The baron is a big man. Six and a half feet tall and thick with muscle, even if there are streaks of gray in his hair and beard. A veteran of the demon war with his own militia, as loyal as my spear brothers.

  Orchard had been a Rizonan lord with vast holdings, forced to burn his own orchards and flee his lands when my father conquered Fort Rizon. When his people arrived in Hollow, they were ragged and penniless, but Lord Orchard’s banner was still a rallying point, his hierarchy intact.

  Mother assigned them land when they arrived, provided food, water, and blankets, shelter from the elements, and firewood. Loans for seed and materials to build anew on a Hollow greatward. All of it given freely, to be paid back in taxes and local services based on output once the barony was on its feet. It took some time for his neatly cultivated orchards and vineyards to begin fruiting, but now they supply the entire duchy, and Orchard is wealthier and more powerful than any other baron save perhaps Uncle Gared.

  “My lord, welcome.” I don’t get up from behind the desk, but I gesture to the chair in front of it. “Please, take a seat.”

  Mother always took private audiences in the tearoom in her office. Guests would be invited to relax on soft couches and chairs, offered tea and refreshment. Uncle Gared famously has a fresh keg tapped daily in his office, and plies visitors with local ale.

  I don’t offer the baron so much as a water.

  “Duch Olive!” The baron shakes his head at me. “I remember when you were this high,” he pats his knee, “running around your mother’s keep in your frilly dresses. And look at you now.”

  I smile. “What do you mean by that, Baron?”

  “I just…” the baron sputters. “I meant only…” He waves a hand in my general direction and trails off.

  I don’t press the question. I don’t really care what the baron thinks of me. “I called you here to discuss your barony’s loss of revenue. It is truly so bad you’ve needed to cut funding even to local services?”

  “Ay.” The baron nods gravely. “An infection in the trees of my northern orchards destroyed an entire crop.”

  “How terrible!” I say. “Shall I contact the university? They can send a team of Gatherers to examine the orchard, and…”

  “No need to trouble yourself, Your Grace.” Orchard’s smile is tight behind the screen of his beard. “Our Gatherers have already come upon a cure, though it may take seasons for the trees to recover fully. Until then, their fruit is not safe to eat.”

  I nod. “Did you mention that to the Krasian merchants you sold the crop to?”

  The baron blinks, caught between lies. “I don’t know what you mean, Your Grace. My men were ordered to destroy that crop. If such a sale occurred, it was without my knowledge. I would certainly never condone selling tainted fruit to our neighbors in the south.”

  “And yet in these grim times, you made an investment of nearly the same value as that sale to develop lands for a new series of orchards,” I note.

  “The loss made clear to me I need to diversify and separate my holdings so such pestilence cannot easily spread,” Orchard says. “The investment was a loan…”

  “A loan from your duchy’s own central bank,” I say, “whose ledgers did not shift, even with the outlay of such a vast sum, and who have no record of you making payments.”

  The baron shrugs. “If there is some clerical error, I will have my clerks…”

  The baron talks smoothly, effortlessly dissembling and spinning a web of lies and obfuscations nearly impossible to verify without months of investigations, by which time the baron will have formulated even more excuses and bribed or threatened witnesses.

  He knows I am onto him, but he keeps smiling as he talks, knowing the strength of his hand. Of course I am stealing, his eyes tell me. What are you going to do about it?

  Mother would have taken those months, smiling in return as she slowly built a case. Likely Orchard would not have known she was onto him until it was too late, had he even dared make such a bold move under her watch.

  But I don’t have months, and I am not my mother.

  Fight, Micha taught. It is the only thing men respect.

  I vault over the desk in one easy motion. The startled baron stumbles over his chair in his rush to back away. He puts out a stiffened arm to keep space between us, but I bat it aside and advance, backing him up toward the wall.

  Baron Orchard is no stranger to violence. He takes one look in my eyes and realizes he is in real danger. Instinctively, he reacts with his fists.

