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E XHAUSTED AND BONE sore, Kanthe stood atop a small wooded rise that afforded a view across the blue expanse of the Heilsa. The forest lake shone under the late latterday sun. After so long buried under the clouds and mists of the Reach, he was stung by the brightness of the open sky. He squinted at the brilliant mirror of the flat waters. A handful of sails scudded across the surface, marking the path of fisherfolk from Havensfayre, a town that lay hidden in fog on the far side of the lake.

He understood why the nomadic Kethra’kai had constructed their only town beside this lake. Rather than merely reflecting the blue sky, the Heilsa’s water seemed to take that hue and concentrate it into darker shades of cobalt and indigo. The Kethra’kai called this lake Meyr’l Twy, which meant tears of the gods. The Heilsa was even shaped like a teardrop that had fallen from the skies.

Yet, that was not the only reason for this lake’s name.

Jace groaned. He sat on a log so fuzzed with moss that not a speck of bark could be seen. He had taken off his boots and rubbed his ankles.

“What I wouldn’t give to soak my feet in those waters,” he said to Nyx, who stood nearby.

The Kethra’kai had certainly set a hard stride through their greenwoods. They moved tirelessly, including the old woman. And even then, Kanthe suspected they went slower to accommodate the pace of the lowlanders among them. Still, it had taken their party most of the day to reach the large lake. Frell’s estimation yesterday that their group could reach the Heilsa by midday was dashed by the reality of both distance and hardship. Their path here had been circuitous, avoiding known hazards, aiming for spots to collect rare herbs, or diverging to hunt for fresh game.

Faint ringing echoed across the lake from Havensfayre. The distant bells sounded haunting and forlorn, marking either the last bell of latterday or the first of Eventoll.

Jace reached to his boots, preparing to don them. Their day’s hike was not yet over. They still had to round the lake, which would take them near to the end of Eventoll. They currently waited for the Kethra’kai to finish some act of obeisance at the lake’s edge. Frell was down there with them, observing a ceremony that involved much bowing. Palms were dipped in the water and placed to cheeks. He heard faint singing.

Nyx stared toward them with her arms crossed. She had donned Jace’s cloak after it had dried overnight, but she had barely tied it, allowing glimpses of bare skin and the spotted wrap over her breasts.

Kanthe had caught Jace sneaking surreptitious glances her way as they trekked the forest. Not that he faulted the journeyman. Kanthe had done the same. And it wasn’t just the peeks at her flesh that likely drew their attention, even Frell’s—though the alchymist’s glances were more studious than appreciative.

Instead, with each league hiked, an air grew about her, gathering like a cloak to her shoulders. Her skin shone with more than perspiration. The golden strands in her hair brightened, while the rest of it darkened into shadows. It was as if she drew some strange vitality from the woods. Kanthe doubted she was even aware of it.

Certainly no one mentioned it, but they all felt it.

Even the Kethra’kai, who snuck looks her way and whispered among themselves.

Nyx seemed blind to it all. During the long trek, she had hardly spoken a word, clearly dwelling deeply on matters she was not ready to talk about. She cast glances often toward the Kethra’kai elder, but any attempt of hers to move closer was rebuffed, not forcefully, more like a wind that kept pushing the women and elder away if Nyx drew too close.

Jace also kept protectively close to her, gasping and panting to keep up. Kanthe had come to realize how much he had underestimated both the journeyman’s stamina and his boundless loyalty to his friend. The latter was certainly born of a stripling’s love, which had yet to be spoken. Kanthe had harbored one or two such affections in the past and knew how much it ached one’s heart, a wonderful anguish jumbled with hope, desire, and a large amount of insecurity.

Still, he sensed depths to Jace that, like Nyx, the journeyman was oblivious to. When Kanthe first met him, he judged the man to be slovenly, weak of muscle and wide of belly, stunted by his years of shelter at the Cloistery, truly no more than a man-child. But after these many days, he recognized the stinginess of his judgement.

And I should know better.

His ears rang with the many past jibes cast his way, by people who did not know him: the Tallywag, the Dark Trifle, and many other coarser titles.

Still, even with his newfound generosity for Jace, Kanthe sometimes wanted to slap him across his scruffy face. Like now.

