The knife soared through the air, tumbling end over end, the morning sunlight glinting off the metallic edge. It hit the tree hilt first and fell limply onto the soft grass.

Realta grounded her teeth.

“This skill takes years to perfect,” said Ezri Namazu. The Jemayrti bodyguard retrieved the knife and handed it back to her.

“Why can’t I just use Manipulation?” Though she couldn’t Manipulate anything larger than a book, Realta could hit the tree blade-first every time she used her Thane ability. Well, not quite every time. More like nine out of ten. But it was far more accurate than simply throwing the knife.

Ezri smirked, his white teeth standing in brilliant contrast to his dark skin. “Remember where we are, Realta.” He pointed eastward. “It won’t always be safe to use that ability.”

Two months of travel had led their group to the outskirts of a small village in Kereu, about ten miles from the western shore of the Nerin River. All villages in this area were more than happy to receive visitors. The war in Teyrnas had cut off most trade from the north, and tensions within the country were high, considering that Tarod, a prominent member of the Eastern Coalition, rested just beyond the river.

Though merchant-controlled Kereu was open to Thanes, a number of people began to share their neighbors’ views, wondering if Thanes truly were dangerous. Chinasa Ekene and the Thane Scholars had to lie about their abilities twice and hid away their colorful bead necklaces and bracelets. In the last village, Realta watched as a small mob attacked Minder Thane and threw him out of an inn. The Thane had read the innkeeper’s mind, trying to determine if he was getting a fair price. The innkeeper interpreted the action as a threat and exaggerated the incident to the magistrate, causing the man to be thrown in jail. He was still there awaiting trial when the Scholars left the following day.

Realta’s knife throwing lessons with Ezri began shortly afterwards.

She studied the knife. The handle was made of wildcat bone, smooth and lightweight, just like the knives her father had used while working as a mountain guide. Callum rarely used those knives on the farm, keeping them solely as mementos.

“Do you want to hold one?” Callum had asked Realta when she was six years old. Realta had gone into Callum’s room to ask permission to visit the Tamlin farm with Master and Mistress Loy. The knives, their blades freshly sharpened, laid out on his writing desk.

She looked up at her father’s towering presence and nodded.

Callum selected a knife, the smallest one, and crouched down beside her. He held out the knife hilt first.

“Feel the weight,” he instructed her. “See how it balances in the middle? Right where the blade begins.” Callum positioned her hand nearer the hilt. “See? Easier to hold this way,” he said, smiling.

Realta hadn’t understood why Callum allowed a six-year-old to handle a knife, not until a few years ago. She overheard him speaking with Esme, wondering if he ought to train Realta to become a mountain guide, just in case she wanted to follow in his footsteps. Esme instructed him to be subtle, so Realta would not feel pressured.

Looking back, Realta noted a dozen other small lessons. Callum teaching her about the changing weather patterns, how a sunny winter day can quickly turn to freezing night or how long a storm would last based on the color of the clouds. And Esme had taught her and Charity about healing herbs. Facts a mountain guide ought to know.

When Realta and Charity began to talk about the Academy, about what they would study if given the chance, the lessons grew less frequent.

“Do you want to try again?” Ezri asked, pulling Realta out of her thoughts.

Realta gripped the knife, mirroring Callum’s hand, took aim, and threw it. The blade sank into the ground, a foot in front of the tree. “Fire and smoke,” she muttered.

“Close.”

A twig snapped, echoing through the quiet forest.

Realta spun on her heels and saw Serena appear at the top of a low hill, dodging trees on her way down. The taller girl had the skirt of her dress bunched up in one hand, and her shoulder-length, sandy brown hair was in wild disarray. She used her free hand to slap tree branches out of the way, ignoring the growing collection of scraps on her arm.

Ezri picked up the knife and tucked it into his belt. “Lesson over for today.”

Serena reached the base of the hill. She trembled from head to foot, her blue eyes wide.

“What now?” Realta asked, dreading the answer. Images of their first week on the road sprang to mind. Racing away from the war. Fleeing at a moment’s notice because of Coalition movements. Many times, they fled in the middle of the night. She had lost count of the sleepless nights. Long nights seemingly without end, praying their horses could run fast enough.

They had crossed the river into Byyar last month, around the time the mountain kingdom had joined the war. King Nolfri of Byyar, Queen Isla’s father, formally announced the alliance and petitioned every village to send men and women to fight. Most soldiers were stationed along the river, protecting the western shore. So far, the fighting had not reached the Nerin. Chinasa speculated it was only a matter of time.

Last week, they crossed the border into Kereu. The Merchant Council, having too much to lose by taking a side, officially remained neutral. But they vowed to attack whoever marched onto their land.

