The stormwall hit.

73. A Thousand Scurrying Creatures

ONE YEAR AGO

Shallan slipped into Balat’s room, holding a short note between her fingers.

Balat spun, standing. He relaxed. “Shallan! You nearly killed me with fright.”

The small room, like many in the manor house, had open windows with simple reed shutters—those were closed and latched today, as a highstorm was approaching. The last one before the Weeping. Servants outside pounded on the walls as they affixed sturdy stormshutters over the reed ones.

Shallan wore one of her new dresses, the expensive kind that Father bought for her, after the Vorin style, straight and slim-waisted with a pocket on the sleeve. A woman’s dress. She also wore the necklace he had given her. He liked it when she did that.

Jushu lounged on a chair nearby, rubbing some kind of plant between his fingers, his face distant. He had lost weight during the two years since his creditors had dragged him from the house, though with those sunken eyes and the scars on his wrists, he still didn’t look much like his twin.

Shallan eyed the bundles Balat had been preparing. “Good thing Father never checks in on you, Balat. Those bundles look so fishy, we could make a stew out of them.”

Jushu chuckled, rubbing the scar on one wrist with the other hand. “Doesn’t help that he jumps every time a servant so much as sneezes out in the hallway.”

“Quiet, both of you,” Balat said, eyeing the window where workers locked a stormshutter in place. “This is not a time for levity. Damnation. If he discovers that I’m planning to leave…”

“He won’t,” Shallan said, unfolding the letter. “He’s too busy getting ready to parade himself in front of the highprince.”

“Does it feel odd to anyone else,” Jushu said, “to be this rich? How many deposits of valuable stone are there on our lands?”

Balat turned back to packing his bundles. “So long as it keeps Father happy, I don’t care.”

The problem was, it hadn’t made Father happy. Yes, House Davar was now wealthy—the new quarries provided a fantastic income. Yet, the better off they were, the darker Father grew. Walking the hallways grumbling. Lashing out at servants.

Shallan scanned the letter’s contents.

“That’s not a pleased face,” Balat said. “They still haven’t been able to find him?”

Shallan shook her head. Helaran had vanished. Really vanished. No more contact, no more letters; even the people he’d been in touch with earlier had no idea where he’d gone.

Balat sat down on one of his bundles. “So what do we do?”

“You will need to decide,” Shallan said.

“I have to get out. I have to.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Eylita is ready to go with me. Her parents are away for the month, visiting Alethkar. It’s the perfect time.”

“If you can’t find Helaran, then what?”

“I’ll go to the highprince. His bastard said that he’d listen to anyone willing to speak against Father.”

“That was years ago,” Jushu said, leaning back. “Father’s in favor now. Besides, the highprince is nearly dead; everyone knows it.”

“It’s our only chance,” Balat said. He stood up. “I’m going to leave. Tonight, after the storm.”

“But Father—” Shallan began.

“Father wants me to ride out and check on some of the villages along the eastern valley. I’ll tell him I’m doing that, but instead I’ll pick up Eylita and we’ll ride for Vedenar and go straight to the highprince. By the time Father arrives a week later, I’ll have had my say. It might be enough.”

“And Malise?” Shallan asked. The plan was still for him to take their stepmother to safety.

“I don’t know,” Balat said. “He’s not going to let her go. Maybe once he leaves to visit the highprince, you can send her away someplace safe? I don’t know. Either way, I have to go. Tonight.”

Shallan stepped forward, laying a hand on his arm.

“I’m tired of the fear,” Balat said to her. “I’m tired of being a coward. If Helaran has vanished, then I really am eldest. Time to show it. I won’t just run, spending my life wondering if Father’s minions are hunting us. This way… this way it will be over. Decided.”

The door slammed open.

For all her complaints that Balat was acting suspicious, Shallan jumped just as high as he did, letting out a squeak of surprise. It was only Wikim.

“Storms, Wikim!” Balat said. “You could at least knock or—”

“Eylita is here,” Wikim said.

“What?” Balat leaped forward, grabbing his brother. “She wasn’t to come! I was going to pick her up.”

“Father summoned her,” Wikim said. “She arrived with her handmaid just now. He’s speaking with her in the feast hall.”

“Oh no,” Balat said, shoving Wikim aside, barreling through the door.

Shallan followed, but stopped in the doorway. “Don’t do anything foolish!” she called after him. “Balat, the plan!”

He didn’t appear to have heard her.

“This could be bad,” Wikim said.

“Or it could be wonderful,” Jushu said from behind them, still lounging. “If Father pushes Balat too far, maybe he’ll stop whining and do something.”

Shallan felt cold as she stepped into the hallway. That coldness… was that panic? Overwhelming panic, so sharp and strong it washed away everything else.

This had been coming. She’d known this had been coming. They tried to hide, they tried to flee. Of course that wouldn’t work.

It hadn’t worked with Mother either.

Wikim passed her, running. She stepped slowly. Not because she was calm, but because she felt pulled forward. A slow pace resisted the inevitability.

She turned up the steps instead of going down to the feast hall. She needed to fetch something.

It took only a minute. She soon returned, the pouch given to her long ago tucked into the safepouch in her sleeve. She walked down the steps and to the doorway of the feast hall. Jushu and Wikim waited just outside of it, watching tensely.

They made way for her.

Inside the feast hall, there was shouting, of course.

“You shouldn’t have done this without talking to me!” Balat said. He stood before the high table, Eylita at his side, holding to his arm.

Father stood on the other side of the table, half-eaten meal before him. “Talking to you is useless, Balat. You don’t hear.”

“I love her!”

“You’re a child,” Father said. “A foolish child without regard for your house.”

Bad, bad, bad, Shallan thought. Father’s voice was soft. He was most dangerous when his voice was soft.

“You think,” Father continued, leaning forward, palms on the tabletop, “I don’t know about your plan to leave?”

Balat stumbled back. “How?”

Shallan stepped into the room. What is that on the floor? she thought, walking along the wall toward the door into the kitchens. Something blocked the door from closing.