Page 24 of Steel Heart Iron Claws

I glance over my shoulder to spot Ferra in the traveling party. Perched primly on a Palamino mare with a silk umbrella open over her curls, she couldn’t be more of a contrast to Folke. As the Valvere’s godkissed beauty sculptor, she maintains the epitome of city fashion.

It baffles me daily that the two of them ended up together.

“You’re Rian’s best spy only becauseIbeat the answers out of your victims.” I hold my left hand up in a fist that I feign swinging at him.

He smirks and dodges, then frowns. “What happened to your forearm?”

“Nothing.” I shut down as I snatch back up the reins and study the road ahead. But the silence roars at my ears, so I quip, “Anyway, it’sLord Bastennow to you.”

“Ha! Yes, First Sword. Congratulations on the promotion.Some might say Rian bought your loyalty with that shiny new title.”

“He doesn’t need to buy me,” I snap, annoyed. Only Folke could get away with such a jab. “I don’t play those political games.”

“Well, where we’re headed, you’ll have to learn to play. Hekkelveld Castle isn’t like Duren. You can’t go around throwing punches in the hallways. There, it’sallabout the game. You’ll need to bluff. Know when to fold. Most importantly, know who holds the winning cards.”

I slide him a close look. “You sound like you’re already in the game.”

He shrugs. “A wise player knows what he’s walking into, including the other players. There are a lot of men with power in Old Coros. Women, too. I might have been sending a few messenger crows back and forth over the last few weeks, it’s true. While there appears to be one top player for now—” he looks pointedly at Rian “—it doesn’t mean he will always be on top. There could be other players, say, awildcardwho was born with the winning hand but traded it for fuck-all.”

My jaw clenches. He’s venturing close to treason here. Quietly, I mutter, “I told you that I’m loyal to Rian.”

“Who said anything about Rian? We’re talking hypotheticals, my friend.” He steers his horse closer and leans in. “The Astagnonian throne is no game of chance. And the stakes are thefuckinglives of an entire kingdom. Do you really think the Lord of Liars is the best man for the job when there are…” He pauses as his stare drills into me. “…wildcards?”

I spur Dare forward into a canter, eager to be away from Folke and his insinuations.

Does it surprise me he’s scheming? Hell no. But I’d rather his schemes not involveme. Because if he thinks I’d make a good king, he hasn’t spent the last ten years at the bottom of a tankard with me.

As Duren’s city gates appear ahead, an enormous black streak covering the side of the grain warehouse steals my attention. I pull Dare aside and draw him to a stop beneath a blacksmith shop’s awning, then dismount.

The warehouse’s south wall is covered in what looks like a mural of a woman with golden hair in seemingly endless waves, but now it’s covered with black paint. Someone has smeared her painted face with charcoal. Over her mouth is written “TRAITOR.”

All that’s visible of the original mural are a few butterflies painted at the top corner, a curl of hair at the bottom, and the elegant curve of the woman’s neck leading into a pointed chin.

A sharp pain punches me in the gut, making me clamp a hand to my stomach as I double over from the overwhelming force.

I remember this mural—at least, I remember the fact that there was a mural here. But for the life of me, I can’t remember the face beneath that black paint.

It was her, I think.It was a portrait of Sabine.

The earth seems to shift under my feet. The air grows unseasonably cool for late summer, and goosebumps erupt along my skin. I clamp my hand over the bandages that hide the name carved into my skin.

Breathing hard, I can’t tear my eyes off the few remaining portions of the mural, lapping them up like crumbs. Even from that glimpse of her chin and a lock of her hair, I can tell that she’s the most stunning woman I’ve everseen. No wonder Rian was so taken with her. Even with her face blacked out, it’s easy to imagine why the public wrote sonnets about her. They’ve tried to cover her up, but she’s still radiant beneath the black paint.

She lives in more than memories.

A man shouts a second before his carriage side-swipes me, and I jerk back in time before a pure white mare runs me over.

The mare stops short an inch in front of me. Though her driver curses and whips her, she remains standing.

I can only stare.

It’s Myst.

The mare feels as much like an old friend as Folke: the kind who are as much trouble as they are someone to rely on.

It’s strange. I remember Myst perfectly, including our ride from Bremcote, her snorts and head-tosses, yet my memories of that time are blurry around the edges.

Blurry because Sabineshouldbe in them.

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