Deathbringer: The Spellsword Saga, #1

By Blake Carpenter

Inga Alenir is a Swordbearer. She is the latest in a long line of women to inherit a magical weapon called Deathbringer. She's also dead, murdered on her wedding day by the ruthless and covetous noblewoman Yenda Avard, who steals the sword after killing Inga and her entire family.

And yet, some secrets won't stay buried. Deathbringer has a will and a consciousness of its own, and even has the power to raise Inga from the dead for a short time. It warns her that she has one week to find and retrieve the sword before death reclaims her—permanently. With each day bringing her doom and final demise ever closer, Inga will have to see just how far she's willing to go to achieve her vengeance.

DEATHBRINGER is a compositional mix between the violent, grisly hunt for revenge in the film THE NIGHTINGALE and the tale of Vasher and his talking sword Nightblood in Brandon Sanderson's WARBREAKER. Fans of dark fantasy, of tragic love stories and tales about seeking revenge against long odds will enjoy this debut novel by Blake Carpenter in the world of Agareth where a scorned, young widow fights back against the powerful elites that wronged her, and begins a journey that might turn the entire world against her.

Winner of Upstream Reviews' Best of 2023 Golden Raygun Award!

What Readers are Saying About Deathbringer—

"Those who like tales of revenge with protagonists who do not lose their humanity or become permanently obsessed by it will enjoy this book. Anyone who wants to see other cultures portrayed in new settings and new ways will find it entertaining as well. The novel should appeal to fantasy fans everywhere but particularly those interested in Slavic and Russian milieus, as the story has the air of Anastasia about it. Those who want a new twist on familiar tropes should find this story quite engaging."
—Caroline Furlong, Upstream Reviews (https://upstreamreviews.substack.com/)

"I fell in love with these characters... If you love a good revenge story, it's so good. I had a great time with this one!"
—The Nerdy Narrative (https://www.youtube.com/TheNerdyNarrative)

"I think this one is truly special... The world of Agareth is a vast and uncompromising one, being filled with dangers and factions striking out to meet their own ends, forging their way in a world which appears obsessed with progress. However, seeing our main protagonist, Inga, rise up to the challenge in spite of what's placed in front of her makes it all the more compelling to read."
—The Lord Otter (https://downstreampulp.substack.com/)

"Carpenter has a deft, confident style that pulls the reader in and keeps them there, connecting with the characters and exploring their world. He has crafted an exquisitely written, perfectly-paced, throughly gripping tale. I am definitely looking forward to the next installment. Highly recommended."
—S. Kirk Pierzchala, author of Echoes Through a Distant Glass, Harshest Dawn and more

K.D. McAllister, Amazon Review: "Blake absolutely stuck the landing with a highly satisfying conclusion to Inga's tragic mission and by books end I was fully invested in her, the supporting characters, the BLADE LORE, and teases of what is to come. You can just tell Blake has so much more he wants to tell us! Buy this so that he CAN! 4/5 stars"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blake Carpenter
• Release date: Mar 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215493236

Blake Carpenter

Blake Carpenter is an American author living in the southern United States. His day job is in Information Technology—mostly dealing in bits and bytes—when he isn't helping to raise five kids or pretending to be a home contractor in order to keep his wife happy. It is his intention to keep writing until they pry the keyboard out of his hands and nail the coffin shut. Maybe even longer, if they seal him up with one.

Book preview

image-placeholder

© 2023 by Blake Carpenter

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without prior written permission of the copyright holder, except as provided by U.S. Copyright Law.

To request permissions, email [e-mail]

Cover art courtesy of Miblart. https://www.miblart.com

Contents

Dedication

Map of Agareth

1.ONE: A Day to Remember

2.TWO: Reborn

3.THREE: Revelations

4.FOUR: Resolute

5.FIVE: Unwanted Reunions

6.SIX: Departures

7.SEVEN: Unexpected Encounters

8.EIGHT: A Chance to Escape

9.NINE: Shattered Hope

10.TEN: Reminiscing

11.ELEVEN: Arrival in the White City

12.TWELVE: Taking Aim

13.THIRTEEN: The Arisrocrat

14.FOURTEEN: Taking Flight

15.FIFTEEN: The Black Heart

16.SIXTEEN: Negotiations

17.SEVENTEEN: The Bringer of Death

18.EPILOGUE: Fanatics and Farewells

GLOSSARY

Acknowledgements

About the Author

image-placeholder

Dedication

To Pat, who believed in me.

