so he couldn’t see the silver of them.
She felt him studying her, no doubt noticing her worn but clean and serviceable robes. “Are you pregnant?” he asked.
She nearly forgot to keep her eyes down. “No, sir.”
“Runaway?”
Pursing her lips in anger, Cinder shook her head.
“Listen, girl, this is no place for someone with other options. Go back to your parents. Or your lover. Or wherever else you came from. Only the truly desperate come here. And you aren’t there yet.” The man turned his back and started away.
Cinder stared at his retreating figure. Fifteen weeks of searching, one hundred and five days of sneering and spitting and curses. She hurried after him and grasped his arm. “Please.” The word nearly burned her tongue. “I’ve already been everywhere else.”
Her eyes remained downcast, but she could feel him staring at her. Two fingers suddenly brushed down her nose. She jerked back, but not before he had a smudge of her dark makeup on his fingertips. Stepping forward, he grabbed her chin and yanked off her veil. “Are you an escaped slave?” His dark eyes bore into her traitorous silver ones. “Because if you are, I’ll call the city guard right now. I don’t need the fines and—”
“No!” Cinder jerked back from his bruising grip, but not before he’d ripped her headscarf off, tearing out a tendril of her hair with it. Her gold locks tumbled down her shoulders like a confession.
He threw the headscarf at her. “Slave,” he hissed.
Six other men stopped their scraping and looked up at Cinder. The piss-pot man simply watched, the crinkle around one eye suggesting that under his veil he wore a crooked grin. Cinder clenched her sweaty fists, eight fingernails digging into two palms. “I am not a slave!” As proof, she pointed to the freeborn tattoo above her ear, on the strip of scalp she fastidiously shaved clean every night.
The man stared at it in the dim light, his mouth turning to a sneer of disgust. “Then you have no master to reimburse when you are dead.”
Cinder slid her hand into her robe and gripped the kitchen knife she’d pilfered earlier, though she did not draw it. “I was born an Idaran.” She choked on the words—she hated Idara and its people as much as they hated her. It goaded her to claim them as her own. But goaded was better than dead.
“You’ll never be an Idaran,” barked the man just before he spat in her face. His saliva ran wet and lumpy down her cheek. Starting to count down silently, Cinder wiped off the spit with her sleeve and backed toward the door.
Five . . .
“A clanman killed my sons,” a voice said from right behind her. She whipped around to find an old man, bits of fur clinging to him like a dirty aura, between her and the door. He held a sharpened chunk of flint in his calloused hands.
Four . . .
Cinder slid the knife free. “Harm me, and the city guard will see you all beheaded. I am an Idaran citizen. I have rights.”
Three . . .
A woman darkened the door, gripping a thick, stained stick. “Only because the false lord is a clannish sympathizer,” she lisped through her missing teeth.
Two . . .
“Their filthy goddess murdered my wife,” an older man said as he circled closer.
Cinder had been all over Arcina, searching for a job. She had faced hostility, but never like this. Several more filthy-handed men crowded toward her. One of them licked his lips hungrily, untied a matted belt from his waist, and wound it around his hands. All the while the piss-pot man watched, amusement flashing across his deep-set eyes.
One . . .
Rage and fear lanced through Cinder’s belly. By the Balance, she was sick of the hatred of those who didn’t even know her. She slashed her knife thr
ough the air to drive back her would-be attackers. Next, she slipped under the grasping hands of the old man and danced out of the arms of a woman.
Zero . . .
Cinder bolted through the door, burst into the gray morning light that matched her traitor eyes and sprinted down the street, her blond hair streaming behind her. She counted each of her steps, pushing the numbers to come faster, faster. The men and woman from the tannery gave chase, their voices angry and hateful. Above it all, she could hear the laughter of the piss-pot man. But unlike her pursuers, Cinder was young and strong. She turned corners and whipped past a few early stragglers. If it had been any other time of day, her pursuers likely would have incited a mob. This early in the morning, even the criminals were drunk or abed.
When her lungs threatened to burst and her legs trembled, Cinder dove into an alley and huddled behind some empty crates, her heartbeat pounding in her temples. She listened for the sound of pursuit—threats and pounding footfalls—but could only hear a distant birdsong and the frantic beating of her heart. Panic welled up so strong that she thought it might choke her. She pinched her eyes shut and started counting. One ragged breath, two clenched fists, three racing heartbeats. She concentrated, counting out the time between exhalations and inhalations.