Jace pointed to the lake after donning his boots. “It’s said the waters of the Heilsa hold miraculous curative powers. Many come here with dire ailments and swear that imbibing or bathing in these waters healed them.”

Kanthe closed his eyes, biting back a groan. He remembered Jaleek’s big grin and the word that the tribesman had spoken as he pointed to a bowl of powder. Kraal. The Kethra’kai apparently had a cure for what the skriitch inflicted.

A soft moan drew Kanthe’s eyes open. Nyx had stepped from her post near the log and toward the lake. Whatever magick had infused her fell from her shoulders, leaving her back bowed. He knew what she feared, the guilt it sharpened. The promise of healing waters opened a wound barely closed.

He crossed over to her and cleared his throat, seeking for a lightness that his heart did not feel. “It’s just legend,” he scoffed. “The scout I knew, Bre’bran, laughed at such stories.”

This was a lie, but one he knew Nyx needed to hear.

“The lake is no different than any other,” he continued. “Truly. The people of Havensfayre suffer just as many ailments as any other town. Sure, it’s pretty and all, but miraculous?” He blew sourly through his lips. “Preposterous.”

Jace sat straighter. “But according to Lyllandra’s Medicum Priz, the waters are said to be rich in—”

“In shite.” Kanthe cut the journeyman off with a hard frown and a meaningful look at Nyx’s back. “Flowing in from Havensfayre’s sewers. And I know those fisherfolk sailing out there have pissed many a time in that lake.”

Jace seemed to finally understand. He swallowed hard, his cheeks reddening, and nodded. “That’s probably true.”

“Then enough talk of miraculous waters,” Kanthe said. “We still have a long trek to reach Havensfayre, and the Kethra’kai are coming back.”

He waved to where the tribesmen climbed up the rise toward them, accompanied by Frell, whose face was flushed with excitement at observing a ceremony rarely witnessed by lowlanders.

Kanthe scowled at their approach.

If that skinny alchymist says one word about cures…

Still, the damage had been done. Nyx straightened, but she tightened the cloak around her body, as if she were suddenly cold. Or maybe she sensed the forest’s charmed mantle had been stripped from her by Jace’s ill-timed words.

Frell must have noted the shift in weather atop the knoll. He frowned around, saw nothing amiss, and waved back to the lake. “We should be in Havensfayre in another few bells.”

Kanthe nodded. “Then we dare wait no longer.”

As he followed the scouts of the Kethra’kai, he dragged his own shadowy fears along with him, which grew with every step. His hip ached from where the crossbow bolt had grazed it, a shot he had thought accidental, but now was suspect. He pictured the crimson-faced Mallik thrusting a sword at him. And the face of another vy-knight, the head of the detachment. Anskar would not sit idly by after allowing Kanthe to escape his assassination attempt.

Still, he cast a worried look toward Nyx. She had also survived an assassination long ago, one ordered by the same king. Maybe she was Toranth’s daughter, as reviled as a certain despoiled son. But Kanthe also knew she carried a dark pall of prophecy, of doom laid at her feet, a warning whispered in the king’s ear by a dark Iflelen. Kanthe had dismissed such divinations before, but he could not ignore a worry that had been growing of late, one just as rife with fear, especially with all that he had heard and witnessed these past days.

He stared over at Nyx.

What if that bastard Wryth was right?

N YX WATCHED THE Kethra’kai vanish into the mists.

The final bell of Eventoll rang from the shadows of the fog-shrouded town to her right. The tribesmen had honored their promise and delivered her and the others to the outskirts of the woodland town. The two groups parted where a rutted road led toward Havensfayre.

At the forest’s edge, only Xan and Dala still lingered in the mist, staring back at her, looking like ghostly spirits of these greenwoods. And maybe they were. Dala kissed her palm, held it toward Nyx, then backed into the fog and was gone, leaving only the elder.

Nyx did not understand why Xan had avoided her all day. Had I done something to offend her? Or were there secrets the wizened woman was not yet willing to share?