Requiescat in pace.

image-placeholder

1

image-placeholder

ONE: A Day to Remember

image-placeholder

Today was my wedding day: after years of waiting, months of planning, weeks of preparation and the agonizing days of anticipation, it was finally here. The sun was shining and a wild wind was gusting out of the west on a bright spring morning as I exited the kitchen door, nearly at a full run, almost tangling up in my skirts. My heart was in my throat, swollen and ready to burst from excitement, nervousness, anticipation and exhaustion all at the same time. I wanted to shout at something, to dance around in circles until I couldn’t stand up.

Everything was going to go right today. I was sure of that.

The whole farmyard was a crazed buzz of activity. All of the flower arrangements, both fresh and dried, were already hanging in their proper places. The cooked dishes for the guests were nearly finished; the smells of delicious things were wafting out of the windows of the main house kitchen. The common yard in-between the main house and the largest barn nearby was all set up for the ceremony. Everything was arranged and ordered, all down to the smallest detail.

The farmstead where I lived—a massive collection of larger communal houses, smaller private cottages, large barns where the animals were kept, storehouses, a silo for grain storage, and more—was far away from anything resembling civilization, which made getting spell-steel expensive. But the common yard had been freshly-tilled that morning with a new green-steel plow purchased especially for the occasion. I had watched in fascination as a pair of draft horses pulled the enchanted steel blade through the yard, at how the thick earth that turned over looked so rich and thick with a sweet scent, fresh and ready for planting. Now, it was already covered with a fresh coat of soft, short grass that felt wonderful between my toes.

A wooden platform near the center of the clearing was constructed where Pyotr and I would stand and speak our vows. Some of the younger children were playing games nearby, relieved of their chores for the day, climbing over the dried bales set up for seating or chasing each other through the rows, bored from waiting for the grown-ups to finish their work. While hurrying past the farthest barn, a pair of hands grabbed me from behind. I gasped from surprise before a pair of familiar lips pressed to mine, and that surprise melted into a slow moan instead.

A moment later, pulling back, I squinted up at a pair of impish blue eyes. Pyotr!

Oh, Inga! It’s you! he said, feigning innocent surprise. Did they tell you I’m marrying the prettiest girl this side of South Woods today?

I snorted and smacked his shoulder. If any of the other women hear you’ve been sneaking kisses before the ceremony, I’ll hear about nothing else for a month.

My future husband grinned at me. "Maybe we should do other things, too—that’ll really give them something to talk about." I’d known Pyotr since we were children: when the other youngsters teased me for my mother’s insistence on physical and martial training, as well as learning to use a sword, Pyotr never joined in; when I struggled to keep up with my chores, Pyotr never hesitated to help.

His brown hair was combed back, showing off his wide, handsome face. It was traditional for a wife and her husband to not see each other on the wedding day until vows were exchanged. But I was the one who’d picked out his clothes and helped him dress that morning: a pressed white shirt to match my dress, his best trousers and a pair of polished boots.

I’d sewn most of my dress myself, although I had some help from other seamstresses on the farm. It had a modest neckline and a pair of white sashes wound about my waist. I’d bound my dark hair up with a marigold-colored ribbon, and wore a plain metal barrette behind my left ear. My own feet were bare, which was also traditional.

You look very nice today, by the way, he added.

You always say that, I said, resting my head to his chest. The idea of ‘other things’ sounds lovely…but I can’t. There’s still so much left to do.

Well, I heard your mother was looking for you.

My heart skipped. She is? Now?

What do you think she wants?

I don’t know. I sighed. But I expect she thinks it’s important.

Maybe she thinks you need a serious discussion about what a new bride should be anticipating on her wedding night. He gave me a sly wink.

I snorted a laugh. "I don’t need or want any sort of discussion about that, thank you! I reached up on tiptoes to kiss his mouth—several times, for good measure. But I should still make time to talk to her before the ceremony."

Outplayed by my own mother-in-law, he answered with a dramatic sigh.

I reached up, stroking his cheek with a smile. "I suppose you’ll have to settle for second place just this once today."

Pyotr rubbed his mouth, looking concerned. Alright…but if your mother follows us home tonight, she has to sleep on the floor.

I started to grin, but then he gave me a funny look. What, what is it? I said, feeling bashful. Is something wrong?

