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  She watched him approach, wondering whether he knew she meant to petition the Sect of Sand. She could say nothing. As he neared, she glanced again across the square, reconsidering her grandmother’s plea to turn to the Sanctuary for assistance. But then she thought of the tailor. “Temptreth!” How many Arlis Thrumps are gathered there, protected by their donations? She changed her mind about leaving, and extended the letter. Reaching the Temple of Sands in her condition hadn’t been easy. Revealing to a stranger what had been done to her was harder still.

  The priest, though, didn’t take the paper from her hand—not even to scan its contents. Instead, he strode to the open door, glanced at Kira, and entered the temple.

  Does he mean for me to follow? Reluctant, Kira advanced to the entrance and stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind her. She was momentarily blinded as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. When her vision returned, she could make out shapes—columns, walls—but the priest was nowhere to be found. The temple appeared empty. It smelled empty—the dank air of disuse filling the voids.

  She didn’t know which way to go and couldn’t call out for help. This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have followed him inside. She was about to attempt to open the door, when she saw a streak of movement near the center of the temple. Could that be him?

  As she moved toward where she’d seen the movement, the stone floor was covered by a layer of sand that grew thicker until the stone was completely concealed. The fine grains covered her feet with each sinking step. At the center of the temple was a pool of water that reflected the sun’s light. Was that all I saw? A shimmer of reflected light? With no breeze inside the temple, the pool stood still, smooth as glass. She peered over the edge. Light reflected from the sun above but also originated from below—from something glowing orange like a hot coal in the depths.

  “May I help you?”

  Kira startled, slipping in the sand as she turned, barely preventing herself from falling into the pool. From the reflected light, though, she could tell it was not the same priest from before.

  “May I help you?” the priest repeated, his expression and tone conveying his displeasure with finding her there.

  She held out the letter. “A petitioner.” His expression changed from annoyance to distaste. “You’re not allowed here. Who let you in?” Kira proffered the letter again, hoping he’d realize she couldn’t speak. After a pause, his body sagged. “Follow me.” He turned and trudged away, leaving her with the letter still extended.

  Though she was frustrated by the priests’ seeming disinterest in the letter that spelled out her appeal, she still followed his faint outline into the darkness with one hand held out to feel for obstacles ahead. The outline stopped at the end of a hall. She could vaguely make out his arm pointing forward. “Go to Brother Uri.”

  She moved ahead, her hands guiding her through the darkness as she clutched the wall to her right. Before long, she could see neither the priest nor the pool. She was surrounded by a terrifying absence of light.

  “Who’s there?” A hoarse voice from the darkness caused Kira to gasp—painfully—then groan, holding her jaw.

  She held out the letter, moving it side to side, hoping the voice was Brother Uri’s. A hand grasped her arm, soon joined by the fingers of another hand touching her like they were testing the ripeness of a piece of fruit. The hands moved from her arm to her shoulder, and she realized Brother Uri was blind. She pulled away with a grunt when his finger brushed her jaw.

  “Come,” he directed.

  Kira could still see nothing, but she followed the sound of footsteps. The floor was stone again, though a thin layer of sand gave a scratching sound and feel to each step. When the footsteps stopped abruptly, she felt in the darkness and realized she stood beside a doorway.

  “Go in,” he instructed.

  Kira stepped inside and was feeling for the wall of the room when the door shut and a bar slid in place to lock her in. She pounded on the door. I’m a petitioner, not a prisoner! Her pathetic moan contained those words but none as Brother Uri’s footsteps retreated.

  When she could no longer hear the scratching steps, she explored the room, chastising herself for not heeding her grandmother’s warning. There were four walls and a solid wooden door—no furniture at all. It was a cell.

  Exhausted, she eased her body to the cold stone floor and rested her aching back against a corner. She unlaced her shoes, pulled them off her feet and closed her eyes. I feel so empty. Empty of tears. Empty of hope. She rubbed the swell of her stomach with both hands. She’d felt no movement since her father had dumped her into the courtyard outside her grandmother’s home. Empty of life.

  Riverbend, Chapter 36

  .

  .

  .

  The Sect of Sand

  .

  If it is justice you demand,

  To root corruption from the land,

  You must up to the bullies stand,

  Or turn you to the Sect of Sand.

  .

  Should e’er you find yourself outmanned,

  By the powerful, rich, and grand,

  Then with fires of vengeance fanned,

  You could seek out the Sect of Sand.

  .

  But only when you cannot stand

  Yourself against those whom you brand

  Your enemies, may you command

  Requital from the Sect of Sand.

  .

  —Amin Strell

  .

  .

  Riverbend

  .

  .

  .

  .

  A cell! Kira had come to plead for help, and they’d locked her up like a criminal. The longer she waited, the less she believed the Sect would hear her petition. If my own father won’t believe me, why should they?

  “Take back your whore! She’s no daughter of mine.” With those words Drusus Skinner had dumped her in the courtyard outside her grandmother’s house.

