“Father,” Jushu whispered through his tears. “They’ll take me—”

“You were supposed to be riding our outer holdings!” Father bellowed. “You were supposed to be checking on our lands, not dining with thieves and gambling away our wealth and our good name!”

Jushu hung his head, sagging in his bonds.

“He’s yours,” Father said, turning and storming from the chamber.

Shallan gasped as one of the men sighed, then gestured toward Jushu. The other two grabbed him. They didn’t seem pleased to be leaving without payment. Jushu trembled as they towed him away, past Balat and Wikim, who watched nearby. Outside, Jushu cried for mercy and begged the men to let him speak to Father again.

“Balat,” Shallan said, walking to him, taking his arm. “Do something!”

“We all knew where the gambling would take him,” Balat said. “We told him, Shallan. He wouldn’t listen.”

“He’s still our brother!”

“What do you expect me to do? Where would I get spheres enough to pay his debt?”

Jushu’s weeping grew softer as the men left the manor.

Shallan turned and dashed after her father, passing Jix scratching his head. Father had gone into his study two rooms over; she hesitated in the doorway, looking in at her father slumped in his chair beside the hearth. She stepped in, passing the desk where his ardents—and sometimes his wife—tallied his ledgers and read him reports.

Nobody stood there now, but the ledgers were open, displaying a brutal truth. She raised a hand to her mouth, noticing several letters of debt. She’d helped with minor accounts, but never seen so much of the full picture, and was stunned by what she saw. How could the family owe that much money?

“I’m not going to change my mind, Shallan,” Father said. “Leave. Jushu prepared this pyre himself.”

“But—”

“Leave me!” Father roared, standing.

Shallan cringed back, eyes widening, heart nearly stopping. Fearspren wriggled up around her. He never yelled at her. Never.

Father took a deep breath, then turned to the room’s window. His back to her, he continued, “I can’t afford the spheres.”

“Why?” Shallan asked. “Father, is this because of the deal with Brightlord Revilar?” She looked at the ledgers. “No, it’s bigger than that.”

“I will finally make something of myself,” Father said, “and of this house. I will stop them from whispering about us; I will end the questioning. House Davar will become a force in this princedom.”

“By bribing favor from supposed allies?” Shallan asked. “Using money we don’t have?”

He looked at her, face shadowed but eyes reflecting light, like twin embers in the dark of his skull. In that moment, Shallan felt a terrifying hatred from her father. He strode over, grabbing her by the arms. Her satchel dropped to the floor.

“I’ve done this for you,” he growled, holding her arms in a tight, painful grip. “And you will obey. I’ve gone wrong, somewhere, in letting you learn to question me.”

She whimpered at the pain.

“There will be changes in this house,” Father said. “No more weakness. I’ve found a way . . .”

“Please, stop.”

He looked down at her and seemed to see the tears in her eyes for the first time.

“Father . . .” she whispered.

He looked upward. Toward his rooms. She knew he was looking toward Mother’s soul. He dropped her then, causing her to tumble to the floor, red hair covering her face.

“You are confined to your rooms,” he snapped. “Go, and do not leave until I give you permission.”

Shallan scrambled to her feet, snatching her satchel, then left the room. In the hallway, she pressed her back against the wall, panting raggedly, tears dripping from her chin. Things had been going better . . . her father had been better . . .

She squeezed her eyes shut. Emotion stormed inside of her, twisting about. She couldn’t control it.

Jushu.

Father actually looked like he wanted to hurt me, Shallan thought, shivering. He’s changed so much. She started to sink down toward the floor, arms wrapped around herself.

Jushu.

Keep cutting at those thorns, strong one . . . Make a path for the light . . .

Shallan forced herself to her feet. She ran, still crying, back into the feast hall. Balat and Wikim had taken seats, Minara quietly serving them drinks. The guards had left, perhaps to their post at the manor grounds.

When Balat saw Shallan, he stood, eyes widening. He rushed to her, knocking over his cup in his haste, spilling wine to the floor.

“Did he hurt you?” Balat asked. “Damnation! I’ll kill him! I’ll go to the highprince and—”

“He didn’t hurt me,” Shallan said. “Please. Balat, your knife. The one Father gave you.”

He looked to his belt. “What of it?”

“It’s worth good money. I’m going to try to trade it for Jushu.”

Balat lowered his hand protectively to the knife. “Jushu built his pyre himself, Shallan.”

“That’s exactly what Father said to me,” Shallan replied, wiping her eyes, then meeting those of her brother.

“I . . .” Balat looked over his shoulder in the direction Jushu had been taken. He sighed, then unhooked the sheath from his belt and handed it to her. “It won’t be enough. They say he owes almost a hundred emerald broams.”

