Page 1 of A Court of Truth and Thorns
1
KALI
The king is dead and I’m pulling his son into the woods before his head joins his father’s on the palace’s flagpole.
My mind is numb. Screams and the clashing of blades echo in the air, which is thick with the copper stench of blood. The palace courtyard before us is a killing field, with Bishop Bahir’s red-clad holy guards butchering the royal court.
Minutes ago, Prince William, Luca, Trace, and I were all in Questioner Calvin’s dungeon, where a pair of young girls had implicated Trace in smuggling whisperers to Everett. A serious accusation that threatened to lead to accurate questions about Trace’s loyalties. Minutes ago, I was fearing for Trace’s life. And then, within the time it takes to slice a sword through flesh, none of that mattered any longer.
Prince Wil of Dansil pulls back against my grip. “Wait.”
“King Firehorn isdead,” I tell him again, my heart pounding. The sooner I can get Wil to safety, the sooner I can return for my sister, Leaf, who’s still caught in the besiegedpalace. “It’s a coup. Bishop Bahir is taking the palace by force, and you need to move.”
Wil twists about, blood draining from his face as he sees the bloody head I wanted to protect him from. “Father.”
“We’ve no time for this.” Trace grabs the back of the prince’s tunic and drags him around to the back of the palace, toward the North Wood that’s to be our refuge. Considering who Trace truly is—the long-believed-dead Prince Rune of Everett, masquerading as a guardsman of the Dansil king—Trace’s commitment to protecting Wil even now is... interesting.
Everett and Dansil are at war over Sylthia, a piece of land that Everett captured two dozen years ago, but this attack is not Everett’s doing at all. While Dansil was focused on Everett, Bishop Bahir and his Order of the Goddess following have been infiltrating the Dansil court. Seizing power. Allying with the Viva Sylthia terror mongers to get us to this day.
Luca, Calvin, and the girls—Alexa and Jasmine—are at the North Wood already, moving in deeper when they see us coming. We make an odd crew, but there is no time to choose company when a coup strikes. Cold wind and sunlight whip our faces, beech and ash branches reaching out to snag our clothing.
Pushing my way to the head of the group, I take the lead to guide them on the path of best concealment. A trained scout, I’ve spent enough time here in the persona of Kal, a male guard trainee, to know the woods inside and out.
“In there,” I say, pointing to a tight cluster of trees where long-needled firs droop their branches low and thick.
The group obeys, and a few heartbeats later, we enter the small, covered clearing. Calvin and the girls are breathing hard, the older man bracing his hand against a tree trunk for balance. Good enough. Turning away from them, I creep backtoward the thick branches, pushing the needles aside carefully to survey my return path. I’ll have to move quickly if I’m to make it to Leaf in time.
“You can’t go back now, Kal, if that’s what you are contemplating,” Trace says behind me. “Not for anyone.”
Trace’s sister, Raza, is still in the palace, I realize. Wil’s sister, Violet, too—she’s somewhere in Delta. I’m not the only one with a beloved sibling still inside the slaughter.
But I will be the one going back. The others can make their own choices. “Let them catch their breath, then keep going,” I murmur over my shoulder. “I’ll catch up.”
Trace’s iron grip clamps on to my shoulder. “I saidno. It’s suicide.”
I twist toward him with a snarl. “I wasn’t asking you, Trace. Let. Go.”
He doesn’t. Blood rushes to my face, my muscles pulsing with rage. Twisting free from Trace’s hand, I break through the fir branches and sprint back toward the palace. Images of what the Holy Guard could do to my whisperer sister overlap with promises of what I’ll do to Trace for wasting precious seconds.
I pray to the stars that Leaf hid in the passage below our suite.Ifshe had enough warning,ifshe moved quickly enough,ifshe was in the room at all,ifthe passage wasn’t compromised. Too many ifs.
A body slams into me from behind, forcing me face first into the ground. Dirt and twigs grind into my skin, sliding into my mouth and nose as I gasp against the weight now on top of me. Trace’s familiar musky scent identifies my attacker even before he speaks roughly into my ear. “You can’t go back for her now. You won’t make it ten steps before the Holy Guard cuts you down. And if you do, you won’t make it out. The bestthing Leaf can do now is hide or surrender, not race through battlegrounds with you.”
I buck under his weight, glaring between the trees toward where I know the palace stands. “Not your call.”
“It is when you can’t think for yourself,” Trace growls. His silver hair brushes against my cheek, a cruel mockery of the last time our faces were this close together.
“Go to hell.”
Something sharp pricks my ribs. A knife. “You may come with us voluntarily or in binds,” Trace says. “That is the only choice you have.” I coil in on myself and slam Trace with the back of my head, the scrape of skin against his blade negligible beside the fury pounding in my chest. Trace grunts but holds. “As you wish,” he says, seizing my wrists and twisting them behind me. The pressure on my shoulders forces me up to my knees. I hear a rip of fabric and Trace secures my wrists together, keeping my joints strained until the knot is secure.
“Let me go,” I say, trying not to shout. My heart thumps against my ribs, my skin flushing with a toxic mix of rage and betrayal. “Let me go, or I’ll tell everyone who you are. We’ll see which of us ends up in binds once I do.”
Trace leans down to whisper in my ear again. “Go ahead. How long do you imagine the princeling will live if his guards kill each other off?” Ignoring my curses, Trace marches me back into the tree-covered cove, the others staring wide eyed at my binds.
“Someone important to Kal is still at the palace,” Trace offers by way of explanation. “He is having some trouble differentiating between ‘planned rescue’ and ‘pigheaded killing-spree suicide.’”
Luca winces at my binds but nods understandingly at Trace’s words. The angles of his normally smiling face looksharper in fatigue and fear; even his unruly reddish-brown hair looks tired.