The elder’s eyes—sapphire and emerald—shone out of the pall. It was nearly all that was visible of the snowy-haired woman’s countenance. Only at that moment did Nyx realize how Xan’s eyes matched The Twins, the two bright lakes that framed either side of the misty town: Heilsa’s blue waters behind Nyx and Eitur’s green spread, somewhere farther to the north, lost in the fog.

Before she could ponder this, Xan began to sing to her. With the woman’s lips hidden, it was as if the elder’s voice came from the whole forest. There were no words that Nyx could understand, but the intonations and melody, the lilt and rhythm, spoke of passing ages, of tiny seeds growing into creaking giants, of death’s inevitability, and the joy of petal, leaf, loam, and all the creatures enjoying their brief spark here.

She pictured Bashaliia, winging through branches, chasing motes flashing in sunlight. Tears rose, which had always been there, held back in the false belief that they were no longer needed. The salt washed her eyes.

Xan continued to sing, but under her voice, another song wafted, stranded in golden notes. They bathed her until Nyx opened to them. She closed her eyes and fell back through the ages of the Kethra’kai in these woods. Images blurred. She tried to follow, but she stumbled, too raw and untrained for such travel. She caught a brief glimpse of dark cliffs, of ancient seas imbedded in those walls, of something stirring in the shrouds above.

Then she lost the rhythm and tumbled back into herself.

She opened her eyes as the song drew to an end. She stared ahead, but Xan was already gone. As she stared into the mists, she felt abandoned yet again, cast from a kinship that could never be hers.

Jace approached, moving with tender concern. “Nyx…?”

She looked over to him, starting to shake. He reached to her, and she fell into his arms. He held her, letting her sob, staying silent, as if knowing there was nothing he could say. But his warmth, his scent, were enough.

I’m not abandoned, she reminded herself.

She waited for the last echoes of the song to fade out of her, to find herself back fully in her own skin, in Jace’s arms. She finally hugged him back more firmly, letting him know she was all right.

She leaned back and stared up into his face. “Thank you.”

He blushed, mumbled almost apologetically.

She slipped out of his arms but found his hand and held it. She stared over at Kanthe and Frell, who looked embarrassed.

Frell cleared his throat with a cough. “We should be going.”

K ANTHE KEPT NEXT to his mentor as they approached the edge of Havensfayre. “Do you know where you’re going?” he asked Frell. “Have you ever been here before?”

“No,” the man admitted. He nodded to the misty town, still barely visible through the pall. “But Prioress Ghyle gave me a name. The Golden Bough. An inn somewhere in Havensfayre.”

As they marched along the rutted road, the fog thinned slowly to either side. More and more of the woodland town appeared out of the mists, going from hazy illusion to an undeniable sturdiness.

Despite his pretended worldliness, Kanthe gaped about at this forest trading post, aglow with a thousand lamps. It looked as if the entire place had been grown rather than built. And in many ways, it had. Here, an ancient grove of Reach alders climbed into the sky. The giant trunks had been hollowed out into homes, climbing many levels, with tiny windows shining and crooked stone chimneys piping with smoke. The highest homes vanished into mists, revealing themselves in the glow of distant windows.

Yet despite all of this, the trees still lived, spreading branches leafed in green and gold. Many of those limbs had been carved into bridges. And where those failed to span, hundreds of swinging wooden bridges crisscrossed throughout the town. Even the trees’ massive roots, many as thick around as the trunks of the Reach’s remaining forest, had been sculpted into natural staircases.

As their group passed under one such archway, Kanthe spotted stone steps that dug down, adding new meaning to root cellar. From the laughter and clinking of stoneware rising from below, he suspected a good portion of Havensfayre lay buried under this ancient grove.

Still, not all of the town had been carved from the forest.

As they continued, ordinary homes of stone and wood, of shingle and thatch, appeared, abutting against the trunks. These grew in number, stacking one atop the other, but still there remained a naturalness in the curve of walls, the layers of lichen on stones, the spread of circular windows, like the glowing eyes of owls.

Frell stopped periodically to ask for directions from the townspeople, who all seemed uniformly cheery, despite the perpetual fog. Kanthe understood why. Music wafted all around. Lamps glowed everywhere, glassed in every color. The air itself smelled of woodsmoke and rich loam, as if every breath held life within it.

