Chapter 1
Chapter 1
It was only when Mirelle heard hoofbeats behind her for the second time that she truly understood she might not get away. The sound was still distant at first, drifting in broken fragments from the far end of the forest road, scattered by the night wind and the whisper of leaves. She stopped with one hand braced against the rough trunk beside her and held her breath. Then the heavy, measured pounding came again. Someone was catching up. She did not look back.
She had already torn a strip from the hem of her dress. The white underskirt that had once fallen neatly to her ankles was soaked with mud, and the gray-brown cloak she had taken from the laundry before leaving was too large and far too heavy. Whenever she tried to run, it slipped backward off her shoulders. Clutching the collar closed, she followed a narrow trail through the trees—a trail that barely deserved to be called one. She could not move too quickly. She had already learned that lesson. Half an hour earlier, she had believed all she needed to do was keep running. Then her right foot had plunged into a hollow concealed by dead leaves, nearly sending her tumbling down the slope.
Her ankle still throbbed. She had no idea where she was. She only knew she could not go back. For now, that was enough. The forest was darker than she had imagined darkness could be. Night had never looked like this inside the temple. Lamps burned without fail along every corridor. Enchanted candles lit the rooms, and even in the deepest parts of the gardens, attendants replaced the illumination crystals at regular intervals. She had never truly stood anywhere without light. Now she could only make out the path when the moon slipped through the canopy, spilling a little gray-white light between the trees.
Something caught her foot again. Mirelle bit her lip and seized a branch to steady herself.
“This is…”
She stopped before finishing. She rarely spoke to herself. Before tonight, someone had always been nearby—a maid, a court attendant, a temple guard, an etiquette tutor. Even if all she wanted was to walk from her room to the garden, someone would know exactly where she had gone. Now no one did. That should have felt wonderful. Instead, she was beginning to realize that having no one follow her also meant having no one who knew where this path led. The hoofbeats drew closer. Mirelle lifted her head. There seemed to be a faint light at the edge of the forest.
She had no time to think. Gathering her skirt, she headed toward it. The light grew clearer as she approached. It did not belong to a village. There was only a small inn—or at least, she thought it was an inn. A low wooden building stood beside the road, a dim yellow lamp hanging over its entrance. The sign creaked gently in the wind. Two horses were tethered nearby, and a battered freight wagon sat in the yard. Mirelle watched from the shelter of the trees for several seconds.
She had never stayed at an inn. She knew what one was, of course. Noble travelers used posting houses; merchants and mercenaries stayed at ordinary roadside lodgings. She had even once listened to representatives of the merchants’ guild complain about lodging taxes along the northern roads. Knowing such things and standing outside an inn alone were not remotely the same. She felt inside her cloak. The money was still there. Before leaving, she had taken every coin she could find. Twelve silver pieces. She had no idea whether that was a great deal or almost nothing. At the temple, she had never needed to pay for anything herself.
Mirelle touched the dark cloth wrapped around her head, making sure it still covered her hair. Every strand of conspicuous pale gold was hidden, and she had deliberately smeared a little dirt across her face. No one should recognize her at a glance. She repeated that to herself, then opened the door. The room was louder than she expected. Several men sat drinking against the wall while a middle-aged woman in an apron cleared a table. A man who looked like a merchant slept with his head on his folded arms in the corner. The hearth burned hot, filling the room with the mixed scents of ale, roasting meat, and woodsmoke.
When the door opened, several people looked over. Mirelle stopped instinctively. People had always looked at her because she was the Saintess. Their gazes were restrained. They lowered their heads, moved aside, and never dared stare for long. These people did none of that. The man nearest the door looked her over twice, lost interest, and returned to his drink. The reaction was so ordinary it bordered on rude, and for a moment, Mirelle could only stare.
“Need a room?”
The woman in the apron had come to stand in front of her.
Mirelle gathered herself. “Yes.”
“One night?”
“…Yes.”
The woman gave her a quick appraisal. “One silver. Hot water costs extra.”
Mirelle immediately reached beneath her cloak. The woman watched her take a silver piece from a small purse, then glanced at her hands.
“First time away from home?”
Mirelle paused. “No.”
The woman laughed under her breath but let the lie pass.
“Name?”
Mirelle opened her mouth and realized she had never prepared one. All the way here, she had thought about avoiding the guards, changing her clothes, and hiding her hair. It had never occurred to her that someone might simply ask what she was called. The woman waited.
“Miss?”
“Mi—”
Mirelle stopped sharply. A man at a nearby table looked up. Her heart clenched.
“Mira,” she said.
The woman nodded and made a few marks in a ledger.
“Second floor, last room. The lock’s loose, so wedge a chair under the handle tonight.”
Mirelle took the key. “Thank you.”
The woman had already turned away. Mirelle stood there, looking from the rusty key in her hand to the stairs. Was that all? No one had asked where she came from. No one wanted to know who her parents were. No one had asked to see papers. Perhaps she had imagined the outside world as too complicated—or nowhere near complicated enough. She had climbed only two steps when horses sounded outside. Mirelle went rigid. Not one horse. At least four. No one else in the inn seemed concerned. Only the innkeeper glanced toward the entrance.
