“Some time away from Firgaard might be good,” Asha suggested. “It would only be for a few weeks. Surely your soldats are too well trained to let Firgaard fall to pieces in so little time.”
Safire was about to point out that they themselves had led a revolt in less time, breaching Firgaard’s walls and dethroning the former king. But Torwin interrupted.
“Come on, Saf,” he said, stepping toward her. “You haven’t been able to rest since Dax promoted you.”
Safire hadn’t rested since long before that. She couldn’t afford to rest.
“Come with us,” urged Torwin, throwing an arm over her shoulder as he smiled that half smile of his. “Have a little faith in your soldats. Let them catch this Death Dancer while we’re in the Star Isles. I’m sure when we return, she’ll be waiting for you in a cell.”
Not likely, thought Safire as her fingertips tapped each hilt of her throwing knives. The feel of them, there at her hip, calmed her a little. And as she did, Asha’s question echoed through her mind.
What is the cockiest, most valuable thing she could possibly steal from you?
Suddenly, Safire knew the perfect thing to bait a trap for the Death Dancer.
“I should get back,” said Safire, already thinking of a plan. Sighing loudly, Torwin dropped his arm. Safire looked from him to her cousin. “Be safe, all right? No flying in bad weather.”
Asha nodded, then pulled her into a hug. Safire squeezed her back.
When Asha let go, Safire turned to Sorrow.
“And you be good,” she told the dragon.
Sorrow only tilted his head, watching Safire back away through sad, silent eyes.
“Good luck with that thief of yours!” Torwin called after her.
Safire nodded, waving. The dried pine needles crunched beneath her feet as she headed for the hunting path. But as she made her way down through the Rift and toward Firgaard’s gates, she couldn’t shake the sense that someone was dogging her, keeping just out of sight.
Whenever Safire turned to look, as ever, she found nothing but shadows.
Three
Go to Firgaard. Steal the king’s jewel. Report to Kor in three days.
Those were Eris’s orders. The job was long since done now. And yet she hadn’t reported to Jemsin’s protégé: a pirate named Kor who who was in charge of Eris while Jemsin met with the empress.
It was foolish. Way too risky. But after four days of playing games with the commandant, Eris wasn’t quite ready to give up. A raven had followed her through Firgaard’s streets earlier. Eris panicked at the sight of it until she realized its eyes were black, not red. That it wasn’t Jemsin’s summoner; it was just a boring old bird.
Still, its presence was enough to scare Eris. And her fear was a reminder: it was time to go.
She had one last thing to do before she left. Because the commandant was right: Eris was a cocky bastard. And more than the triumph of eluding Safire was the pleasure that came with knowing just how furious Eris made her.
The anger showed every time Safire spoke about her.
Every time she thought about her.
The knowledge of that brought Eris a rush of irrational pleasure.
Eris smiled to herself now as she stood behind the terrace curtains of the commandant’s bedroom, keeping herself hidden. She knew the commandant’s routine by now. You didn’t creep through the palace without memorizing the movements of the person in charge of its security first. Eris knew when Safire retired for the evening. So she waited.
But as she fingered the stem of the scarp thistle in her hand, tracing the thorns, she started to have second thoughts. Why was she still here? She should have headed straight for the sea after stealing that ruby. She should be heading for it now.
She was four days late reporting to Kor’s ship, the Sea Mistress. She couldn’t stay here much longer. To do so was to tempt the captain’s wrath.
Forget the knife, said a voice inside her. Step across now and head for the Sea Mistress.
But something else—something stronger than her fear of Jemsin—rooted Eris to that spot behind the commandant’s curtain. Maybe it was nothing more than recklessness, but Eris wasn’t leaving until she got what she’d come for.
There was a time when, tired of his abuse, she had tried to escape her captain. That was before she knew better. The first time Eris ran, she got as far as Firefall—a city on the south shore of the Silver Sea—before Jemsin’s summoner found her and dragged her back to his ship, the Hyacinth—where several lashes and a week without food or sunlight awaited her.
She tried twice more. Both times, she was caught. Both times, her punishment was more severe than the last. She carried the scars still—on her wrists and ankles, and across her back.
Eventually, Eris stopped trying.
After all, things could be much worse.
Jemsin was a monster, but if not for him, she wouldn’t be alive. He’d kept her safe from the empress before, and would do it again. That counted for something.
Suddenly, the door clicked but didn’t open all the way.
Eris held her breath, listening, as two voices issued into the room. One belonged to the commandant; the other she didn’t recognize. Eris glanced out the window, to the starry sky above Firgaard. It was well past midnight.
Who would she be bringing back to her room?
A sweetheart? Eris wondered. Her stomach turned over at the thought.
But when the door opened wider and the commandant stepped inside, Safire stepped in alone.
The moment she did, her strong posture softened. Her shoulders folded in. And just like that, she wasn’t the commandant. Wasn’t the proud cousin to the king.
She was just a tired girl.
Through the lace edge of the curtain, Eris watched Safire light the lamps, then move through the room. She disarmed herself first—unbuckling the saber at her hip, then the belt holding her throwing knives. She set both of these down on a tabletop near an arching window, then slid off her boots and undressed, donning a pale blue tunic that fell almost to her knees. The last thing Safire did before getting into bed was slide a slender, decorative throwing knife out of the knot of hair at the back of her head. This she hid under her pillow before blowing out the lamp flame.
That was the knife Eris had come for.
The sheets rustled. The wood creaked. And then: silence bled through the room.
Eris remained still as a shadow while her sight adjusted to the darkness, waiting for the right time to strike. It wasn’t long before the commandant’s breathing changed: deepening and evening out.
As soon as Eris was certain Safire was asleep, she stepped out from behind the curtains.
This bedroom was far simpler than the king’s and queen’s rooms—which Eris had crept through simply to slake her curiosity. After the king and his sister, Safire was next in line for the throne. Eris expected lavish furnishings and fine silks. But Safire’s room was small, her bed even smaller—not big enough for even a bedfellow.
Eris cloaked herself in shadow as she slunk across the room, awash in the silvery-blue night. Her footsteps made no sound as she stepped up to the bedframe. She should have reached immediately for the knife beneath the pillow. It could have been quick and easy. Over in an instant. But as she stood over Safire’s sleeping form, Eris . . . hesitated.