“I have my necklace too,” Shallan said.

Wikim, silently drinking his wine, reached to his belt and took off his knife. He set it at the edge of the table. Shallan scooped it up as she passed, then ran from the room. Could she catch the men in time?

Outside, she spotted the carriage only a short way down the road. She hurried as best she could on slippered feet down the cobbled drive and out the gates onto the road. She wasn’t fast, but neither were chulls. As she drew closer, she saw that Jushu had been tied to walk behind the carriage. He didn’t look up as Shallan passed him.

The carriage stopped, and Jushu dropped to the ground and curled up. The darkeyed man with the haughty air pushed open his door to look at Shallan. “He sent the child?”

“I came on my own,” she said, holding up the daggers. “Please, they are very fine work.”

The man raised an eyebrow, then gestured for one of his companions to step down and fetch them. Shallan unhooked her necklace and dropped it into the man’s hands with the two knives. The man took out one of the knives, inspecting it as Shallan waited, apprehensive, shifting from foot to foot.

“You’ve been weeping,” said the man in the carriage. “You care for him that much?”

“He is my brother.”

“So?” the man asked. “I killed my brother when he tried to cheat me. You shouldn’t let relations cloud your eyes.”

“I love him,” Shallan whispered.

The man looking over the daggers slid them both back in their sheaths. “They are masterworks,” he admitted. “I’d value them at twenty emerald broams.”

“The necklace?” Shallan asked.

“Simple, but of aluminum, which can only be made by Soulcasting,” the man said to his boss. “Ten emerald.”

“Together half what your brother owes,” said the man in the carriage.

Shallan’s heart sank. “But . . . what would you do with him? Selling him as a slave cannot redeem so great a debt.”

“I’m often in the mood to remind myself that lighteyes bleed the same as darkeyes,” the man said. “And sometimes it is useful to have a deterrent for others, a way to remind them not to take loans they cannot repay. He may save me more than he cost, if I display him prudently.”

Shallan felt small. She clasped her hands, one covered, one not. Had she lost, then? The women from Father’s books, the women she was coming to admire, would not have made pleas to win this man’s heart. They would have tried logic.

She wasn’t good at that. She didn’t have the training for it, and she certainly didn’t currently have the temperament. But as the tears began again, she forced out the first thing that came to mind.

“He may save you money that way,” Shallan said. “But he may not. It is a gamble, and you do not strike me as the kind of man who gambles.”

The man laughed. “What makes you say that? Gambling is what brought me here!”

“No,” she said, blushing at her tears. “You are the type of man who profits from the gambling of others. You know that it usually leads to loss. I give you items of real value. Take them. Please?”

The man considered. He held out his hands for the daggers, and his man passed them over. He unsheathed one of the daggers and inspected it. “Name for me one reason I should show this man pity. In my house, he was an arrogant glutton, acting without thought for the difficulty he would cause you, his family.”

“Our mother was murdered,” Shallan said. “That night, as I cried, Jushu held me.” It was all she had.

The man considered. Shallan felt her heart pounding. Finally, he tossed the necklace back to her. “Keep that.” He nodded to his man. “Cut the little cremling free. Child, if you are wise, you will teach your brother to be more . . . conservative.” He pulled the door closed.

Shallan stepped back as the servant cut Jushu free. The man then climbed onto the back of the vehicle and knocked. It pulled away.

Shallan knelt beside Jushu. He blinked one eye—the other was bruised and beginning to swell shut—as she untied his bloodied hands. It had not been a quarter hour since Father had declared that the men could have him, but they had obviously taken that time to show Jushu what they thought of not being paid.

“Shallan?” he asked, lips bloodied. “What happened?”

“You weren’t listening?”

“My ears ring,” he said. “Everything is spinning. I . . . am I free?”

“Balat and Wikim traded their knives for you.”

“Mill took so little in trade?”

“Obviously, he did not know your true worth.”

Jushu smiled a toothy smile. “Always quick with your tongue, aren’t you?” He climbed to his feet with Shallan’s help and began to limp back toward the house.

Halfway there, Balat joined them, taking Jushu under his arm. “Thank you,” Jushu whispered. “She says you saved me. Thank you, Brother.” He started weeping.

“I . . .” Balat looked to Shallan, then back to Jushu. “You’re my brother. Let’s get you back and cleaned up.”

Content that Jushu would be cared for, Shallan left them and entered the manor house. She climbed the stairs, passed Father’s glowing room, and entered her chambers. She sat down on the bed.

There, she waited for the highstorm.