  Kira’s capacity for forgiveness was great. She’d forgiven him for betraying her mother. She’d forgiven him for being a lousy father and abandoning her at birth. She might have even forgiven, after enough time had passed, the broken jaw. She could never forgive those words.

  She felt herself giving up as she rested her head against the wall and waited, letting the chill of the stone spread through her body. She no longer cared what happened to her, but she wanted Arlis Thrump and her father punished. When sleep tugged at her eyelids, she didn’t resist.

  A while later, she woke to the scrape of the bar that held fast the door. Torchlight from the hall seeped through the gaps between the door and the frame. She clung to her last tendrils of hope as the door swung open and the figure of a man appeared. Hooded, and with the torch behind him in the hall, the priest’s features were masked by darkness. Kira could see he wore loose robes with a tan hood pulled low over his brow and was hunched over his cane as if he needed both hands to support his weight. He entered the room with short unsteady steps. “You come, stranger to the Fire, to request the aid of the Sect of Sand.” She recognized the voice of Brother Uri. “Present your case.” He pulled back the hood to reveal clouded, unseeing eyes.

  She rose to her knees and held out the letter. A second hooded figure, one that moved with the dexterity of youth, strode past the blind priest into the room. There was something familiar about the young man’s forceful, self-assured movements. As he snatched the letter from her hand, Kira glimpsed his face. Tyrus? She backed against the wall.

  “What do you see?” Brother Uri asked, using the First Lord’s eldest twin as his eyes.

  “Pregnant girl. Pretty beat up.” Tyrus gave no indication he recognized her.

  “I can feel that much.” Brother Uri sounded exasperated. “What’s written on the paper?”

  “How can I read
with such poor lighting? Do you wish to blind me, old man?” Tyrus turned to her and grinned—the grin that had preceded the beatings he delivered to Whym during their school days.

  He did recognize me! She released those last tendrils of hope.

  .

  .

  Tyrus returned to her cell alone not long after he’d left with Brother Uri. “Turns out sweet, innocent Kira’s a whore.” He grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head. Then he breathed—hot and sticky—on her neck as he traced the outline of her broken jaw with a chewed-rough fingernail. “Cyrus will be heartbroken. He always had a soft spot for you.”

  She tried to break free, but his fingers were wrapped into her hair. She couldn’t budge them. “You’re lucky an old friend was here to assist Uri.” He guided his finger down her neck then through the head hole of her frock. “The blind priest was shocked by the contents of your letter.” He fondled her breast. “It’s rare petitioners come to the temple seeking a merciful death.”

  You bastard!

  He gave her breast a rough squeeze. “Even rarer for them to bring a letter admitting their guilt. Your candor impressed Brother Uri, the dumb blind fool.”

  She raised her hands just in time to protect her face as he slung her against the wall of the cell. With his left hand he pinned her. With the other, he lifted her frock. “But don’t worry. I’ll take good care of you.”

  No! Please no!

  He forced her to the floor.

  .

  .

  Hopelessness had toughened Kira, left her fearless and with an empowering rage. She didn’t cry when Tyrus finished but faced him, her eyes filled with disgust. Hide your hatred. Hide your pain. Don’t let this monster feed off you.

  With a smug grin, Tyrus pushed himself to his feet, then bent to retrieve his undergarments. She lunged at him, taking him by surprise. He lost his balance and flailed backward, smacking his head against the stone wall. Kira scrambled to her feet, rushed to the door, and flung it open. She tore the torch from the wall then took off barefooted to find the exit, sand scratching against stone with each step. On her way to the cell, she’d been lost in the darkness and forced to feel her way forward. The experience had made the temple seem impossibly large. With the torch to light her way, she found the structure far smaller than in her imagination.

  She reached the exit with ease. The door was ajar, though two robed priests in conversation blocked the way out. She shoved past them, hurried down the stairs, and loped ahead until exhaustion overcame her and she was forced to rest. She sat down and leaned against an alley wall, gasping for breath and cursing herself. I shouldn’t have run. I should have smashed his head against the floor until it softened like tenderized meat.

  As people passed, they looked away and gave her wide berth. She bore these strangers no ill will. Barefoot, pregnant, bruised, broken—they have no idea how broken—I’d have done the same.

  She forced herself to her feet and half-walked, half-stumbled down the alleys. Her stomach was cramping. Her lower back felt like someone was driving a knife into the muscle above her waist. By the time she reached the abandoned warehouse in Flint’s Folly, she was light-headed and swaying. She pushed aside the loose board and squeezed inside, falling against the musty hay. She breathed quick sharp breaths. If only—Kira didn’t finish the thought as a stabbing pain wracked her body.

  Colodor, Chapter 37

  .

  .

  .

  Barren is the land,

  Since war so tragic

  Banished to the Blight

  Faeries and magic.

  .

  But nations will fall

  And cities will burn

  When back to their home

  The banished return.

  .

  —Excerpt from Verses From Beyond the Blight

  .

  .

  Colodor

  .

  .

  .