Still, it was a long time before she dared to peek out into the street, and only fear made her do it. If she wasn’t at the House of Night in time to bring Zura her breakfast, Cinder’s debt would only increase. After shaking out her cramped limbs, she rewrapped her headscarf over her hair four times, tied up her veil, and hustled down two streets before she finally had her bearings. She was in the warehouse district—over a league from the House of Night. Matching her step to the cadence of eight beats, she ran through the streets, which were already filling with people. She avoided the market—she couldn’t risk being seen—instead sticking to the familiar cloth-maker’s district.
When Cinder finally reached the rear of the compound, the oppressive heat had arrived and drenched her with sweat. She slipped through the gate and paused to insert her tension wrench and pick to turn the lock back into place. Lips moving soundlessly, she counted each of her tools before shoving them into the compartment she’d sewn into the wrap around her breasts. Then she raced across the exquisite gardens, her feet flying over twenty-nine flagstones, and burst into the servant house.
Inside the massive kitchen her grandmother, Storm, was already pacing, wringing her hands with anxiety. Her head snapped up when Cinder entered. Their matching silver gazes locked. “Did they hire you?”
Cinder gave a one-two shake of her head.
Her grandmother’s face tightened. “The younger girls have already served the companions and patrons.” She pushed the tray with Zura’s breakfast into Cinder’s hands. “Run, girl. Else we’ll both be caned.”
Cinder rushed from the kitchen, through the colonnade, and into the mansion, the porcelain dishes on the tray rattling dangerously. Zura’s gentlemen thugs—brothers by the name of Farush and Farood—stood side by side at the doorway that lead to Zura’s office. Their scalps always gleamed with oil to show off their tattoos, and their beards were always perfectly curled. From experience, Cinder knew they put the same care and precision into their canings.
She felt the thugs’ amused gazes on her as she paused and used her sleeve to mop up three drops of spilled tea. She forced her breathing to slow and pushed open the door. Inside the office, Zura’s daughter, Magian, stood on a wooden box, her delicate head bent over a ledger on the long table before her. Behind the small woman was a door that led to Zura’s personal rooms. That door was flanked by twenty-eight cubes filled with an uneven assortment of ledgers and scrolls that always made Cinder’s fingers twitch to even them out. The wall to her left was taken up by heavy wooden cabinets, where Zura kept the companions’ fine jewelry. The sparkles and colors would never know true sunlight, only the half-light of the oil lamps.
With her gray hair swept back in an elegant bun, Zura stood before the pivot glass doors, clasping her hands behind her back. She stared out at the front courtyard with its whimpering fountains—the dry season was almost at an end—and limp palm trees. The gardens featured a section dedicated to each of the four nations, just as the House of Night sold women from every country.
Cinder rested the tray on the table and settled Magian’s breakfast next to the ledger. Next, Cinder placed Zura’s flatbread, covered in goat cheese and fruit preserves, on the low table in front of the rich velvet cushions, and poured sweet tea into the cup. Cinder’s mouth watered—she’d been up six hours and had yet to eat anything. She rose smoothly to her feet and stepped back. “Will that be all, Mother?”
Zura turned away from the light, her face cast in shadow. Streaks of near white spread from her temples like a badger’s mask. She was a handsome woman, or would have been if she ever deigned to offer something so common as a smile. “Why are you late?” Her voice was low and precise.
Cinder inhaled. One, two, three. Exhaled. One, two, three. “I overslept. It won’t happen again.”
“Do not lie to me.”
Sweat dotted Cinder’s brow, and she remembered her dark makeup. She considered lying, or only giving part of the truth. But she had no way of knowing how much Zura had pieced together. “I am not one of your companions, Zura. I am a freewoman.”
Zura stepped forward to slowly circle Cinder. “You are my servant, bound to obey my orders. I have forbidden anyone from leaving the compound at night—it’s too dangerous with the gangs of thieves that the false lord seems incapable of stopping.” She paused and said over Cinder’s shoulder, “And you will address me as ‘Mother.’”