After the incident with the Minder Thane, the Jemayrti Scholars decided to camp at the edge of the forest, along a dirt-paved road, a day’s ride to the nearest village and miles away from the Southern Highway. The forest, more akin to a marshy swamp than the forests in the Hinterlands, protected them on three sides, and the road allowed for easy travel, both to gather supplies at the village and to flee farther south if necessary.

As of right now, they were just another group of refugees traveling to the Sykerian Empire, a country that comprised the entire Southern Realm. Shasta Cray had invented that part of their story. Realta hoped it was just that. A story. She had no desire to travel even farther from home. But neither did she want to be in the middle of the war.

“A merchant train,” Serena said, her voice shaking. “Nowani.”

Realta’s heart skipped a beat. She immediately looked at Ezri.

“Go to the wagons. Quicky.” He drew a knife and rounded the hill.

Realta and Serena took off running. Serena, usually the faster of the two, ran a pace behind Realta, unaccustomed to running through a forest. As they reached the crest of the last hill, Realta spied a long caravan of wagons. At least twenty. Each one flew the flag of Nowan: a hawk with silver keys in its talons on a field of purple and white checks.

Guards with swordbreakers at their belts and nocked arrows in their hands surrounded the caravan.

What if they aren’t guards? Realta wondered. The guards and servants accompanying Queen Gallia had been soldiers in disguise, waiting for the signal to attack.

No, they will honor Kereu’s laws. They won’t attack us. Seeing their camp, Realta failed to convince herself. All the way out here, they were easy prey.

Three small wagons comprised their camp. Chinasa bought them from a merchant in Byyar shortly after they crossed the river. The wagons, as always, were arranged in a loose circle with a firepit in the center. A line of fresh laundry hung between two wagons, created a barrier between the camp and the road. The horses were tied in a line next to the trees.

Realta slowed as she and Serena passed the horses. Spooking the animals would draw unwanted attention. Her mind raced, seeing the caravan drawing nearer, slowing down. What should they do? What should they say? They were merely passing through, heading south, same as the merchants, no doubt. But why did she have a sinking feeling in her gut?

Scholar Adanna, sitting on the steps of one wagon with a book in her hands, motioned for Realta and Serena to come closer. “Quick,” said the Scholar. “Hide in here.”

They climbed inside. The interior was so narrow that it barely had room for three cots. One took up the back wall while the two on the sides were almost touching. A chest of drawers occupied the front wall, leaving no space between it and the door. Scholar Adanna closed the door, turning the cramped space into a claustrophobic’s nightmare.

Realta sat on one bed and peered through the narrow window. The Scholars gathered at the edge of the road, waiting. Serena sat down beside her, shaking like a leaf in a storm. Realta wanted to say something to comfort her, but her throat was caught in a vise. She noticed her own hands shaking and quickly balled them into fists.

The caravan came to a halt, and the leader, a tall man with slate gray hair and a short beard, dismounted and approached Chinasa. The ambassador wore simple gray and brown clothes. He had long since stowed away his white clothes, opting for less noticeable colors. A sheathed knife rested on his belt near the small of his back. Realta wasn’t the only one receiving lessons from Ezri.

Realta cracked open the window and listened.

“You’re a long way from home, Master Ekene.” Realta shivered, hearing the leader’s Nowani accent. The lilting, almost song-like cadence was identical to Val’s accent.

“We didn’t expect Byyar to be caught in the fray,” Chinasa replied, the lie rolling easily off his tongue. Another of Shasta’s inventions. If anyone asked, the Jemayrti Scholars had traveled to Byyar to meet King Nolfri, with Chinasa acting as their interpreter. The war broke out before they reached the capital city, Artinyr. “We certainly could not risk returning north to Caman’s Pass.”

The Nowani merchant smirked. “Certainly not. Are you continuing south, then?”

“To the coast. Jemayrt has long wished to establish relations with Treilean. Now seems like a good time.”

Realta frowned. Treilean? What happened to Sykeria? He must be trying to throw them off our trail.

“Really?” The merchant rubbed his chin. “I’ve got a man here with a Treileani servant. Maybe he can give you some advice. Those islanders can be very fickle. Friendly one minute, and then they’re pointing spears at your throat the next.”

Chinasa regarded the merchant for a long moment. Realta hoped he’d be able to get them to move along quickly. “I would not want to delay anyone.”

“Nonsense.” The merchant lowered his voice. “He’s Teyrnian. No loyalties to the Raven Throne, mind you, but a lot of folks are getting anxious. I don’t want any trouble, especially not in Kereu. Do me a favor. Delay him for a couple of days. Just enough for us to get ahead. His name is Waylar Corey.”

Chinasa studied the long line of wagons. “Only if you do me a favor in return. Don’t mention meeting any Jemayrti.”

