Page 67 of Thorn Season
My eyes widened at the list of bladesmiths, each placed beside a Henthornian address.
Vincent Meade
Ada Zari
Constance Winters
Kevi Banday
Emile Chance
“He’s a gem,” I said, and left with the eurium knife wrapped in my cloak pocket.
I’d thought leaving the palace would feel like taking in a lungful of fresh air—the walls opening around me, the white spires fading into the distance, the heaviness melting off my limbs.
Instead, I felt exposed.
It was ridiculous; my attack proved that the palace was no safer than anywhere else. Yet every shoulder-brush made me flinch, every shout made me turn, and every up-and-down glance made my specter shiver with dread.
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—haddragged 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 Nelledidpossess 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.