Cinder ground her teeth—calling Zura “Mother” was a mockery. And Cinder was always too busy with chores during the day to step foot outside the compound. The only time left to her was the early mornings. She barely slept anymore, but sleep was a price she’d been willing to pay for a chance at freedom.
Zura flared out her robes, revealing her bilious trousers, and sat on the velvet cushions. Her clothing was made of exceedingly fine linen, expertly pleated. She rolled the flatbread around the cheese and preserves and took a dainty bite. “Now, tell me why you were sneaking out.”
Cinder clenched all twenty-eight of her teeth and said nothing.
Zura took a sip of her tea before carefully setting the cup back onto the tray. “Magian,” she said with false gentleness, “look up Cinder in the ledger.”
Without a word, Magian moved off her box, carried it to the shelves, and stepped up to grasp one of the many ledgers. She lugged the ponderous thing to the side of the table nearest Cinder and set it down. Standing on her box, Magian flipped through the pages of accounts of slaves and servants until she reached Cinder’s family.
Now she turned the pages more slowly. Cinder recognized her grandmother’s name, Storm, written across the top. Cinder knew the ledger had detailed notes about her grandmother’s purchase price, thirty-three silvers, as well as her patrons—how much they had paid as well as notes about their social status. The next section was Cinder’s mother’s. Although Ash had only been an infant when she’d arrived on a slaving ship, it had been enough to mark her as a slave. Her purchase price was much less than Storm’s, but her client list was even longer. The third section was for Holla—her purchase price was only a handful of bavas, copper coins worth little. She had been slow in speech and thought, but she’d proven to be a determined worker. It was Holla who had minded Cinder during her baby and toddler years, while her mother and grandmother were busy with their patrons. It was Holla who had kept her out of trouble.
The next section was dedicated to Cinder. Seventeen years’ worth of numbers dancing across the page. It seemed her whole life was made up of numbers. Every meal, every scrap of clothing, every inconvenience carefully noted. One hundred and twenty attalics—small silver coins. And every day she lived and ate at the House of Night was another coin subtracted from her wages. In short, it would tak
e her over two decades—7,359 days, to be precise—to pay off her debt. And that was if she managed to avoid any extra expenses, like a healer.
“Now,” Zura said, “tell me again why you are at liberty to do whatever you wish.”
Because I am free. Or should be. But Cinder remained silent, refusing to give voice to the words burning her up from the inside out.
Zura sighed and pulled a small vellum scroll from her breast pocket. She held it out to Cinder. “Read it.” When Cinder didn’t take it, the older woman chuckled. “Ah, I remember. You can’t read.” Humiliation flared hot across Cinder’s face. She had worked hard to recognize some names and knew her numbers, but she was far from literate. Zura gestured to Magian, who took the scroll from her mistress’s hand.
Zura sat back on her cushions, satisfied as a cat as Magian read, “‘The girl has stopped at nearly every district in the city, looking for work. All of them have turned her away.’”
Cinder forced her face to reveal nothing. Zura’d had her followed. Cinder tried to remember if there had been anyone familiar. The only person that came to mind was the piss-pot man with his too-clean clothes. But she would probably never be certain. How long had Zura known?
“Is my employment not sufficient for you?” the older woman said. “That you would rather work in a filthy tannery?”
Cinder wanted to scream that she hadn’t done anything wrong—she’d merely been looking for work. “Mother, if I am ever to pay my debt to you, I must find work elsewhere.”
“They would pay you less than I!” Zura replied indignantly.
Cinder threw her hands in the air. “That’s just it! You never pay me! And no matter how hard I work, I am always further away from paying off my debts than when I began!”
Zura rose smoothly from the floor and turned the ledger so the edges lined up with the table. “And you think living in some lice-infested hovel with a dozen other girls is a better alternative than one of the finest mansions in the city? And that’s if some of them were even willing to take in a clanwoman.”
“Mother—”
Zura slapped Cinder across the face. “Silence! You’re lucky I don’t send you the debtors’ mine.”
Resisting the urge to rub her cheek, Cinder lifted her chin. Because of the extreme danger of working in the cool bowels of the earth, which had become even more dangerous of late, the mines paid well. Better than Cinder could make as a simple house servant. “I would have to be two hundred attalics in debt before you could send me there. I’m sixty short.”