sneak peeks

Prologue - a deserted road near the Mountains of the Shining Moon

She could hear them moving through the rain-drenched brush, pacing her. Following her.

No longer even trying to be stealthy.

There was a susurration of secret-soft voices, the indistinct rustling of a cloak catching on bush and bracken. And then the faint but audible snap as a branch cracked beneath a careless boot.

Sloppy, she reproved in silence, then smiled grimly at herself. At her temerity in criticizing those who stalked her.

They’d been tailing her for the better part of an hour now—at least, she thought it had been that long. In truth, she couldn’t say for certain. Perhaps they’d only recently started to track her. Perhaps they’d picked up her trail the moment she’d left both mount and companions to scout the overgrown road ahead. The fact that she didn’t know was worrisome.

It had taken longer than it ought to have for the sounds to register. For her mind to identify the furtive noises behind her as threat. Even as a raw recruit, she’d never been so oblivious to her surroundings—especially when on a mission. She cursed under her breath and wondered, yet again, what was wrong with her. 

Keep to your feet! If you fall now, they’ll have you.

For seventeen years she had been one of the shah’s handpicked elite, as fierce and keen as any of her brothers and sisters in arms. But from the moment they’d set out from Abrisham on this gods-cursed assignment, she’d felt ... wrong. Like her head was encased in spidersilk, her skills blunted, her instincts muffled. Great Mother, there were days she was barely able to function well enough to seat her horse.

Stay focussed!

She might have confided in Jannat—if Jannat hadn’t broken her leg and been left behind in some backcountry village.  She should have told Kaspar—he was her commanding officer and leader of their expedition. But it seemed every time she thought to speak to him of it, something interrupted her. And as the days passed, each heavier and more difficult than the one before, it had become harder to focus, harder to summon the energy. Harder to care.

You are a soldier of Maret. The shah himself calls you defender!

She wasn’t sick. She had no fever. Could it be a curse of some sort? A malevolent spirit? She knew Sattar and Omid had come to believe their journey was cursed, though when Sattar ventured his opinion, Kaspar had dismissed the idea outright. At the time, she’d done the same. Muleteers were, after all, notorious for their credulity and superstition. But now, out here on the far edges of the kingdom, alone in the black-dark, stalked by persons unknown, and sensing herself to be compromised, she was ready to admit the possibility of it. Such a thing would certainly explain their crushingly bad luck—and the loss of so many of their comrades. But who would want to curse an expedition whose only purpose was to bring the new Dreamer to the royal city?

Eyes on the road! Stay sharp!

Another snap. Louder this time.

The ones who tracked her were not soldiers, that much was obvious. Fighting men would never be so careless. Brigands were more likely, though back when she’d made her home here, these hills had been a safe place to travel. But that was long ago and, in those intervening years, parts of Maret had fallen under the sway of criminals and outlaws. There was no reason why these familiar paths should be immune to it.

 A whisper, a low murmur on the wind.

They were closing in now. Hunting dogs sensing weakening prey.

She felt a jolt of adrenaline, quickly smothered by the insidious fog which enveloped her. She did manage to pick up her pace. A choppy, staggering gait. She was still too far away. Too far to outrun bandits. Too far for her comrades to ride to her aid. The rain had stopped—when had that happened?—and the clouds were blowing off to reveal the cold light of a full moon. A hunter’s moon.

“Mona?” Kaspar’s low voice brought her up short.

She rocked back on her heels and gasped, heart galloping wildly.

“What’s wrong?” Kaspar demanded, his hand already on the hilt of his sword, his eyes scanning the surrounding area as if they could pierce the shifting shadows.

Her mouth worked as she tried to alert him to the threat, to warn him of those who stalked her. But her lips had forgotten the shape of words and she could only stare up at him, mute and helpless.

“What’s wrong?” he hissed again, catching her arm roughly and shaking her. “Why don’t you speak?”

She tried again, but something had silenced her. Had taken away the very concept of speech. 

“Farhad!” Kaspar’s bellow echoed across the hills. “To me!”

For a moment, she heard the distant sounds of Farhad and the others urging their mounts to a gallop. And then, the bandits attacked. 

They came from all sides. Gaunt, ragged, desperate men. Bristling with weapons and malice. Kaspar swore, his blade singing as it left the scabbard. He spun to face them, turning his back to her.  

She should have had her sword in her hand. Should have already turned to press her back against her comrade’s, protecting him as he protected her. But instead she just stood stupidly, head lolling, sword arm dangling uselessly at her side.

Frantic and despairing, she tried to tear through the fog that was suffocating her, but the more frenzied her efforts, the heavier it pressed down on her.

Great Mother, help me! 

But she remained immobilized, speech and will stolen by some unknown and malign force.

“Mona!”

She couldn’t even shake her head in denial.

“Mona!” More desperate now.

She could hear the pounding of horses. The clash of swords. The screams of men killing. Of men dying. By the ice-pale light of the predator’s moon, she saw Kaspar’s blade flashing once, twice. Keen-bright against the brigands’ duller weapons.

She couldn’t move.

Couldn’t cry out.

Not even when she saw the rusted sword coming for her.

Not even when the bitter-cold shock of its blade pierced her flesh.

Not even when she felt the warm, slippery gush of her guts spilling to the ground.