Mirelle remained halfway up the stairs. She could continue to her room. If the riders were merely passing through, running now would only attract attention. But if they had come for her… Her fingers tightened around the key. The door opened, letting in a rush of cold air. Four men in dark riding clothes entered, their boots caked with mud. Mirelle did not turn around, but she recognized the uniform. They were not temple guards. They belonged to the Crown. She continued up the stairs. One step. Then another.
Behind her, a man asked, “Has a young woman come through tonight?”
The innkeeper did not answer at once.
“Young women come through every day.”
“Traveling alone. Twenty-two. This tall.”
Mirelle had reached the bend in the staircase. A small mirror hung on the wall there. Her reflection was deathly pale.
“Light-colored hair,” the man continued. “She may be wearing a gray cloak.”
The innkeeper was silent for a moment. Mirelle knew she could not expect a stranger to lie for her. She did not even have the right to blame the woman. One silver coin was not worth anyone’s life.
“Didn’t notice,” the innkeeper said at last. “Look for yourselves.”
One of the men was already coming toward the stairs. Mirelle turned. There was no other exit from the upper corridor. She looked toward the window at the far end. It was high above the yard. She entered her room and shut the door behind her. The lock was every bit as loose as she had been warned. She dragged the chair across the floor and wedged it beneath the handle. Footsteps approached outside. A door opened. Someone complained. Another door. The man murmured an apology and moved on. Mirelle went to the window. The second floor was not quite as high as she had imagined. Wooden crates were stacked below, beside a water trough.
If she jumped… She glanced at her injured ankle. No. Not directly. She turned and searched the room. A bed. A table. The chair. Curtains. Mirelle stared at the curtains for two seconds, then crossed the room and pulled. The fabric was stronger than it looked. She tugged twice, but it would not come free.
“Why is this so firmly attached?”
Footsteps sounded outside the door. Mirelle fell silent. Someone stopped.
“Is someone in there?”
She said nothing. The handle shifted. The chair trembled.
“Miss?”
It was one of the royal riders. Mirelle gripped the curtain, her palms slick with sweat.
“We’re conducting a routine search. Please open the door.”
She did not move. Silence held for several seconds. Then the man’s tone changed.
“Break it down.”
Mirelle yanked with all her strength. This time, the wooden rod tore loose from the wall. Ignoring the noise, she wound the curtain around an iron hook beside the window and threw the rest outside. It was not long enough. But it was better than jumping. The first impact struck the door. The chair scraped backward an inch. Mirelle climbed through the window. The night wind slapped her face as she gripped the fabric and braced her feet against the wall. Her palms burned as she slid. There was a crash above. The door had given way.
“She’s outside!”
Mirelle stopped trying to lower herself carefully and let go. Pain shot through her right foot when she landed, nearly bringing her to her knees. The horses in the yard reared and whinnied. Someone leaned through the window above.
“Stop!”
She did not. Mirelle pushed herself off the wall and stumbled across the yard, then clambered over the low wall on the other side. She did not know how long she ran. She only knew that the hoofbeats soon returned behind her. This time, she did not dare stay near the road. She plunged into another stretch of forest, letting branches rake across her face and cloak. The moonlight faded. Clouds covered the sky. Her breathing grew ragged, and her steps slowed. At last, she had to stop. There was no path ahead. Only a river.
It was broad, and in the darkness, she could not judge its depth. Mirelle stood on the bank and looked back. Lights had appeared between the trees. Her pursuers carried lanterns. They were getting closer. She could not swim. Certainly not across a river this wide. Mirelle stared at the black water, with no idea what to do. Then she heard something behind her, from another direction. Not a horse. Footsteps. Very soft ones. She spun around. A man stood among the trees, not far away. He wore a black coat. He carried no lantern and no visible weapon. He simply stood in the shadows, watching her.
Mirelle instinctively stepped back. Her heel touched the water. The man’s gaze moved from her cloak to her face. There was no surprise in it. No question. He merely studied her in silence. The voices of her pursuers drew nearer.
“Search along the river!”
Mirelle looked at the stranger.
“Can you help me?”
He continued staring ahead.
She tried again. “Please… is there somewhere nearby where I can cross?”
His gaze settled on her face. Several seconds passed before he answered.
“Yes.”
Relief loosened something in her chest.
“Where?”
The man lifted a hand and pointed behind her.
“Downstream.”
“How far?”
“Not far.”
The lanterns were already threading between the trees. Mirelle had no time for more questions.
“Thank you.”
She turned away. After two steps, the man spoke behind her.
“You should hurry.”
Mirelle looked back without slowing.
“Why?”
He had not moved. His expression remained perfectly calm.
“Because those men intend to take you.”
Mirelle frowned. “I know.”
“I wasn’t talking about them.”
For a moment, she did not understand. Then his hand dropped to his side. Something seemed to be looped around his fingertips—a black thread so fine she could barely see it. Its other end vanished into the darkness. Before she could focus on it, it disappeared. The man watched her. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet.
“I was talking about me.”
