Page 29 of Thorn Season (Thorn Season #1)

Where Henthorn had once been a vibrant hub of the kingdom’s varied people, the winding streets had since congealed into a melting pot of sweaty crowds, offensive smells, and raucous laughter, all hazed over with the acrid smoke of grill fires.

Vendors urged me to sample their charred corn or seared beef, and I wished I’d changed out of my day dress.

The champagne chiffon sang of wealth, and amid the aged buildings, stacked and slanted and spilling laundry from the windows, it made me a target.

Tugging my hood low, I weaved toward the distinct sea of sound.

Wielders had once integrated into the bustling city of Henthorn more comfortably than anywhere else in Daradon.

In the first years after the Execution Decree, Henthorn had therefore been hit the hardest, with the Hunters’ Mark glaring on every street.

On the twentieth anniversary, when a new generation had ushered in a fresh threat of rebellion, the masked Hunters—my ancestors—had dragged twenty Wielder families to the platform of Backplace and cut their throats one by one.

Since specters were dominant in the bloodline, always passing from parent to child, not even the youngest were spared.

Amarie once told me the gods of justice had imbued the stones with their blood, so the Henthornians would never forget the atrocities they’d allowed to happen to their neighbors.

I stopped beside a dress stall to observe Backplace in its entirety.

Before the slaughter, it had been a stage for street performers.

Now the red sandstone platform overflowed with sympathizers, clanking wooden staffs and calling for justice.

City guards wandered nearby—checking on suspicious carriages, keeping watchers from loitering.

To others, they must’ve looked rather important: frontline forces ensuring the sympathizers didn’t get too rowdy.

But I knew the sympathizers rarely did anything besides clanking and shouting and clanking some more.

I clenched my jaw and refocused, scanning for Nelle’s wine-dark hair.

I expected that she and Carmen would slink off for a private conversation, and I planned to trail them and eavesdrop.

If they’d truly orchestrated my attack, they would undoubtedly speak about it—and Nelle would be confirmed as the compass’s keeper.

My plan hadn’t developed much further than that—even if Nelle did possess the compass, I couldn’t exactly saunter over and stick my hand in her pocket—but it was a start.

Minutes later, Carmen’s crimson head bobbed through the crowd.

Her lips were pale without their signature red, her freckled cheeks uncolored by rouge.

But even dressed in plain hemp, she drew the eye—all swishing hips and high shoulders, a queen without her crown.

Grinning, she bounded for the westernmost corner of the platform.

And threw her arms around a man.

He was lean but muscled, with close-cropped black hair, a deep brown complexion, and a jagged scar across his chin.

He returned her embrace stiffly, his expression alert.

Carmen whispered in his ear, and his posture loosened.

Then Carmen drew back and, with deliberate slowness, kissed his full mouth.

She took one last glance around before drawing him into the streets.

I remained frozen, slack-jawed, my insides churning with wasted anticipation.

I’d been wrong. Nelle hadn’t sent that Bolting Box. Carmen’s lover had.

Carmen had no preference in gender when it came to partners; she only favored beauty—and that man had certainly been beautiful. But why sneak out to meet him when courtiers could take lovers as they pleased?

Unless he wasn’t just a lover.

Carmen had bickered with Erik about rejecting suitors, but perhaps he truly wouldn’t let her pursue an unbeneficial match. And perhaps she already had someone in mind.

With new understanding, I remembered the shipping documents I’d found in her chambers. I’d believed the Avanish navy patrols made it impossible to secure secret passage out of Daradon, but Carmen was a royal with powerful connections...

Had she found a way out from under the bell jar of this kingdom? Was she fleeing for the sake of a romance?

Dragging my attention from Backplace, I stifled my disappointment. I wouldn’t encounter Nelle tonight. But perhaps I could draw closer to her through another route.

I retrieved Tari’s list of bladesmiths from my pocket and began my hunt around the city.

The first two bladesmiths on the list produced immediate failure; both flatly denied their ability to forge eurium blades and even refused my offered coin.

The third admitted her talent after I bribed her with half the contents of my purse—but my rising spirits sank once more when she didn’t recognize the knife. “Look again,” I kept insisting, thrusting the blade under her nose until she gave three coins back just to get me to leave.

