Page 91 of Secrets of Graves and Gold

I doubt most of these people even know enough about King Konram and what he and his family have done to evaluate his claim to the throne. And they probably have no idea how the scourge sorcerers are fueling the magic that’s keeping this march hidden.

There must be sacrificial accomplices along for the trek, adding power to that magic. Maybe that’s what the Order member I overheard meant about “blessed ones.”

They haven’t revealed themselves any time I’ve been watching. I suspect they’re being kept hidden away in the three large, covered wagons currently parked in the center of the camp, with several older men and women posted around them on guard detail.

Stavros talked about simply wiping all these people out, but I have no idea how many of the newer recruits are villains and how many simply misled.

All the more reason we need to get a clearer idea of who is in charge.

I slink closer to the central wagons and pass a smaller cart that’s equally well guarded. Peeking through the slats, I make out several cloth bags and a pile of smaller leather pouches, their bulging sides lumpy in a way that’s familiar from my days as the Hand of Kosmel.

Are the scourge sorcerers carrying a heap of money with them?

It certainly looks as if they have plenty to spare.

Avoiding the two guards standing by the end of the cart, I duck down by its side and use one of my knives to slit a small tear in one of the cloth sacks pressed up against the slats. With a little subtle prodding, I push several coins out into my waiting hand.

In the dim firelight, the round shapes shine gold before they disappear in my grasp. I stare at the cart for a second before pocketing the coins.

Usually no one but nobles would carry gold rather than silver. Is the whole cart full of gilts?

Where did the scourge sorcerers get all of it? Is it from Julita’s estate and others like it?

And what exactly are they planning to use it for? I hate to think what they could buy or bribe with that kind of wealth.

I slip around the guards with Rheave keeping pace behind me, and ease even closer to the central wagons. Two of the Order members standing there are talking with another man who’s just come over.

“…and give them to Borys when you’re done,” he’s saying when I get within hearing range. His companions salute him, and he saunters away.

Julita shudders. It sounds like my brother is along for the march. If he really has gotten as much authority as he claimed, he might be leading it.

I incline my head in acknowledgment, scanning the camp for any sign of where Borys might be right now. How much of a problem would it solve if I simply killed him?

My skin tightens at the question. I worked so hard not to take Ster. Torstem down through cold-blooded murder. I didn’t want to become some kind of assassin.

But if it would help stop the march…

I wander farther through the camp, but I don’t see any sign of Julita’s brother so far. Maybe he isn’t even here right now. I do catch a few conversations about other “Wildings” this bunch expects to catch up with tomorrow before they leave the province.

And who is giving Borys’s orders? That’s the most important question we still haven’t answered.

A defiant whinny reaches my ears. I spin around to spot one of the conspirators struggling to hold on to the reins of a very familiar stallion at the edge of the camp.

“Fucking beast,” the woman mutters as she tries to yank Toast’s head around to lead him to the other grazing animals. He grunts at her and rears up, forcing her to dodge his hooves.

A man strides over carrying a whip. “If he won’t settle with peaceful treatment, you’ll have to beat him into obeying.”

I wince, and a decision snaps into place in my head.

Firming my hold on the magic I’m sending around Rheave and me, I let another tendril dart free toward my horse and his soon-to-be tormenters.

The woman takes the whip—and one side of the reins breaks off the bridle. Somewhere in the field, a patch of grass I visualized melds together to offset the fracture.

The severed leather strand slips from the woman’s grasp. Toast doesn’t waste any time taking advantage of his sudden freedom. He wrenches away with an angry snort and gallops off across the field.

The man who brought the whip sighs. “Well, he wasn’t doing much good for us anyway. Let him go then.”

A sense of confidence fills me alongside the brief rush of triumph. I do know how to make a difference with my magic—my way, without resorting to the kind of butchery the scourge sorcerers enjoy.

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