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men.
    Britta closed her eyes again and lay as if asleep. Her long plait was uncomfortably coiled beneath her, digging into her arm.
    Her hunger grew more intense with each passing minute, and, matching it, her resolve. She would starve to death, if that’s what it took to get out of the cart and onto a horse.
    But she knew the Fithians wouldn’t let her starve; they needed her alive.
    Footsteps approached. Two people. They crouched alongside her with a creak of boot leather. The smell of meat wafted to her nose. The knot of hunger in her belly twisted tighter.
    A hand gripped her shoulder, shook her.
    Britta stayed limp and unresponsive.
    Whoever it was made an impatient sound. He took hold of her plait, dragging her head up. Hard fingers gripped her jaw, opened her mouth. A spoon pushed between her lips. Liquid spilled onto her tongue, warm and fragrant.
    Broth. Meat broth.
    Britta swallowed, a greedy instinctive gulp, and then intellect took over: No. Don’t eat .
    The spoon pushed into her mouth again. Britta tried to spit the broth out, to gag. Her pretend choking became real for several seconds. She coughed and spluttered, fighting for breath, struggling weakly in the men’s grip, trying to pull away from the hand holding her jaw, the hand holding her hair.
    Britta caught her breath, then willed herself to go limp, to pretend she was sliding back into unconsciousness. She sagged, her plait pulling painfully in the assassin’s grip.
    The spoon didn’t invade her mouth again. Instead, the two men laid her on the ground, pulled the blankets up around her throat, and left.
    The plait was even more uncomfortable beneath her now, but Britta didn’t move. She lay as if dead, savoring the taste of broth on her tongue.
     
     
    T HE NIGHT PASSED with agonizing slowness. Hunger gnawed at Britta’s innards, keeping sleep at bay. The plait grew more and more uncomfortable. It was an iron chain, digging into her arm and ribs, but she dared not move. Unconscious. I’m unconscious . Once or twice she thought she heard the faint creak of boot leather as a watchman prowled past, but no one tried to make her eat again. At last, dawn arrived. Faint light filtered through her closed eyelids. Britta lay listening to the sounds of horses being harnessed.
    Footsteps approached. Someone crouched and gathered her in his arms, blankets and all. Britta willed herself to stay limp.
    She was lifted high, higher—the Fithian carrying her grunted with effort—someone else took her, settled her into... a saddle. An assassin’s arm was tight around her waist, her head lolled against his chest.
    Elation fizzed in her blood. I’m on horseback!

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
     
    H ARKELD STOOD NEAR the head of the gangplank, waiting. The deck was wet, the thunderheads gone from the sky, but the early morning air was as thick and heavy and humid and full of impending doom as it had been yesterday. They call this winter?
    The horses, hardy survivors of desert and jungle, had been unloaded. Mages clustered around him. Shapeshifters circled as birds in the sky. He could tell who the hawks were by their size and color. Small and dark: Innis. Large, with pale underwings and breast: Petrus. The swooping swallows were harder to distinguish, the flitting sparrows impossible. He knew they were mages by the magic glinting on their feathers, but not who they were. Serril, Justen, Hedín, Oren.
    He glanced at the circling hawks again. Innis and Petrus were the last survivors of the mages who’d come to his father’s palace three months ago. The mages who’d turned his life upside down.
    Harkeld grimaced and looked away from the birds. His gaze skimmed the mages surrounding him. Three healers, four fire mages, two water mages. How many of them would still be alive next month?
    “You know your places?” Rand asked.
    Harkeld nodded. He’d go ashore second to last, trailing at the end as if he was unimportant. Thayer, the young, dark-haired healer, would disembark in