You’ve got more straw in your hair. My husband-to-be took hold of my ponytail in one hand, and with the other he pulled at several pale strands amongst the black hairs. I guess we didn’t find all the pieces this morning after all. Pyotr rubbed them between his fingers before he gave me a crafty smile.

I started to swear, but forced a laugh instead. Then I stole several more kisses to distract him before I slipped out of his arms, trying not to act too suspicious. You should go check with Mistress Pol to make sure that everything is ready before the ceremony; she’s probably still huddled over one last concoction in the farmhouse kitchen. I’ll go see what Mother wants.

Don’t be long, he said. Neither of us wanted to go, but we both knew our parting would be short-lived, so I hurried on.

My mother’s cottage was a small, one-room shack that was barely large enough for one person, much less two. I’d grown up in that tiny house, one of the smallest buildings on the farmstead, but that very night I’d be moving into a new cottage with Pyotr. The whole farmstead had come together to build it, and once it was finished, I’d been so proud of it that I’m sure I walked on air for a week. But even while the thought of leaving my old home for good was a welcome one, at the same time, I dreaded the thought of Mother being alone.

Ilyan Ivanova was waiting for me when I stepped inside. The curtains were drawn in spite of the sunny day outside. An oil lamp with a diminished glow sat on the bedside table. There you are. Where have you been? Come in, and hurry. Close the door. My mother was wildly gesturing, urging me to hurry inside, and she shut the door loudly behind me. The sky-blue dress she wore didn’t suit her, I thought—she was too thin, and her face looked too pinched, eyes dark and puffy underneath. Ilyan had never re-married after my father Sasha died when I was young. Even though she had never asked for my opinion, I always thought Mother’s stubborn insistence on spinsterhood was a mistake: Ilyan had a severe, untouchable beauty, the kind that didn’t belong on a farmstead on the northern end of nowhere. That air of aloofness always set her apart, and eventually the men-folk on the farm gave up on courting her.

Hello, Mother. Can you get me another barrette, please?

What? Mother had started pacing but stopped, frowning at me. Why, what happened? Did someone see you?

Pyotr almost caught my hair changing again. I lifted up the loose tail of hair from over my shoulder—just in the time it took to reach my mother’s cottage, more strands had turned pale, rather than the midnight black they should’ve been.

Honestly. Mother grumbled, reaching over to a small dish on the bedside table, next to the lamp. She fished out a small, metal barrette matching the one I already wore behind my ear, the same place where Mother had always worn one. How many times have I told you to check yourself before you go out, Inga?

"Yes, yes… I am going to have to tell him the truth eventually, Mother—you realize this."

My mother sniffed, looking unconvinced. You’d be surprised what secrets a woman can keep to herself, dear.

I didn’t answer, as I was in no mood to argue. With practiced fingers, I unsnapped the bright-steel barrette from behind my ear, watching in the cottage’s solitary mirror as the black in my hair bled away from scalp to tip as the illusionary magics of the spell-steel accessory faded. In another moment, my hair returned to its unlikely shade of pale gold. None of other farmsteaders had hair of that color; black was, by far, the most common hue.

I quickly fastened the new barrette in place. Once the thing snapped shut, the renewed black surged through the thick strands of hair, and in seconds the golden sheen was gone. I fully intended to tell Pyotr the truth about my hair tonight when we were finally alone, but I saw no reason to start an argument with Mother about that. I checked my face and hair, giving my ponytail a slight fluffing before turning around. Just don’t threaten me with another can of shoe polish; I’d sooner shave it all off first.

Perish the thought, Mother said, showing just a hint of a smile. Her hair had gone prematurely grey years earlier, but getting me a regular supply of spell-steel accessories proved costly on a commune farmworker’s pay. My barrettes were in constant use during daytime hours, so the ensorcelled steel usually lost its luster quickly, its magic fading after a few weeks. I grabbed a few extras, tucking them into an inner pocket of my dress for safekeeping; there was no guarantee I’d have a chance to slip away anytime soon.

Well, I’m here, I said. What did you need to talk to me about?

Something important, Inga, Mother said. Sit down.

I repressed another sigh while taking a seat on the edge of the old, rickety bed. Mother, please. There’s so much going on, and so much left to do, and then Pyotr said you were looking for me—

No, she said, cutting me off. I said it was important, and this is—more than today, more than your wedding, all of it.

What? I was shocked, even a little angry. "Today is the most important day of my life! What could matter more than that?"