“Deal.” The merchant shook Chinasa’s hand, relief sweeping over his face.

Serena gasped, her eyes growing wider.

“What is it?” Realta whispered.

“My work shirt. It’s hanging on the line. The tailor’s tag reads Teyrnas. What if they see it?”

Realta glanced back at the caravan. The lead merchant signaled for them to rest the horses. Over a hundred people began moving about. Some approached the Scholars, wanting to trade. Anything from bolts of dyed cloth to salted meat to ink and paper. The Scholars quickly gravitated towards the writing material.

“Do you really think they’ll see it?”

“We can’t risk it.” Serena darted towards the door. Realta grabbed her wrist, forcing her to sit back down.

“Let me go. My Lowyrnic is better than yours.” They had created this story in Byyar after a curious innkeeper asked too many questions. Realta and Serena were linguistics apprentices from the Lowyrn Academy, studying under Chinasa and Scholar Adanna.

Serena took another glance at the gathering crowd and conceded.

Realta, steadying herself, exited the wagon. She walked towards the laundry line, forcing her steps to be slow and even. One merchant, a woman with her black hair tied in a bun and wearing a gaudy yellow dress slashed with purple, was trying to convince Scholars Adanna and Leila to buy packets of seeds. Rare varieties of vegetables that grew in the cold climates of Madan Och but could thrive in warmer weather as well. The Scholars politely declined. None of them noticed Realta, thank the Creator.

She moved down the laundry line, touching a few articles as though checking to make sure they were dry, and found Serena’s work shirt. Her eyes darted back and forth. No one watching. Good. She ripped off the tag. It read: Skyla Islwyn and Daughter, Tailors and Seamstresses, Abyrthal Street, Teyrnas.

“Hello, little girl.”

Realta whirled around and stood face to face with a man. He was in his fifties, a bit shorter than Callum, with dark hair touched with gray and a strong build. His dark brown eyes were as hard as marbles, and he wore a well-tailored, dark blue coat over a linen shirt and dark trousers.

“Alo,” she said in Lowyrnic, stuffing the tag into her dress pocket. She hoped the accent was passable. Callum had taught her a good bit, enough for a simple conversation, but his accent was far better. The benefit of living in Lowyrn several months a year and having a Lowyrnic wife. How fluent would Realta be if Kiana had lived?

“Excuse me. What are you doing?” Chinasa broke off his conversation with the lead merchant and stormed towards them. The lead merchant paled and quickly followed.

“Good morning, sir,” the man said. “I was just saying hello to this little girl. Is she your servant?”

Realta bristled under the question and touched the bracelet covering her left wrist. As much as she wanted the servant’s mark gone, they could not risk going to a tattooist and having it removed. Some were discreet, but others asked a lot of questions and required paperwork in order to remove a servant’s mark. Paperwork they did not have and likely never existed. Logan had given her the tattoo out of spite.

“She is my apprentice,” Chinasa replied curtly.

“Oh, my mistake.” The man gave him a short bow.

The lead merchant stepped in. “Um, Master Ekene, this is Waylar Corey.”

Chinasa clasped his hands behind his back. “I see.”

“Ekene,” Corey said. “That’s a unique name. Where are you from?”

“Jemayrt. Realta, fai a Shasta le mai amim.” Get Shasta, please.

“Hold on a minute. That’s Lowyrnic.” Corey raised an eyebrow.

“You have an ear for language.” Chinasa gave Realta an urgent look. “Nis, Realta.” Now.

She ducked under the laundry line and went to the wagon farthest from the road. Shasta Cray, her face impassive, stood at the base of the steps and studied the merchants. The former head of servant’s silver tongue and level head had gotten them out of several tough situations. Realta hoped she could do so again.

“Who are they?” Shasta asked. Realta told her, and her face darkened. “Why aren’t you hiding? Where is Serena?”

“Well…” Realta suddenly felt very foolish. Yes, they could not risk the Nowani discovering that she and Serena were Teyrnian, but not a single one looked at the laundry. Why would they?

“No matter. What’s done is…” Shasta’s eyes narrowed. “What do you think you’re doing?” She stormed towards the firepit.

A tall man with sandy hair stood next to the cold firepit. Several knives hung from his belt, and a long sword was slung across his back in the style of Sykerian soldiers. He had a bow and arrow in one hand.

“Who are you?” Shasta demanded.

The man smirked, looking down at her. He eased the tension on the bowstring and placed the arrow back in the quiver. “Just doing my job. Hope this isn’t an inconvenience.” His eyes fell on Realta. A curious look crossed his face. “Huh. Interesting.”

“What is interesting?” Shasta asked, not taking her eyes off him for a second.

“Nothing.”