With only two names left on the list and no other leads, I was already preparing for defeat as I trudged toward an ancient-looking smithy tucked into a narrow street. Heat and soot blew from the open doors with the sounds of crackling and ringing metal.

I removed my hood, and the oven-hot air dried my eyes. “I’m looking for Kevi Banday.”

A powerfully built woman in soot-stained overalls looked me up and down. “Kevi’s not here.” She gestured to another smith, whose arms shuddered with each thwack of his hammer. “But Owan does fine work.”

“Can Owan forge eurium?”

She sized me up again. “What’s a girl like you want with eurium?”

“Not much.” I withdrew the bundle from my pocket and uncovered the cleaned eurium knife. “I already have a specimen.”

She eyed the blade with far less interest than I’d expected. “That’s Kevi’s work, all right.”

My pulse skipped. “How can you tell?”

“Bonestone. Dawni architects build their towers from it. Kevi liked to bring it over from Dawning to make into handles.”

The memory flashed: spiraling white towers, dripping like candles across a breathtaking skyline. Though I hadn’t visited Dawning in years, I should’ve recognized the mineral.

“And this symbol?” I asked, newly animated. “Was it Kevi’s?”

“Never seen it before. But some buyers want motifs on their weapons—a fish for Avanford, a family crest for the highborns. If you want the meaning, you should ask whoever commissioned it.” A wry grin. “I’m guessing that wasn’t you.”

I bundled the knife back into my cloak. “I need to talk to Kevi.”

“Kevi left on a delivery two months ago. Haven’t heard from him since.”

“You didn’t find that unusual?”

She shrugged. “He came and went as he pleased, found work where he could. He traveled with his equipment, so I figured he went home to Dawning.”

“Did he leave his client list?”

“Client list? This isn’t a tearoom, love.”

“Do you know his address?”

She shook her head, laughing. “Didn’t even know his last name until you said it.”

I frowned, thanked her with a few gold pieces, and returned to the streets.

The sky now resembled a xerylite gemstone, black-blue and flecked with stars, and I entered an alley decorated with tattered hanging baskets.

Kevi had left Henthorn two months ago—which was when the copycats’ Huntings had increased. As though an influx of eurium weaponry had enabled them to pick up speed. Was the timing coincidental? Or was Kevi working for the copycats now, forging eurium blades to aid their butchery of Wielders?

And what about the roundish, swirling symbol he’d etched into the knife handle?

The Hunters had their own mark: the two-tined crown.

This symbol could be something new, an emblem specific to the copycats.

Maybe it was crucial to finding the compass.

.. or maybe it was meaningless, a pretty pattern Kevi had chosen on a whim.

I wouldn’t know until I found him. If Kevi wasn’t currently working for the copycats, he could at least tell me who’d commissioned my attacker’s blade—and perhaps give me a location, if he’d delivered the weapon himself.

But my specter squirmed with my growing uncertainty. If Tari’s father couldn’t rustle up more than a name, and that woman hadn’t known Kevi’s address... I didn’t know how I would locate the bladesmith, especially before the copycats slaughtered another Wielder.

Or before they realized I hadn’t heeded their warning... and they came to finish what they’d started.

I wrapped my cloak tight, a chill nipping my chest. With my eyes on the cobblestones, I didn’t notice the man staggering toward me until he seized my arm.

My blood spiked in warning, and I tried to pull free. “Get your hand off me.”

“You look highborn,” he slurred. “Got any gold?”

I shoved him off, but he moved to block my path.

I fumbled into my pocket, shook off the cloth, and drew out the eurium blade. “Stay back.”

The man laughed at my awkward hold on the knife. He swayed forward, and I loosed a tendril of my specter at the hanging baskets above. Their chains snapped; they crashed over him. He bellowed, and I ran.

The bricks of the alley walls sped past me, wind rushing to the back of my throat. I slowed when I knew he wasn’t following, my breaths thin and uneven.

Kneading the stitch in my side, I squinted around the unfamiliar alley; the stench of sweat and ale curled up my nostrils.

A hand fell on my shoulder and I spun, raising the knife high. A firm grip caught my wrist.

For the first time, I was glad to see Keil.