Mother didn’t answer. She knelt down in front of a large, black steamer trunk sitting against the far wall. It had turned to muted grey from age, and was one of the few items that belonged to my grandparents. Both of them died from an outbreak of red fever, the same that killed my father and nearly half of the workers on the farmstead at the time.

I’d planned on waiting to show this to you once you and your husband started giving me granddaughters to dote on, but…well. Mother cut herself off, sounding agitated and impatient. Once she opened the heavy lid bound with tarnished brass, she hurriedly began to pull out piles of clothes, coats, and other keepsakes I recognized: faded finger paintings, small bags of dried flower buds, a threadbare doll I’d slept with for years. All were set aside, forgotten for the moment.

Show me what? Did something happen?

She looked at me and paused—it seemed to me that she wasn’t initially sure how to answer my question. I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure… She seemed flustered. I don’t know.

I was at a complete loss; I loved my mother, and while she was a mysterious sort of woman, this was too much, even for her. "What does that even mean?"

Would that I knew myself. With that enigmatic answer, Mother delicately twisted two of the intricate brass fixtures on the trunk’s front before she pressed down hard on them with both thumbs; I heard a muffled ‘click’ from inside. She reached inside, pulled away what I now saw was a false bottom, and carefully pulled out an object nearly a meter long, bound in frayed cloth and leather strings. My mother took the item up with delicate care, then turned and took a seat next to me on the bed, resting the wrapped item across her lap. Inga, what do you remember about your grandparents?

It was the last sort of question I’d expected. I blinked, casting my thoughts as far back as I could manage. About Gramma Tasia? I…I don’t know, really. Mother’s hard, intense stare cut off anymore of my objections and for a moment I concentrated very, very hard. I remember you telling me she died along with Grampa Avgust and Papa when I was little. I also remember…you once told me Gramma hated farming, and that Grampa was the one who taught you how to use a sword. That’s how you taught me to use one. I kept any opinions of just how much I intended to use that particular skill to myself.

That’s right, she said. "My Mama very much hated farming—she loathed having to get dirty for as long as she lived. But there’s an explanation for that…and it has to do with this. Mother ran her fingers across the wrapped item, toying with the old leather cords tied around it. Your grandmatron belonged to the family of someone very important—a noblewoman, someone I’ve never told you about before today. She carefully unfastened the cords, which were drying out from age and starting to crack in places. This belonged to that noblewoman, and your Gramma Tasia was given it before that woman died. When Tasia died, it became mine, and when I die, it will be yours."

That revelation made my eyes go a little wide. What? A noblewoman? When she didn’t answer me, I added: What is it?

Mother took a hard glance at the curtains covering the windows, as though suspecting someone of lurking outside. Then she pulled the cloth away: wrapped inside was a sword with a blade of black enameled steel so dark it seemed to absorb the lamplight. The crosspiece was forged of twisted black iron or steel; the hilt was made of matching leather, wrapped in gold wire.

It was, without question, the most valuable looking thing I’d ever seen in my life.

Winter’s blight! I cursed aloud. We own a sword?

Mm. Why do you think I insisted you learn how to use one?

Well… I mean, I didn’t know… I reached out to touch the thing but hesitated at the last second; it didn’t look like the sort of thing someone like me had any business touching. "Why didn’t you ever tell me about this?"

Because this weapon is a secret, Inga, as deep and dark a secret as we have. Mother’s voice was as hard as the beaten metal lying across her lap. "Your Gramma swore me to secrecy, that I should never reveal or show it to anyone. Your Papa never knew it existed. No one can ever find out about this—not Mistress Pol, not Pyotr, no one. Her eyes pinned me in place like a bug on a needle; I’m sure I stopped breathing for a moment. I meant what I said about keeping secrets. When I die, this sword will become yours. When you finally have a daughter, you must tell her about it when the proper time comes. For two generations, our family’s carried this secret, and it must stay secret, no matter what. Do you understand?"

It took a great deal of self-control just to focus on what my mother was saying—my mind was abuzz with questions and confusion, processing everything she was trying to tell me. Mother—

"Do. You. Understand?" Her voice never rose in volume, but she was so insistent, so demanding of my obedience that I could hardly look at her without flinching.

Yes, I understand! I could see that my answer had satisfied her; the tension in her face, her entire body, lessened as she let out of a breath. But what’s so special about it? Now I did dare to touch the flat edge of the weapon. The metal was smooth under my fingertips, but it seemed almost warm to the touch, like a living thing. I pulled my hand away, quite sure I didn’t want to touch it a second time. Is it…cursed, or something?