Chinasa, Waylar Corey, and the caravan leader entered the camp’s center. Chinasa frowned while the leader looked as though a heavy weight had lifted off his shoulders.

“And don’t think we’re imposing on you,” Corey said to Chinasa. “We have our own supplies. It ain’t every day you meet someone traveling in the same direction as you.” He was all smiles.

“No, it is not.” Chinasa scowled.

“They’re going to Sykeria, too?” the armed man asked.

“Sykeria?” Corey made a disgusted face. “Let the Nowani have Sykeria! We’re sailing to Treilean with these fine people. So don’t hurt anyone, Braedan.”

“No problem. Not sure Elliza will like it, though.”

Corey rolled his eyes. “Do they check out?”

“The man standing next to you is a Learner. High-leveled. She,” Braedan pointed at Scholar Kambri as she peered around the wagons, “is a Manipulator. Very low-leveled. Nothing to get worked up over. And that other guy is also a Learner and Empath. Middle level for both. And…” Braedan glanced around the camp. His eyes fell on Realta.

Her heart caught in her throat. A Cuchasi. This man was a Cuchasi. She reached for her belt, but the knife wasn’t there. Ezri had it. She quickly glanced around, hoping to see the bodyguard. No such luck.

“That’s it,” Braedan said, giving Realta a wink before turning back to Corey.

The lead merchant paled. “Thanes? You’re a Thane?”

“Yes,” Chinasa replied, “but since your caravan is moving on, there is nothing for you to worry about, Master Lagard.”

“Um, right.” Lagard said goodbye to Chinasa and Corey and nearly ran out of the camp. He exchanged hurried words with the other merchants, causing more than a few to turn pale. They completed their transactions and quickly returned to their wagons.

Chinasa sighed and rubbed his forehead.

“Hey, don’t worry about Lagard,” said Corey. “He’s pretty open-minded when it comes to Thanes.”

“How is running away open-minded?” Shasta questioned.

“He didn’t run away screaming for the guard,” Corey laughed. “Braedan, help Elliza set up camp. I think right there,” he pointed between the first and third wagons, “will be an excellent spot.”

“You’re camping with us?” Chinasa asked. “I thought you had your own supplies.”

“I do. But it’s far safer for four wagons at night instead of one. Or three. Especially considering the mess they have up in Teyrnas.”

Chinasa studied Corey for a silent moment, no doubt weighing the options. “Very well, Master Corey.”

Shasta huffed and went into the wagon she shared with Realta and Serena, likely to give Serena the bad news.

Now what do we do? Would they be able to keep up their charade all day? And how long would Corey travel with them? A few days? A few weeks?

A shadow moved over Realta. She looked up and saw Braedan towering head and shoulders over her. He smiled.

“Those are very pretty beads. Did Mister Ekene give them to you?”

Realta touched the bracelet covering her servant’s mark. Several bands of black beads interspersed with an occasional golden one. The necklace Chinasa gifted her also had the same pattern. Black beads for being a Dreamer. Gold for being a Manipulator. She nodded.

“Is he a good teacher? Great Creator.” Braedan shook his head. “Do you speak Teyrnian? I was just assuming.”

“Yes, I speak Teyrnian, Lowyrnic, and Jemayrti.” A partial lie. Her Lowyrnic was good, but she only knew a handful of phrases in Jemayrti, and she had yet to grasp the noun case system. Apparently, words had different endings depending on how they were used in a sentence. And sentences were not always in order, with the subject coming in the beginning, middle, or end, depending on the speaker’s preference. It was more than a little confusing.

“Braedan, I don’t pay you to stand around,” Corey snapped.

“Sir, yes, sir!” Braedan replied sarcastically, placing his fist over his heart. He gave Realta another wink and sauntered away.

Shasta watched from the wagon as Braedan walked off and then approached Realta. “Are you all right?”

“Why did he lie about me?” she whispered.

Shasta studied Corey. The man spoke with Scholars Kambri and Okorie, asking about their Thane abilities. A young woman, perhaps eighteen or nineteen years old, stood by Corey’s side. She had long, black hair that reached midway down her back, and she had oval shaped, dark brown eyes and tan skin, a shade or two darker than most people in the Hinterlands.

The girl locked eyes with Realta. A strange tattoo, a circle with eight lines radiating from the center, like spokes on a wheel, adorned her left cheek. It was eerily similar to the tattoo worn by the Cuchasi in East Bridge. Was she a Cuchasi, too? The girl jumped, as though startled by a loud noise, and turned away.

“Just be grateful he did. Come along.” Shasta led Realta to their wagon. The merchant caravan had already hitched up their horses, and the lead wagons started down the road. Too bad Corey wasn’t leaving with them. “Might as well make our guests feel welcomed,” Shasta continued. “As unwelcomed as they may be.”