  .The man who’d purchased them led Whym, Kutan, and Tedel into the Tarried Tinker and straight to an empty room. “I’m Seph,” he introduced himself while removing their restraints. “But not a word until you’ve rested. I’m still working out the story.” Then he locked them in the pitch black and left without saying more.

  Whym didn’t know who might be listening beyond the door, so he braved only a few whispers—to inform Tedel they’d been saved and to ensure Kutan had also noted the sign and recognized the man’s name. Then they waited in the dark silence until the patter of tiny feet sounded in the hall outside.

  The door opened. Seph’s daughter, wearing a plain cream-colored shift, stood in the doorframe. She held an oil lamp in one hand and a bedpan in the other. “Papa sent me,” she said, pinning the bedpan against her side with her elbow and using her freed hand to rebalance the shift that was slipping off her bony shoulder. She placed the lamp by the door and stepped into the room to slide the bedpan into the corner. Then she slipped back out, returning moments later with an armful of straw mats and blankets—one for each.

  “Go on now.” Seph appeared behind her as she lingered, studying the three naked men with piercing green eyes. He entered the room carrying a tray with three large mugs and a loaf of bread. He handed each a mug and left the bread on the tray at their feet.

  Whym gagged at the first sip. “Ugh!” This is vile—tastes like a fermented mixture of honey and puckeroot skin.

  “Drink. It’ll make you feel better.” Seph waited until each of them choked down the full contents of their mugs, then again locked them in the room.

  Whym was already yawning by the time the lock clinked shut. We’ve been rescued. We should celebrate! Instead, he slept—a dense, dreamless sleep.

  .

  .

  Alaseph Pyrborn was born Pure—Pyrborn blood from his father, Amondon blood from his mother. As the law required, he’d held the Unum of his father’s family during the bonding ceremony and felt the trickle of Amon’s power flow into his body. But then he’d bonded again in secret—at his mother’s insistence and without his father’s consent—using the Amondon Unum.

  He’d noticed no difference in his power after the second bonding, but keeping the secret had changed him. Double-bonding was outlawed, under penalty of death. His mother had promised to reveal her reasons for risking his life when he was older, but she’d died unexpectedly before keeping that promise.

  Now, with a child of his own and another on the way, he still had no idea why the practice was forbidden. Other than shape and size, the two Unum had felt the same—smooth black stones that gave no indication of their importance. The mystery had weighed heavily on his thoughts as a youth. But it had become just another of his many secrets after he volunteered for the Vanguard, the Faerie who returned to the Lost Land to prepare for a future invasion.

  The Pure rarely joined the Vanguard. They were expected to stay on the Faerie side of the Blight and rule. Alaseph, though, had been swept up in the excitement of the drive to take back their homeland. He’d crossed the Blight despite his father forbidding him to leave.

  After crossing, he’d found his handler, a blacksmith in the Vinlands town of Elderaker. He’d arrived in the sleepy town eager to begin the work of preparing for an imminent invasion, and was crestfallen when the blacksmith revealed he was expected to live a normal life as an apprentice, blend in, and wait to be needed.

  As with the other Vanguard, Seph’s true identity—he’d shortened his given name and created the surname Amborn—was his alone to know. For most volunteers, joining the Vanguard meant creating a false name and not speaking of home. For Seph, it also meant concealing he was bonded and could access the power of Amon, what the people in the Lost Land called magic. It had been like learning to live all over again. He’d found himself laboring over simple tasks he could have accomplished with eas
e using magic, hammering all day something he could have melded in moments with his mind.

  He’d chafed at the constant hammering, certain each stroke was another moment wasted. But as moons passed, then turns, and the invasion remained ever imminent, he found the blows of his hammer molded both the metal and his character. He learned patience—and acceptance. By the time his beard had grown in thick about his jaw and a layer of flesh had settled around his waist, Seph was well-acquainted with the disillusionment many Vanguard developed after crossing the Blight.

  When the five turns of apprenticeship were finished, Seph was assigned to start a shop in Colodor. He’d moved, without enthusiasm, to open the Tarried Tinker. The move, however, had reinvigorated him. The regular merchant traffic made Colodor a hub for disseminating messages among the Vanguard in the region. Able to use magic to speed his work, he spent most of his time involved in plots to secure positions of influence for other Vanguard volunteers. In those days, the Tarried Tinker had been a quiet business, the sort of place where days could pass without a single customer. He’d taken only enough work to maintain his cover. It had given him the freedom to disappear without being missed.

  But as the cycle of seasons repeated, the novelty of spycraft abated. He started sending encrypted messages instead of rushing off to secret meetings. He’d gradually understood what his blacksmith master had tried unsuccessfully to convey. “Imminent” was a word used to lure recruits; the invasion might not occur in his lifetime.

  With less travel and little else to do, he turned to his hammer and anvil to pass the time. Even without magic, he excelled at his craft and started to increase his customer base. Then on the morning of his thirty-fifth turn, Seph Amborn woke up to a realization that hammered him—he considered Colodor, not the place of his birth, his home.