"No, Inga, not cursed; this isn’t a bedtime story. I’ll try to tell you more about it later, but this much I can show you." Mother picked up the sword by the hilt. The weapon looked quite heavy, but she took it up one-handed without struggling under the weight at all. I watched her set the edge against her arm just below the elbow, then she pulled back; when the blade opened the skin, I hissed and winced in sympathy as blood oozed from the wound. A moment later, the red line across my mother’s flesh began to knit itself closed right before my eyes. My hands flew to my mouth, smothering a gasp of surprise. The blood that had welled up remained as a crimson smear, but when I reached over, gently probing and pushing against the mended skin, it felt quite whole—Mother never even winced.

Mother! B-but… How’s that even possible? Is it spell-steel? Changing hair color was one thing; watching skin knit itself back together was on a totally different level.

No, Inga, she said, re-wrapping the sword in its bindings, tying the cords back in place. It’s older than any spell-steel you’ve ever seen—older, and much more powerful.

I was completely absorbed in all the talk of magic swords and nobility, trying to understand everything Mother was telling me. I was also flustered, hardly able to form a coherent thought without it fluttering away. "Well…where did it come from? Who was the woman who gave it to Gramma? Why didn’t you ever tell me any of this before?"

She was your great-grandmatron—someone very great, very powerful. With this sword, she led an army as vast as an ocean. The sword itself has power…magic…a purpose. I’ll tell you more about what that means soon, I promise. Mother put the weapon back in its original hiding place, making sure the trunk’s false bottom was secure, then piled everything else back inside and shut the lid again.

Mother turned around, on her knees in front of me, taking my hands in a tight grip. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment; a sort of serenity came over her as she opened them again. "Inga: you can never tell anyone what I showed you today. I need to be absolutely sure you understand this. Your Gramma told me that, long ago, a great many people in her family—our family—died to protect this sword. Nobody can know about it: not your new husband, not the Mistress, no one. If anyone was to learn that we owned such a thing—"

The sound of a quick, insistent knock on the door made me jump. Mother’s eyes went wide then narrowed to slits as she stood up. Who is it? she called.

It’s Pyotr! came the muffled voice on the other side of the door.

The wedding! I was a snow-blasted fool and had somehow completely forgotten about it.

Mother nodded at me, I called out: C-come in!

He opened the door, and although I was happy to see him, the anxious look on his face made my heart start racing. Good, you’re both here. We have to hurry! he said, urging me to stand. Everyone’s in the yard waiting for us. Miss Pol’s ready to start the ceremony!

Already?! I stood up and checked myself in the mirror, realized I still had another half-dozen things to check on, then realized there was no more time for checking on anything else. My earlier excitement now turned to panic. I grabbed my mother’s hand, hoping that she wouldn’t feel that mine was shaking. Any further questions about swords and noblewomen were pushed aside, for the moment. Come on, Mother, we have to go!

My mother allowed herself to be pulled along, a tiny smile on her face. What’s your hurry? It’s not like they’ll start the wedding without you.

Pyotr took Mother’s other hand, and together we all hurried back towards the main house. As we approached, I could see everyone seated in even rows, all looking eager to get started. Several onlookers pointed and clapped when they saw our arrival.

See you soon, Pyotr said with a wink as he headed to where he was meant to stand and wait for his bride to appear. I heard laughter from some of the gathered crowd as I hurried with my mother to take our place by the kitchen door; it was likely now that I’d have to tolerate some teasing from the other women in the weeks to come, but I didn’t really mind it too much—these were the people I’d grown up with, who’d helped to raise me after Papa died. It was as close to an extended family as any woman could hope for, and I was happy to have them.

Pyotr stood on the platform, handsomer than ever; when he smiled at me, I just had to smile back—it was impossible to resist his charm and good mood. Next to him stood Mistress Poledra, the Steadwoman who owned the farm where all of us worked and lived our lives. Miss Pol was practically a second mother to me, teaching necessary skills I’d need to know like cooking and mending, running a household, managing a farm, raising livestock and children, and more. The Mistress wore her grey hair back in a tight bun, with handmade wooden earrings dangling from both earlobes. She was wearing one of her best dresses for the occasion, even though I’d seen her in a flour-scoured apron just a short while ago. Now she looked matronly and wise, with her knowing eyes and easy smile.

