“I’ve been asked to take you to her.”

“Asked? By whom? And why?”

“A boy on the practice field told me that you should visit the child. Said that you would find it interesting. He refused to give me his name, but he looked like what that witch’s werecat is supposed to turn into, so I thought . . . Well, I thought you should know.” Jörmundur looked embarrassed. “I asked my men questions about the girl, and I heard things . . . that she’sdifferent. ”

“In what way?”

He shrugged. “Enough to believe that you should do what the werecat says.”

Nasuada frowned. She knew from the old stories that ignoring a werecat was the height of folly and often led to one’s doom. However, his companion—Angela the herbalist—was another magic user that Nasuada did not entirely trust; she was too independent and unpredictable. “Magic,” she said, making it a curse.

“Magic,” agreed Jörmundur, though he used it as a word of awe and fear.

“Very well, let us go visit this child. Is she within the castle?”

“Orrin gave her and her caretaker rooms on the west side of the keep.”

“Take me to her.”

Gathering up her skirts, Nasuada ordered Farica to postpone the rest of the day’s appointments, then left the chambers. Behind her, she heard Jörmundur snap his fingers as he directed four guards to take up positions around her. A moment later, he joined her side, pointing out their course.

The heat within Borromeo Castle had increased to the point where they felt as if they were trapped within a giant bread oven. The air shimmered like liquid glass along the windowsills.

Though she was uncomfortable, Nasuada knew that she dealt with the heat better than most people because of her swarthy skin. The ones who had the hardest time enduring the high temperatures were men like Jörmundur and her guards, who had to wear their armor all day long, even if they were stationed out under the lidless gaze of the sun.

Nasuada kept close watch on the five men as sweat gathered on their exposed skin and their breathing became ever more ragged. Since they had arrived in Aberon, a number of the Varden had fainted from heatstroke—two of whom died an hour or two later—and she had no intention of losing more of her subjects by driving them beyond their physical limits.

When she deemed they needed to rest, she bade them to stop—overriding their objections—and get drinks of water from a servant. “I can’t have you toppling like ninepins.”

They had to break twice more before they reached their destination, a nondescript door recessed in the inner wall of the corridor. The floor around it was littered with gifts.

Jörmundur knocked, and a quavering voice from inside asked, “Who is it?”

“Lady Nasuada, come to see the child,” he said.

“Be you of true heart and steadfast resolve?”

This time Nasuada answered, “My heart is pure and my resolve is as iron.”

“Cross the threshold, then, and be welcome.”

The door swung open to an entryway lit by a single red dwarf lantern. No one was at the door. Proceeding inward, Nasuada saw that the walls and ceiling were swathed with layers of dark fabric, giving the place the appearance of a cave or lair. To her surprise, the air was quite cold, almost chilly, like a brisk autumn night. Apprehension sank its poisonous claws into her belly.Magic.

A black mesh curtain blocked her way. Brushing it aside, she found herself in what was once a sitting room. The furniture had been removed, except for a line of chairs pushed against the shrouded walls. A cluster of faint dwarf lanterns were hung in a dimple of the sagging fabric overhead, casting weird multicolored shadows in every direction.

A bent crone watched her from the depths of one corner, bracketed by Angela the herbalist and the werecat, who stood with his hackles raised. In the center of the room knelt a pale girl that Nasuada took to be three or four years old. The girl picked at a platter of food on her lap. No one spoke.

Confused, Nasuada asked, “Where is the baby?”

The girl looked up.

Nasuada gasped as she saw the dragon mark bright upon the child’s brow and as she peered deep into her violet eyes. The girl quirked her lips with a terrible, knowing smile. “I am Elva.”

Nasuada recoiled without thinking, clutching at the dagger she kept strapped to her left forearm. It was an adult’s voice and filled with an adult’s experience and cynicism. It sounded profane coming from the mouth of a child.

“Don’t run,” said Elva. “I’m your friend.” She put the platter aside; it was empty now. To the crone, she said, “More food.” The old woman hurried from the room. Then Elva patted the floor beside her. “Please, sit. I have been waiting for you ever since I learned to talk.”

Keeping her grip on her dagger, Nasuada lowered herself to the stones. “When was that?”

“Last week.” Elva folded her hands in her lap. She fixed her ghastly eyes on Nasuada, pinning her in place through the unnatural strength of her gaze. Nasuada felt as if a violet lance had pierced her skull and was twisting inside her mind, tearing apart her thoughts and memories. She fought the desire to scream.

Leaning forward, Elva reached out and cupped Nasuada’s cheek with one soft hand. “You know, Ajihad could not have led the Varden better than you have. You chose the correct path. Your name will be praised for centuries for having the courage and foresight to move the Varden to Surda and attack the Empire when everyone else thought it was insane to do so.”