Page 1 of The Enemy's Daughter

1

If there’s a better way to wait for Farron Banks to be murdered, I haven’t found it. All I know is that this feels wrong.

There’s a shake to my hands as I adjust the heavy, old-world textbook on my thighs. The candle flickers, giving me barely enough light to see the words.Cardiac arrest happens when the heart can no longer produce a sufficient pulse and blood circulation. The cause may be from an electrical event, as when the heart rate is too fast...

The text blurs. If I weren’t on the verge of crying, I’d laugh. Of course, the page I flipped to in an attempt to distract myself from death... would be about death.

Although to be fair, it’s aboutnaturaldeath. Not the kind that involves an arrow to the heart. Or a hatchet. Or a blade.

The kind of death one of our clan leaders is about to carry out. There’ll be nothing natural about the way Farron—leader of our enemy, the Kingsland—dies.

Bleeding skies.I sigh and slam the deteriorating book closed. The old springs of the blanket-covered couch cry out as I heave mymost prized possession onto the cushion beside me. “I need a new distraction,” I mutter.

No, what Ineedis to call this off.

Not only Father’s contest to assassinate Farron, but making marriage to me the winner’s lucky prize.

Only I can’t say that without being disloyal. Ungrateful. Punished.

Mum pauses her task of tying feversley leaves to the clotheslines strung above the crackling woodstove. The log ceiling is covered with strands of them, since she gives supplies to all the women healers in the five clans. “Calm yourself, Isadora.” Her words are quiet but no less a command.

I nod and inhale slowly, but the hint of smoke mixed with the earthy scent of the herbs makes me feel like I can’t catch my breath.

Mum’s thin lips tighten. “Come. Keep your hands busy and help me stack this yarkow. You shouldn’t be reading that anyway. You know those books are dangerous and—”

I jump to my feet. Fresh air—that’s what I need. Room to move. Not another lecture on how the old-world ways led to the mass bombing of the Republic, our home. “It’s just a reference book,” I mumble on my way to the door. “No different from the ones we keep to help us fix a well or teach us the name of a plant.”

But that’s a lie. Thistextbook is so much more than the basics. It’s a window into a time that stopped existing thirty-seven years ago. And although I’d argue that weneedto study the old world to save lives, these books also hint at a different way of thinking, something that could be considered a slippery slope into the perversions and corruption that led to our continent’s demise. Or at least that was the reason given when a good portion of our books were burned.

Father suddenly storms into the room, his boots scuffing the wooden planks.

My breath catches as his hard gaze lands on the textbook. I remain still, knowing it was a foolish risk to take it out from under my bed.

Mercifully, he doesn’t break stride. “Scouts are back.”

They’re back.

He disappears out the front door, inviting in a gust of wind that rattles the herbs and makes the candles flicker within their glass globes.

Mum smooths down the hairs that have come loose from her long braid, then gives me a steady look. “It’s going to be okay. The Saraf will ensure it.”

My father, the Saraf, may be the ultimate authority over the five clans as their founder and leader, but that’s not a promise either of my parents can make. Not if this contest succeeds. My eyes shut, and when I open them again, they’re filled with angry tears. “Are you really at peace with your eighteen-year-old daughter marrying a thirty-four-year-old executioner?” Unwanted, my mind conjures a picture of Gerald, leader of the Maska clan, and revulsion wrenches my stomach. Icouldmarry any of the other clan leaders competing to be the next Saraf. But not the head of our guards. Gerald reeks of death. I see it in the small bone dangling around his neck. I hear it in the prisoners’ screams that leak from the walls when he tortures them, retaliating against the Kingsland for all they’ve done to us. He’s our best fighter but absolutely cruel, which means his chances of winning are—

She swallows. “It might be Liam.”

Yes, it might be my friend, the young clan leader of Cohdor.He’s never stopped me from rambling on about the things I find in the textbooks he secretly brings to me. By the span of entire countries, he’s the best choice out of the five clan leaders competing for my hand. But although he’s strong and capable, Liam comes from a clan of woodworkers, not warriors. “He’s not ruthless enough for this,” I say quietly.

No other clan leader is.I huff as I think of the rest of the competitors, all of them widowers with kids. The clan leader of our crop farmers is the most capable man among us, but only in regard to farming. The leader of our ranchers is physically strong and an expert in animals but knows nothing when it comes to fighting and killing our enemy. The same goes for the fifth and final contender, who will be Father’s proxy, representing Hanook, my clan—an insufferable man whose expertise is unknown to me. I only wish he’d put the same effort into bathing as he does talking.

The truth that Gerald will likely be my future tangles around my heart like a vine of thorns. But instead of speaking more comfort, Mum curtly gestures for me to follow her outside and take our place beside Father on the porch.

Beyond the stairs, Denver dismounts his horse. As a scout and one of the many clansmen missing an arm due to an infection, his weapons are merely a couple of knives strapped to his thigh.

“Blazing bull nuts, we’ve got a winner.” He sports a toothy grin as he climbs the steps leading to our log home. “Somebody crank that siren. It’s done.”

Father smiles. He looks breathless. Euphoric. To him, we’ve finally cut off the head of the beast that has haunted us for decades.

But I don’t think it’s that simple. We haven’t stopped them. We’ve only kicked the hornets’ nest.

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