As we approached the platform, Mistress Pol raised her voice: Who comes with this woman to see her wed this man?

My mother raised her head; the look on her face seemed sad, but also proud at the same time. I do.

Let these good people bear witness, then, Pol said. She extended both hands towards me with a wider smile. And let the bride state her name for the witnesses gathered here.

This was the moment I’d waited for, a moment years in the making. Everything my mother and I had talked about was pushed aside for that moment—I could trouble myself about keeping secrets once the wedding was over. I stepped away from Mother’s side and onto the platform, raising my voice to state my name the way Mistress Pol had coached me that morning. I am Inga—

I was cut off by the sound of gunfire: just a single shot, but it was sudden enough to make me and nearly everyone else jump. As one we turned to the far side of the yard; in the shadow of the main house, a group of strangers had arrived without managing to alert anyone. There were almost two dozen in all, all mounted on horseback. They wore blue-and-silver uniforms, with glittering buttons that matched the silver insignia on their saddles and coats: a six-pointed snowflake pierced by a down-pointed sword. The riders had pistols and sabers in their belts, and they carried the air of men who knew how to use them.

The men were Avardi soldiers, the militia that served Matriarch Yenda Avard and her family, rulers of the Northern Territories. Mistress Pol’s farmstead was on the extreme northern border of Avardi land, and even though I’d heard about the militia, I’d never seen an Avardi soldier in my entire life.

The one leading them wasn’t a soldier, but a woman with dark hair tied back. She wore a grey dress, with a dark blue wrap hanging around her shoulders and long, leather gloves that stretched up to her elbows. I saw a silver choker on the woman’s neck beset with a pale blue diamond that had to be worth more than every woman, man, child and anything that ran on four legs on the entire farm.

It was she who fired the pistol into the air, and I watched her hand it back to the soldier on the horse next to her. As soon as I saw the woman’s face, I felt uneasy. I’m looking for the Steadwoman who owns this place, she said. Let her speak now, for I come on authority of the Matriarch herself.

Horses stamped and the farmer-folk murmured to one another; several stood up and moved away from the strangers. Pyotr pressed close to me, wrapping an arm about my waist in hopes of comfort—I was alert and alarmed, but his touch did help a little. Mother was also standing close-by, looking stiff and tense. I could tell she was nervous from the look on her face, the stance she took.

I don’t like this, I said.

What do you think they want? Pyotr asked.

Nothing good, I expect, Mother answered.

I saw Pyotr start to reach for his waist, but then he stopped. It was the hip he usually kept his gun on, but this was our wedding—he wasn’t wearing one. Hopefully they’re just passing through, he continued as his hand fell. Just watch and wait for now.

Mistress Pol stepped around Pyotr and me, then down from the platform. She held up her hands, trying to calm the crowd. I’m Poledra Alekhina, the Steadwoman here, she said, raising her head respectfully. Welcome to our humble farm. I hope the Matriarch Avard is in good health—

I am Yenda Avard the Younger, First Daughter of my Clan, Yenda said, cutting Pol off. The crowd’s murmuring only increased—not only did the woman speak with the Matriarch’s authority, she was a direct relation. I’m looking for someone.

O-of course, Lady, Pol said. The old woman kept her smile, but I could sense reluctance in her voice. How can I help? The crowd seemed to notice her mood shifting as well: the youngest children clung to the skirts of their mothers, watching with shy, curious eyes; the older children huddled together close-by, not even speaking to each other. Men and women both stayed quiet, but the worry in their eyes was plain to see. Everyone was still, waiting to hear Yenda’s demands.

The First Daughter folded her hands across the pommel of her horse’s saddle. I’m searching for anyone going by the name Ivanova, and any daughters they might have. I heard that someone living here might fit that description.

If it was possible for my mother to go even stiffer, she did. Come to think of it, so did I. We should leave, I said, fighting against a surge of panic as my heart started racing in my chest. Now.

Mother kept her eyes locked on the horsewoman. No, she answered, sounding resolute.

But, Mother—

Stay calm, Inga. We don’t know what she wants just yet. Just remember what I told you.

If I lacked anything at that moment, it was my mother’s confidence. Looking back at the noblewoman, I thought I sensed a determination on her face, a shine to her eyes that told me she was dangerous, not to mention having a contingent of soldiers at her beck and call.

When Pyotr looked at me, I saw his confusion and just shook my