Tristan woke to daylight.
He sat upright. White smoke filtered through the trees, drifting up like ghostly fingers. Branches snapped under feet. Tristan rubbed at his eyes; Isaac and Owain were silently packing up the camp, ignoring each other with staunch determination.
Isaac slung a pack over his shoulder. "Come on, Beauchamp. Let's get a move on."
He hadn't turned around. Not, Tristan thought, that he was surprised; Isaac could hear a rukka drop from a mile away.
Owain paused. "Are you well enough to ride?"
He was holding Tarquin up, his red hair rumpled from the dirt floor. It made him look younger, somehow. Wilder, like a creature of the forest.
Tristan frowned. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Your shoulder." Owain nodded. "It bothers you in the morning sometimes."
Tristan touched it. The skin was puckered, raised like the spine of some animal. He'd almost blown apart his arm when he was thirteen trying to build a self-firing catapult; he'd smashed against a wooden dresser and woken up in the infirmary three hours later. The muscle still twinged in the morning, sometimes.
But how did Owain know—?
Oh.
Right.
"I'm fine." Tristan's voice was short. "Let's go."
They mounted their horses in silence. Owain took the lead, winding up the path. Hours passed. Thick trees gave way to mossy, rolling hills, and they paused at the top, surveying the village below. A steep waterfall plunged toward the valley, and buildings dotted the grassy banks like small white mushrooms.
Tristan adjusted his reins. "Is that it?"
Isaac's face was grim. "I really godsdamn hope so."
A rattling noise filled the air. They all turned to look at Tarquin, who was slumped over the horse; the former guard's face was an odd shade of purple. Something tightened in Tristan's chest. He didn't know much about medicine, but he knew that turning into a human blueberry wasn't a good sign.
Tristan shifted on his horse. "Is he...?"
Isaac blew out a breath. "He'd better not be. We need him alive." His eyes were fixed on the village. "Delivering a corpse to their door isn't exactly a white flag."
Owain pressed two fingers to Tarquin's throat. Apparently satisfied, he dropped his hand. "It's not much farther now."
Isaac turned. "Did Cidarius tell you what the house looks like?"
Tristan shook his head. "She's never been to Tarhalla."
Or Anna hadn't been to Tarhalla when they'd been trapped in the Tower of the Sun King together, at least. Now... A lump rose in Tristan's throat. Now, Anna could have escaped and made it to Tarhalla. Now, she could be safe.
More likely, a little voice whispered, Eris killed her.
Tristan circled his horse.
"Come on," he said. "Let's go."
They picked their way down the shoulder of the hill. The sun burned overhead, warming the skin of his neck. Tarquin muttered the occasional word, his eyelids flickering; Owain was using one hand to keep him propped on the horse.
Buildings sprouted like wildflowers, a bouquet of purple foxglove, bulbous tulips, and butter-yellow daffodils. Most of the buildings had a ramshackle quality, as if they'd been hastily constructed and painted. They also, Tristan noted, seemed very quiet.
Too quiet.
Owain raised a hand. "Wait."
He paused in a square, circling his horse near a fountain. Tarquin moaned, his head flopping to the side. Isaac's hands tightened on the reins.
"We don't have time," Isaac said. "If we don't find Sophie Holloway's house before the Nightweavers find us—"
"Quiet." Owain's brow furrowed. "I think I can hear..."
Something knotted in Tristan's chest. "What?"
Owain exhaled. "Shit."
An alarm blared.
A large brass bell tolled overhead, the reverberations dark and ominous. Footsteps flooded the square. And then there were people — dozens of people, Tristan noted with rising anxiety — each carrying a different weapon. Axes. Pitchforks. Something sharp and pronged. He skittered back instinctively, but their entrance had been blocked.
A pulse pounded in his throat.
Shit. Shit.
A man hissed out a breath. "Dayweavers."
"That's Webb!" A sword stabbed in their direction. "That's the King's Shadow!"
"You killed my son," a voice shouted. "My baby boy!"
Someone raised a pitchfork. "Get them off their horses!"
Hands jostled his saddle. Tristan half-closed his eyes, letting the hands drag him down. Panic pulsed at his throat. No. It couldn't end this way. Not after escaping the tower, and riding half-frozen across Wynterlynn, and being imprisoned for weeks—
"Step aside!" a female voice shouted.
The crowd parted.
