Page 25 of Thorn Season
“I’ll be fine,” I said shakily, and Dashiel led me away.
He slowed to accommodate my footwear, even offering his arm when the tunnels darkened. Then we approached a wooden ladder, and I bundled my skirts. Dashiel had the good grace to turn his head while I climbed.
The night-fresh air blasted hair into my eyes, so I wasn’t prepared when warm hands encircled my waist to hoist me up. I gasped, automatically grabbing on to strong shoulders for purchase. I didn’t let go until Keil—now masked and hooded—set me gently to my feet.
“My lady,” he said in soft greeting, making sure I was steady before stepping back.
I skewered him with a glare he didn’t return. He held my gaze a moment longer, infuriatingly calm, then turned toward a tree-lined path, ground lanterns spilling light across his boots.
A field sprawled around us, long grass combed to one side under the current of wind. Seated under a dip of grassland and tangled with shoots, the tunnel opening could’ve led to the burrow of a large animal. I was watching Dashiel emerge from it when a stronger wind ruffled my sleeves, carrying a familiar sour-noted fragrance.
My eyes darted to the trees. In darkness, the blossoms seemed pale as parchment. But come morning, they would glisten like fallen stars.
“We’re still in Vereen,” I said, half-dazed. Penny blossom trees were native to my province, where craftspeople crushed their silver petals into shimmering dyes.
Dashiel nodded, brushing off his trousers. “You know your land well.”
I looked back toward the tunnel entry with new understanding. Of course these Wielders had stationed themselves here.
Vereen’s underground hosted a wealth of ancient xerylite mines, many of which had been used as strongholds during the Starling Rebellion. While the coordinates had since been stricken from public files—with only my father holding the records—the tunnels had remained an emblem of defiance. Of Wielders, fighting back.
And apparently, their locations weren’t forgotten.
I inched toward the entry, curiosity rousing my specter.
“Stay there,” Goren barked, with the sternness of someone setting a naughty child on a countertop. I stumbled, not realizing how close he’d been standing. Or that he’d been glowering at me, biceps bulging as he scraped his ash-brown hair into a topknot.
I took another backstep. Keil may not punish innocents for their lineage, but Goren had made no such promises. And right now, the Hunters’ blood felt heavier—more dangerous—than the specter under my skin.
“You won’t be harmed, my lady.” Dashiel shot Goren a disapproving look.
Goren grunted, snapping his hood down.
The grass rustled, and I turned to see the blond man swaggering toward us, twirling a throwing knife between quick fingers. “Hello, lockpicker.” His bright green eyes betrayed a wicked smile. “I’m Lye. Lysander, really, but I don’t expect anyone to bother with that many syllables.”
“This isn’t a dinner party,” said Goren.
“It’s not? Huh. That explains the lack of appetizers.”
“Get in position.”
“Oh, don’t be grouchy in front of the lady.” Lye sheathed the knife through his bandolier. “You’re the one who said we didn’t need to guard the door.”
“And what would you have done if you’d caught her escaping? Offered her a map?”
“If she asked nicely.” Lye threw me another eye-crinkling grin. “Good thing you didn’t seemewalking around without a mask. People have been known to swoon.”
“Get in position,” Goren growled again.
Lye rolled his eyes and wedged between us. He leaned down, voice low with mischief. “I’ve never picked a lock with hairpins. Who taught you?”
I was spared from having to answer as footfalls thumped toward us.
“Rider sighted,” Osana panted, slowing to a jog. “Prepare for conflict.”
My stomach lurched. “Wait.Conflict—”
“Armed?” Keil asked.