Still, this late in the day, the avenues and winding streets were mostly thin of people, a mix of darker-skinned lowlanders and pale Kethra’kai. Most shops were shuttered, but several stands lured their passing noses with the scent of sizzling meat, bubbling stews, and frothy ale.

“Right yonder,” an apple-cheeked man said to Frell from behind a fiery griddle, and pointed down the way. He looked close to burning his round belly on his stove. “Past the Oldenmast. You can’t miss the Golden Bough.”

Kanthe hoped the man was right, feeling already thoroughly lost. Between the mists and the meandering streets and alleys, he would have had a hard time pointing toward the waters of Heilsa, which seemed a world away. He searched around. The lamplight stretched in all directions, fading into the distance, making it hard to judge the breadth of this town.

Frell thanked the hawker for his directions and got them moving again.

Jace drew closer. “Is it me? Or are we going in circles?”

Kanthe realized he wasn’t the only one confused by this jumble of a town.

Frell huffed and led the way. “It can’t be far.”

Jace cast a sidelong glance at Kanthe, then shrugged. “If not, I’m going to raid the next stew stand we cross.”

“Or tavern,” Kanthe added.

Finally, they rounded a huge bole of a tree that looked far larger than any of the others. Its bark had fallen away or been stripped, exposing a whitish-gold wood. Its surface had been polished to a sheen that reflected their passage. A pointed archway opened into it, sealed by tall doors of the same alder wood. Over it and lit from within, a huge round window glowed with brilliant shards of glass. To one side, a fiery sun cast out golden rays, lighting up a pale blue sky. Beyond those spears, the pieces of glass grew ever darker as they crossed to the other side, where stars appeared, sparkling like diamonds, all surrounding the silvery face of a full moon.

“This must be the town’s kath’dral,” Jace said as they passed it.

“No, this is Oldenmast. Dala told me about it.” Nyx stared up at the silver moon with a haunted expression, plainly reminded of the danger that had brought them all together. “It’s not our gods that are worshipped here, but those of the Kethra’kai. Here they give honor to the pantheon of the forest.”

“Even so,” Frell said, moving them on, “if this is Oldenmast, the inn cannot be much farther.”

For the first time since entering these greenwoods, the alchymist was right.

As they cleared around the huge polished trunk, a sprawling structure hugged the next tree, whose bole was only slightly smaller than the one they had just passed. The construction climbed a dozen levels. It was timber-framed, slate-roofed, with a foundation of mossy, lichen-scribed boulders. Its entirety melded into the ancient alder behind it, which also shone with windows along its trunk. It all blended so finely that it was hard to discern where craftsmanship ended and nature took over.

Ahead, a pair of huge doors, large enough to close a barn, stood open. Merriment and music flowed out to them. Firelight danced inside. Over the threshold, a sign had been carved into the gilded shape of a tree, from tangled dark roots to the spread of a wide crown, leafed in gold.

Kanthe sighed. “If that’s not the Golden Bough, I’m still staying here. You all can keep wandering these blasted mists.”

Frell pushed him toward the open door. “Let’s hope this journey has not been for naught.”

N YX WAITED IN the commons of the inn, which was less a single room than a warren of interconnecting chambers. Some were small and intimate, no more than an alcove hiding a table behind a dusty embroidered drape. Others were large dining halls, smoky taverns, tiny cookeries, and dens of games, from quiet tables bearing painted boards of Knights n’ Knaves, which were earnestly labored over, to raucous spaces where Klashean tiles or rolling dice were bet upon.

As crowded as the spaces were, it was as if the entire town had come to the Golden Bough this night. Pipe smoke clouded the rafters. Spats of loud laughter burst out that made her jump. Pewter platters clanked, and stoneware clattered. Cheers and boasts and threats—some in jest, others serious—echoed all around.

After so long in the quiet of the greenwood, Nyx found the noise overwhelming. Compounding this, the overload of sights in the chaotic space challenged her returned vision and dizzied her. Seeking a respite from it all, she had found a quiet corner near a small hearth, ruddy with coals. It was as close of a reminder of home as she could find in this strange place. Kanthe stayed with her, standing at their scarred table with Jace. Frell had gone to make an inquiry with the innkeep behind a long bar.

