“I thought I told you to go back to Elfi, Aurora,” Tristan growled as he knocked out one man with the hilt of his sword. “Why are you following me?”
“I’m not following you,” I lied, adjusting my stance and eyeing my attacker. “I’m just trying to find the book, like you are.” I let my fae senses take over just as the man lunged for me. Blood roaring in my ears, I twisted the weapon in my hands deftly, disarming him.
Neither Tristan nor I wanted to use our fae magic for fear of giving away our location. These were simple mercenaries, soldiers without magic. They were more of an irritation than a threat to us. We had been careful, keeping our identities glamoured while we scoured Brandor for Andromeda and the book. The Grand Duchess of the Day Court had disappeared from Elfi after the battle of Abraxas. She had betrayed the fae and allied with Morgana in the hope that Morgana would make her Queen of Elfi. But when her plan to take over Elfi failed, Andromeda took the book and ran. It was now her only leverage with Morgana.
For now, we had been lucky; we hadn’t come across any Drakaar yet. They seemed to be regrouping since their defeat at the battle of Abraxas. But I knew they would be back. Morgana would not give up so easily. I was all that stood between her and absolute power over the seven kingdoms of Avalonia, and she had no intention of letting me live past my eighteenth birthday.
“I don’t need you here,” said Tristan, standing over two of our attackers as they bled on the ground; the others had fled. “I can track Andromeda on my own. You should leave this city.”
“I can’t go back, Tristan. I need your help. It is the only way to make things right.” I pointed my sword at my attacker’s chin. “Where is she?”
The mercenary held up his hands, fear showing in his dull brown eyes. “Who?”
“The one who sent you to kill us,” I said plainly.
Shaking his head, the mercenary said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I met a man—he gave us your portrait. They promised us a fortune for your head.”
“Who paid you?” growled Tristan.
The man shook his head again, looking between Tristan and me. “I can’t, they’ll kill me.”
“And you think he won’t?” I glanced at Tristan, who stood almost a foot taller than me, looking as menacing as ever.
Tristan and I had taken to wearing the traditional clothes of the Brandorians—loose billowing pants, a soft white muslin shirt under a short leather tunic, a turban wrapped around the head, and high brown boots. I had decided that dressing as a man was far easier and allowed me to move more inconspicuously. But somehow these mercenaries had managed to find out who we were. They had to be silenced, or Morgana would send more than just lowly soldiers my way.
I touched my sword to the mercenary’s neck, just enough to draw a little blood. “Tell me who paid you, and I will let you go.”
The man looked around, eyes darting back and forth like a trapped animal. But the street was darkening, and no one interfered.
“It was—”
His words were cut short as his eyes nearly popped out of their sockets, and he went still, his mouth open in a silent scream. He fell forward at my feet, an arrow protruding from his back.
Tristan bent down and pulled out the arrow. “Ash,” he said, inspecting it more closely. Then, just as quickly, he dropped it and stood up. “The tip is made of blackened iron.”
My eyes betrayed my horror. “How do they have arrows made of blackened iron?”
“I don’t know.” Tristan’s voice was tense as he grabbed my hand and scanned our surroundings. “Morgana has obviously been keeping busy, arming her soldiers with magical weapons. These arrows were meant for us. We need to get out of here now.”
The burnt-orange sky cast an eerie glow over the desert city as we ran through the narrow, dusty streets of Nedora, the capital city of Brandor. Built hundreds of years ago from a small trading outpost, Nedora was a much older city than Sanria, with a haphazard maze of streets in the inner section of the town, which slowly expanded over years to create the sprawling city it was today. It was ruled by the powerful Detori dynasty, a ruthless, bloodthirsty family, with lies and backstabbing an everyday occurrence in their court.
This city was quite different from Sanria on the western coast of Brandor, where my friend Santino Valasis, the pirate prince, resided. It was said that the Detoris were the ones responsible for the death of Santino’s elder brother, Alfonso, the Valasis heir, although it had never been proven. The heads of these two families were the richest and most powerful emirs on the Council of Five. In recent years, it was Santino’s father Roderigo Valasis, the Emir of Sanria, who had become the most influential prince on the council. But fortunes could change at any time, and the Detori family and the Valasis family were constantly vying for control of Brandor.
We ran out of the alley and into a more crowded street as we slowed to a walk. “What would happen if one of us got hit with an arrow of blackened iron?” I asked Tristan as I straightened my short tunic and adjusted my turban, which conveniently kept my long hair hidden.
“If a High Fae gets injured by a weapon made of blackened iron, especially if it was magically forged as that arrow was, the wound will not heal as it is supposed to,” Tristan explained. “If it hits a vital organ, it