  I’m ready for it, slipping his left jab and seeming to walk into the path of a right cross that likely would have put down a smaller man. Instead I catch his wrist in my left hand and pull, using his own force to twist and lock the baron’s right arm as I seize his collar with my dominant hand, squeezing tight.

  Mother always made me hide my strength. She said it would unnerve folk to know the princess of Hollow could bend an iron fire poker and tie it in a knot. Even in sharaj, Micha told me to keep my strength secret, and I did, never truly letting loose in the practice yard, or anywhere else.

  Baron Orchard has inches and a hundred pounds on me, but it’s not enough to keep me from lifting him off the floor. His face reddens as the tightened collar cuts off precious air and blood. One-handed, I raise him to the full extent of my arm, feet kicking and scrabbling, inches from the thick carpet.

  He throws a punch with his free hand, but I drive forward, twisting the arm away and bashing him against the wall.

  The impact loosens my grip just slightly, and the baron draws a sharp breath and lets out a shriek quite unlike his usual baritone.

  Uncle Gared almost breaks my office door down at the sound, barreling in with Arther, Faseek, and Orchard’s burly bodyguard.

  “My lord!” The guard rushes forward to help his baron, but Gared grabs him by the shoulder, controlling the big man as easily as a willful child. “All right, Olive?”

  “Baron Orchard has been stealing from his people, and from the duchy,” I growl, but I loosen my grip, allowing the baron to breathe.

  “And now he has a choice.” I turn and meet Orchard’s eyes again. There is no mockery in them now. “Either you accompany me to court, where you announce your clerks have made an error, and you welcome a royal auditor to help you correct the records, or you accompany me to the balcony, and I introduce you to the cobblestones below.”

  “You cannot be serious.” Orchard isn’t able to hold my gaze, desperately looking around the room for sympathy. He sees Arther, wringing his hands anxiously. “Arther…”

  I squeeze my fist again, and the baron’s words choke off. “Uncle Gared, am I the kind of duch who tells ripping jokes to people who steal money from schools and hospits?”

  Gared tosses the bodyguard to Faseek. He outweighs my spear brother by fifty pounds at least, but Faseek is quick to put him in a submission hold as my general comes over. At seven feet tall, he can look the baron in the eye, even with his feet off the ground. “Wouldn’t respect you if you were.”

  I ease my grip again, and the baron gasps another breath. “What would happen, Uncle, if Orchard returns to his barony and refuses to pay his taxes, or takes up arms against Hollow?”

  Gared tsks. “Don’t like his chances if the Cutters come callin’, but it’ll be messy for everyone. Say the word and I’ll just put him over the railing and have done for you.”

  Arther takes a half step forward. “Your Grace, your mother would never…”

  “Is my mother here, Minister?” I ask.

  “Of course not,” Arther agrees, eyes flicking side to side as he chooses careful words. “I meant only…as you say, perhaps this is a matter best left to the auditors. The baron’s cuts can be renegotiated, with no loss of face…”

  “A-ay!” Orchard’s voice is a rasp. “My forecasts can be amended, of course.”

  I nod, letting go and dropping him back onto his feet, still coughing and gasping. “Put it in writing before court this afternoon, where you will publicly invite Arther’s auditors.”

  Now the baron takes a knee, punching a fist to his chest. “Your will, Duch Olive.”

  A tilt of my head in permission, and the baron is quick to exit the office. Uncle Gared’s men will see he does not leave until his proclamation is made.

  * * *

  —

  “Ay, that was fun,” Gared chuckles, watching from the window as Baron Orchard and his retinue ride out from the keep, accompanied by a royal auditor and an escort of Hollow Lancers. “Think he knew we were playin’ him?”

  “Is that what we were doing?” I wonder aloud. The scene and the parts the men played were all orchestrated in advance, but if the baron had balked, I don’t know how far I would have taken things.

  Arther clears his throat. “If he did, he was wise to play along. I daresay Baron Orchard won’t steal so much as an apple from his own trees after this.”