Nyx watched the alchymist lean over, his ear cocked, then a nod. Frell slid a coin half-hidden under his palm to the thickly bearded man. Nyx caught the shine of gold. Whatever the alchymist had bought from the innkeep had come at a steep price.

Finally, Frell turned and nodded to Kanthe.

The prince nudged Jace and waved to Nyx. “Let’s go. Hopefully the beds here are not piles of leaves, damp with mulch. Give me a thick dry mattress stuffed with hay, and I’ll sleep like a babe in the softest cradle.”

They headed over and joined Frell, who motioned to a scrawny boy with a crimson cap bearing a paper gold leaf tucked into its band. The alchymist passed him a folded slip and a brass pinch. Both vanished into a vest pocket, and the boy took off across the maze of the commons.

“Hurry now,” the alchymist urged under his breath, and led them after the spry lad.

“Where are we going?” Jace asked.

“To the stables,” Frell said, clearly distracted and nervous.

Kanthe scowled. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said I’d be satisfied with a bed of hay.”

They kept up with the boy, who dashed hither and yon, through the commons to the back, then down a series of halls. Finally, he reached a tall door and rushed forward to open it for them. As he did so, a clash of steel rang from outside, furious and savage.

Worried at the sounds of battle, Nyx slowed, but Frell hurried to the boy. He handed him another bit of brass and waved the lad out the door ahead of him.

Frell turned and stopped them at the threshold. “Stay here,” he warned, then stepped out of the door alone and crossed a few paces.

Jace kept beside Nyx, his brows pinched with the same fear as hers.

What is happening?

Past the door, a large courtyard was open to the misty skies. Lamps hung all around the square. To either side stretched a dozen archways, closed with half gates. Past the nearest, Nyx spied shadowy stalls, where a few horses stirred, likely disturbed by the commotion in the yard.

Nyx kept near Jace’s shoulder.

Two men fought across the breadth of the courtyard, hacking and slashing; both bore cuts in their shirts and breeches, some spots dark with blood. One carried a silvery sword that blurred in his hands. The other wielded two blades so thin that they seemed more mirage than steel. They clashed and parried, thrust and dodged. Their boots danced across the cobblestone yard. Sweat sheened both their faces, lips grimacing or smiling savagely, changing back and forth as swiftly as their swordplay.

Nyx’s pounding heart slowed as she recognized that they were merely sparring, fiercely so, but not truly trying to kill each other. The boy headed over to the pair, whistling for their attention. They finally stopped, breathing hard, gazing with irritation at the lad.

“What is it, boy?” The swarthier of the two men combed back a damp swath of blue-black hair over an ear. “It better be important, or I’ll cuff you soundly for interrupting us.”

The lad’s shoulders rose by his ears. He fumbled with a pocket.

“Leave the boy be, Darant,” the other said. He was a grizzled man with a dark scruff of beard over cheek and chin, salted with gray, which matched his lanky hair. He bore a jagged scar down one cheek. “Before the lad pisses himself.”

Even in the doorway, Nyx felt the danger wafting off these two men.

“M… Message,” the boy finally bleated out. He pulled out and handed the folded oilskin slip from Frell over to the scarred man.

With a weary sigh, the man sheathed his sword and took it. “Demand for another day’s board, I imagine.” He glanced sidelong at his sparring partner. “It’s as if the inn doesn’t trust a pirate.”

Pirate?

Nyx glanced over to Frell, who waited off to the side. The alchymist’s gaze remained fixed on the man who held the message. Frell’s face held the same glaze of wonder as when he had observed the Kethra’kai lakeside ceremony, as if he were seeing history come to life.

The man in the yard stiffened as he spotted a crimson wax seal that secured the message. He hurriedly broke it open and scanned what was written there. He glanced to the boy, who pointed over to Frell.

“This was carried by you?” the man called over to the alchymist. “Written by the hand of Prioress Ghyle?”

Frell nodded, nearly half bowing. “Yes, but I come with much more.” He turned to the doorway and whispered with a wave, “Nyx… it’s safe to come out.”

She was not sure that was true, but she stepped into the yard, drawing Jace and Kanthe with her.

Frell turned back to the man. “I come with Marayn’s lost daughter.”