A dark-haired woman strode through the crowd. She was dressed in armour, and angry-looking scars circled her bare wrists. She was also leaning heavily on a cane. Something tightened in Tristan's chest. Something about the way the woman cocked her head to the left... it reminded him of Anna.
This was Sophie Holloway.
It had to be.
A second woman pushed through the crowd. Her brown hair was braided back, and she was bouncing a small child against her rounded stomach. This woman, Tristan thought with mounting dread, was someone he recognized. June. The Nightweaver that had been masquerading as the castle healer.
June stopped.
Stared.
"Tarquin?" The woman's voice was half a sob.
Tarquin raised his head. His eyes were unfocused, but there was something primitive about the movement. Like a bird sensing its nest.
"June?" he slurred.
"Oh, my gods," June whispered. "Oh, my gods." She raced to the horse, pulling frantically at her husband's shoulders. "Tarquin? Can you hear me, baby?"
He nestled into her hand. "June."
Tears streamed down her face. "It's me. It's me, darling." She kissed his forehead. The bruised skin of his cheek. "You're safe now. You're home."
Tristan looked away. There was something so intimate about the moment, he thought, that it felt voyeuristic to watch. Sophie turned to a young boy, lowering her voice. "Jasper? Get them to the medical centre. Send for Frank."
He nodded eagerly. "Yes, ma'am."
Jasper raced forward. Owain slid off the horse, passing the reins to the younger boy. June hurried alongside, her hand threaded through Tarquin's fingers. She was murmuring something to her husband, shifting their child so he could see his chubby fists. Tarquin smiled through cracked lips.
"Let me guess," Sophie said, recapturing his attention. "Isaac Webb."
Her cool gaze was fixed on Isaac's sword. He'd wrested it from a guard on their way out of the prisons, and it was rusted with dried blood.
Isaac's face was impassive. "You know me."
"Only by reputation," Sophie said. "You've slaughtered enough of my people to build a name for yourself." She raised her sword, swivelling. "And you. Salvatorian face. Golden eyes. You must be Tristan Beauchamp."
"Yes." There seemed no point in denying it.
Sophie's sword cut to Owain. "And you are?"
The other boy smiled beatifically. "Shambles."
Sophie raised an eyebrow. "Shambles?"
Owain lifted a graceful shoulder. "My parents had a unique sense of humour."
"Can you lower that sword?" Tristan asked. "You're making me nervous."
To no surprise, Sophie ignored him. "How did you find us?"
She turned to Tristan, and the sword swung dangerously close to his neck. Tristan swallowed. The explosive felt heavy in his pocket, and he resisted the urge to touch it: an ingrained, comforting habit. "Anna told me."
Sophie's eyes narrowed. "I don't believe you."
The words spilled out. "We were trapped in a tower together for weeks. Eris Delafort tortured her for information. I was with her."
"Prove it," Sophie said.
Her sword didn't waver. Still, Tristan thought, there was something about the way Sophie tensed when he said the word tortured that made him think she was just as anxious as he was. He pressed his thumb and index finger together.
"She told me stories," Tristan said. "You used to take her to a pond. She learned to swim there." The words tumbled out of him, tripping over one another. "You'd catch fish with your bare hands."
Sophie's face didn't change. "Where was the pond?"
Panic filled him. "I don't know. Near the cottage?" Sophie limped forward, her sword flashing in the sunshine, and Tristan scrambled backward. "No, wait! Wait! It was..." An image formed. "The pond was in a cave, near Grim's Market. Yes. That was it. And it had a purple swing that you carved your names into."
Sophie's mouth twisted. Still, she took a step backward, and dizzying relief flooded him. Tristan was aware of the crowd shifting, although Sophie's gaze never moved from his face. "Where is Annalise now?"
A lump rose in his throat. "I don't know."
Sophie leaned closer. "Is she in the tower?"
"I don't know!" Tristan raised his hands. "Please. I don't know anything."
Tristan's heart hammered in his throat. The tip of the sword kissed his throat, and the metal was cool against his flushed skin. Owain shifted closer. Isaac gripped his sword. And Sophie continued to watch him, her gaze dark and steely.
"But you know something, don't you?" Sophie murmured. "That's why Anna told you where we are. To deliver information." Tristan didn't say anything, but his face must have confirmed it, because Sophie sighed. Sheathed her sword. "Come along, then. And be careful."
Isaac frowned. "Of what?"
"That trip wire." Sophie nodded at their ankles. "One more step and it'll blow you to smithereens."