  “Now that the spies at court have the story, none of them will,” I say. “We can’t audit them all, and they need to know where the wards end while Selen and I are away.”

  “Away?” There’s alarm in Arther’s voice. “Both of you?”

  “I will issue decrees to strengthen your powers in my absence,” I say. “Darin will be taking Rojvah to Tibbet’s Brook to meet his family in the spring. I want Selen to go with him.”

  “Why?” Gared asks.

  “Because if she’s in Hollow when we march she will want to join us,” I tell him. “And it’s too dangerous. I want her out of harm’s way.”

  “Ay,” Gared nods. “Best keep her and little Darin safe. Reckon they won’t find too much trouble in the backwoods.”

  The words have unexpected sting, for of course I am lying. Selen’s path is as dangerous as mine, and I’m promising her father I will keep her safe.

  “And where will you be marching?” Arther asks.

  I look at the minister a long time, wondering just how far I can trust him. Mother could read what was in a person’s heart, know if they told lie or truth, with just a glance of her warded spectacles. I have the same wardsight, but there’s little I can glean from the pulsing rainbow of a person’s aura.

  Arther is Angierian. Mother trusted him to put Hollow above his birth duchy, but can I? Or will a man who saw me in nappies never keep the same faith with me?

  My eyes flick to Uncle Gared. I know he will not hesitate to follow where I am going. Night, I expect he’ll ride in front as he did in the desert, proudly protecting me with his own body.

  Gared’s loyalty is beyond question, but his wisdom is not. Uncle Gared is many things, but canny is not one of them. Can I trust him not to tell Baroness Emelia, or his most trusted Cutters? Can I trust either of them? The moment my plan leaves my lips, there is a chance Alagai Ka will hear it whispered by the night. That chance grows with every person who learns. The seer’s art is a child’s game compared to what the demon king can Read on the currents.

  If I hold my designs, I protect the secret, but I will not be able to have my forces in position. Parades and festivals and increasingly implausible lies can only do so much. I have to trust someone, or I will fail as surely as if I told the Father of Demons my plans personally.

  At last I go to the desk, unlocking the drawer where Mother kept her wardstones.

  Arther and Gared don’t need instructions, moving immediately to close the heavy curtains and bathe the room in darkness. I set a few of the stones into a pattern of wardwork on Mother’s desk, and a net activates around the room, bathing us in wardlight and a bubble of silence.

  “North to Angiers first.” I unlock another drawer, removing a bundle of oilcloth. “We can’t face whatever…took Mother, Father, and Mrs. Bales with just spears and axes.” I open the cloth on the table, laying out Prince Ramm’s pistol. “I want flamework weapons.”

  “About rippin’ time.” Uncle Gared’s response surprises me. “Been sayin’ that for years. Miln and Angiers could come cut us down any day with those corespawned things, but Leesha wouldn’t allow it.”

  “Miln and Angiers are our allies,” Arther reminds him.

  “Ay, for now,” Gared says. “But I seen a lotta thrones change hands in my day.”

  “It was Duchess Leesha’s belief that the weapons of the old world were more evil than good,” Arther says. “They are not effective against the corelings. Flamework is used for men to kill other men.”

  “Is that what she said?” I ask, reaching for the hidden release at the back of the drawer. It slides open, revealing a worn volume, heavily annotated by Mother. “Because she solved that problem long ago, according to her notes. Bullets thrown in warded glass will not shatter or flatten on impact, keeping their wards intact when they strike alagai…coreling armor. I can have the Warders’ Guild…”

  Gared shakes his head. “Known Erny Paper a long sight, Olive. Your mum got her bleedin’ heart from him. Your grandda ent gonna help you put flamework in soldiers’ hands any more than she would.”

  I curse inwardly, because of course he’s right. “Then we’ll find someone who will.”

  “If you are sure, I can send coded messages to Duchess Araine,” Arther says. “Her Grace owes Hollow a great debt, and I do not think she will balk at even this request.”

  “Do it,” I say. “Quietly. I will need as many arms as she can provide by Equinox.”