Nyx fell back a step. She eyed the man with the same look of shock as was mirrored on the stranger’s face. She barely heard Frell’s next words as he motioned across the yard.

“Nyx, this is Graylin sy Moor, a man who may be your father.”

They stared at one another for a frozen breath.

“No…” the man finally gasped out. “It cannot be.”

Still, he took a tentative step toward her.

She retreated, running into Kanthe and Jace.

“I’ve got you,” the prince whispered behind her.

“We both do,” Jace added.

With their support, she stood her ground. Her shock turned to something colder. If any of this were true, here was the knight who had left her for dead in the swamps.

As he approached, he studied her, first with one eye, then another. His steps suddenly faltered. He slipped down on one knee. His voice cracked when he tried to speak.

“Y… You look just like her. It’s unmistakable.” His gaze tried to consume her. Tears welled, seeming to rise from both sadness and happiness. His lips thinned with agony. “By all the gods… I know you must be Marayn’s daughter.”

Nyx took her first step toward him, drawn by his grief and guilt, which matched her own heart. She searched his face, trying to find a similar match in his features, but she only saw a hard, broken man.

“I… I’m sorry,” she whispered to this stranger. “But I doubt any of this is true.”

Her words wounded him, but she felt no satisfaction in it, even as much as she had resented him for most of her life. There were angry words trapped in her chest, long turned to stone. She didn’t know what to make of this fallen knight. She had tried to prepare for this, but she had never truly believed it would happen. She dared not even hope it.

And now that it was here…

She realized a hard truth.

He means nothing to me.

As if hearing her private thought, a growl echoed across the courtyard. Then another. From one of the stables to the right, a large striped shadow bounded over a half gate, followed by a twin. They looked somewhat like wolves, only each stood as high as her chest. They stalked back and forth, crisscrossing one another, heads lowered, with tufted ears held high.

Jace gasped, and Kanthe swore.

Frell tried to herd them back toward the door. “They’re vargr,” he warned, his voice both scared and awed.

Nyx ignored him and stood firm, captured by the dark chatter behind the beasts’ growls. She listened to the underlying high whine. The pitch shivered the hairs on her neck.

Graylin, the man who could be her father, turned to the pair. “Aamon, Kalder, back to your den! Now!”

The vargr ignored him, sweeping wide to come around either side of the man. They passed him and squeezed back together in front of him, filling the space between her and the knight. The pair of vargr growled, lips rippling, baring teeth, challenging her.

She remembered Xan’s warning: There are beasts who will be drawn to your trail. They will seek to kill anyone who risks bridling them.

Still, she faced down the pair. She picked out the thread buried in their whine. It sang of dark forests under cold stars, of the fire of the hunt, of the rip of flesh off bone, of the warmth of the pack in snowy dens. She let those wild strands inside her, to entwine through her. She accepted the vargr’s feral nature, their savage lusts. She had no desire to bridle any of that, but she also refused to be cowed by them.

Instead, she gathered all the anger, grief, and guilt inside her, even her loneliness and shame, until it demanded to be loosed, to burst forth in a wild scream. She remembered unleashing that storm after her father was murdered, leaving many dead in the wake of her rage.

Not again.

She focused all that raw power onto one image. Of a small bat fighting to save her, of dying because of it. Of milk and warmth shared. Of a brother tied to her heart. She closed her eyes and keened that kinship, fueled by all that was inside her. She sang it back along the twin threads to the two wild hearts crouched before her.

As she did so, she exposed her own heart, welcoming them to it.

Slowly their two songs merged. Her keening transformed into a silent howl inside her chest. She shared their haunting cry to icy stars framed by frosted branches and brittle needles.

After a seemingly endless time, Jace gasped again behind her.

She opened her eyes.

One vargr bowed before her, then the other. Their chins lowered to the cobbles. Amber eyes glowed up at her. Tails swished in greeting. Two throats flowed with quieter mewls of reunion, welcoming a lost pack member back to the fold.

She stared at her new brothers, then lifted her gaze over their haunches to the man behind them. She offered him no kinship like she had these beasts. She faced his bewilderment, the awe in his face.

She had only one message for him.

Here is what you abandoned in the swamps.