  I can see anxiety spawn across the first minister’s face. He didn’t expect it would be so soon. “And after Angiers?”

  I look to Gared, then back to him, and let out a breath. “Into the demon’s lair.”

  It’s the truth, and more than enough to put both men on their back foot, but even now, it isn’t the whole truth. I say nothing of the Damajah’s warning, or her mission, or even which “lair” I mean.

  Better to carry that burden alone than risk its compromise.

  The snows come in force not long after Solstice, and a peace falls over Hollow. The nights are long, and I like that, sleeping away most of the day and emerging when the light is already on the wane.

  During the short days we discuss and lay provisions for the spring journey. In the evenings I practice with Arick and Rojvah, and then she walks me to her terrace for our kiss. I’m less skittish now, but still it’s my favorite part of the day. My senses are alive, and the night beckons, but I stay as long as I can, only breaking off when it starts to feel improper. Rojvah’s mouth, her touch, her heart rhythm and scent, all invite me to linger, perhaps even to come inside and stay.

  But I ent ready for that.

  So I break away, though it gets a little harder to go each night, a little more tempting to stay. Sometimes I scale the wall in a hurry, like I’m worried about what I’ll do if I don’t.

  Hollow folk stay active after dark, secure in their greatwards, but the winter streets are empty after sunset, and it feels like the night is mine, alone. Cold never much bothered me, nor heat, unless it comes with the draining light of the sun. I pad barefoot over snow and ice, exploring more and more of the land as I collect my thoughts.

  Olive marks her sixteenth winter, and there are celebrations throughout Hollow. I can hear matchmakers clamoring at court, doing anything and everything they can to secure an audience with the duch. Olive’s condition is common knowledge now, but it doesn’t seem to have cost any prospects. If anything, it’s made it worse, with men and women both being proposed.

  Olive ent got time for any of it. Don’t blame her. I can hear the matchmakers bemoaning how Rojvah and I are already promised, and I’m happy to be spared the attention.

  Selen and Arick ent so lucky. Got folk pesterin’ them so much Selen’s got the house guard on notice, but they still get notes slipped into their hands, or calling cards left in their rooms, for all the good it does. Arick ent interested, and Selen seems happier hunting for a match—or just a night’s kisses—on her own.

  Equinox seemed a long wait to get started, but the weeks of peace seem to fly by, and it’s upon us quicker than a fly on stink. Days are getting steadily longer, and will outlast the nights for the next two seasons. Less time the demons can be out lookin’ for us, the better our chances.

  It’s now or never, we want to go hunting for Safehold.

  * * *

  —

  I see more colors than other folk, even during the day. Din’t know it, most of my life. Even now, it dun’t help much to know. Impossible to describe colors, really, and talkin’ about it only makes folk smell jealous. Like the jealous smell even less than when they feel sorry for me.

  But it makes for pretty sunsets, washing across the sky in a vast rainbow that goes far beyond the seven colors others around me see.

  I love sunset. My flesh tingles as the magic inside me, protected from sunlight by my skin, begins to bubble to the surface, seeking to link to the magic beginning to seep up from the Core.

  I watch a bit longer, breathing deep and at peace, looking forward to a few hours of practice with Arick and Rojvah, and the kiss at the end.

  Then I hear Rojvah shout, and I’m moving before the words even register, vaulting across the roof and skittering down to her terrace, even as there’s a crash of breaking pottery.

  I already know it’s just her and Arick in the room. They ent fightin’, and neither is hurt. Arick’s on one knee, pickin’ up pieces of broken crockery, and Rojvah’s over on the bed…cryin’.

  “Everythin’ all right?”

  Know it ent. Never seen Rojvah cry, except the kind Krasian women do on command, where the tears are real, but the sadness never reaches their scent. This ent that. Rojvah’s upset for real, and it’s makin’ me upset, too.

  Arick shrugs. “My sister would rather break things than tell me.”

  I nod, moving slowly toward the bed. Arick takes the cue, throwing the broken pieces on a tray and slipping out of the room.