Garrin stood outside Arya’s door, his hand poised to knock. He’d left Dellon less than ten minutes ago, and his head was still reeling from their talk. Renton was keeping him in the dark on purpose—he was sure of that now. But he didn’t know what to do with the information. Dellon had agreed to search out more information on Anarya Ellysen and to continue Garrin’s lessons in secret, and Garrin was determined to include Arya in the classes. He was sure to learn something useful from them.

But he had to talk to Arya first, and something made him hesitate. The memory of her forehead pressed against his chest, her hands gripping his shirt as she trembled in fear—it played over and over in his mind, like the verse of a song he couldn’t forget. She’d never shown him any kind of vulnerability before, and he wasn’t sure how to proceed. It felt like he was holding onto a secret he wasn’t supposed to know... like he had a power over her that he shouldn’t have.

He wished he could give it back.

After another few moments of indecision, he steeled himself and knocked on Arya’s door. There was nothing he could do about the night before, but at least he could make it clear that he didn’t intend to use the information against her. And once they got that out of the way, he could focus on sharing what Dellon had told him.

“Come in,” Arya called through the door. Garrin entered and closed the door behind him.

Arya sat on a cushioned settee before the fireplace, her feet curled beneath her midnight blue dress. She held a small piece of white cloth in one hand and a needle in the other, but she set both on her lap when Garrin came into the room. “You could just use that door,” she said, nodding toward the wall she shared with Garrin’s room. A tapestry depicting the goddess Fyelle hid the secret door between their chambers, far more delicate than the one in his room. But then, most of her furnishings were. Despite the two bedchambers being mirrored duplicates of each other, they were decorated in vastly different styles. For one thing, there were no books in Arya’s room. Just shelves filled with painting and stitching supplies and two more wardrobes set on either side of a huge gilded mirror.

He caught Arya’s eyes in its reflection and cleared his throat. “About last night...”

“You’ve decided to heed my warning about Renton?”

“Well, yes, but that’s not what I meant.”

Arya set her needle and cloth on the settee beside her and turned to face him. “Then something you said at dinner?”

“Something I—what? No.” He took a step into the room, but something in her expression stilled him. The usual challenge she held in her eyes was gone, replaced by a request.

Don’t bring it up.

He wanted to anyway, just to reassure her that her vulnerability was safe with him, but surely following her wishes would serve the same purpose. So he sighed and moved to an open chair against the far wall and attempted to sit without groaning. “I spoke to Dellon this morning.”

“About what?”

“Renton dismissed him as my tutor.” He waited for her surprised reaction, and for once was not disappointed. “But Dellon is going to continue teaching me,” Garrin continued. “Us, actually. If you’d like. He’s going to find information on the history of the Architects.”

“And Anarya Ellysen?” she asked.

Garrin nodded. “There’s a Sage he wants us to talk to in Gillesport. Or he was a Sage, anyway. Now he’s a Teller.”

“Why would a Sage become a common storyteller?” Arya asked.

Garrin hitched one shoulder and leaned back into the chair cushions. Her furniture was more comfortable than his. “I don’t know. But he’s not connected to the court, so he might be willing to tell us what he knows.”

“Then let’s go,” Arya said. She stood and pulled a cloak out of the nearest wardrobe, sweeping it over her shoulders while she kicked off her slippers.

“We can’t go yet,” Garrin said. “I need an escort, remember?”

She frowned. “How are we going to get around that?”

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“Dellon has someone in mind,” he said. “He still trains with the guards sometimes, so he knows which ones are trustworthy. He went to find one while I came to talk to you.”

Arya tossed a pair of boots closer to the settee and sat to pull them on. “And are you sure Dellon is trustworthy?”

“As sure as I am about anyone else,” Garrin shrugged. “Except you. You’re the only one I’m sure is on my side.”

She blinked up at him, and he frowned in confusion. His words had caught her by surprise, but why? Why shouldn’t he trust her? She’d been created with his best interests in mind. Sure, she didn’t seem to love him, but she’d never tried to harm him.

Maybe he was just too trusting. After all, he’d believed Renton incapable of harming him until yesterday. Maybe he needed to be more cautious with Arya as well.

Well. Caution had its place, but he couldn’t go through life without trusting anybody. And Arya was as good a candidate as any.

“I’ll get my cloak,” he said, pushing himself upright off the chair. “We can meet Dellon in the yard so no one will question his coming to our chambers.”

She nodded, silent, and he left via the hallway door and entered his own room. The cloak he’d worn on their previous excursion was still being laundered, but he had more than one. This time, he selected something heavy and plain, something that wouldn’t be easily recognizable as being of fine quality. He didn’t have any real weapons in his room and he wasn’t about to go to the armory to request one, so he strapped a belt with a polished dagger around his waist and adjusted his cloak to cover it. Then he followed Arya’s example and changed into winter boots, and went to meet her in the hall.

She was waiting for him, but she barely looked his way as he opened his door. “Ready?” she said, marching off toward the gates. “We don’t want to keep Dellon waiting.”

Garrin had to hurry after her, which he was sure would pose an undignified scene if anyone happened upon them. For once, though, the halls remained empty until they reached the main doors, and then Arya slowed and let him take the lead. The guards at the doors saluted as they passed—at least Renton’s instructions hadn’t prevented them from leaving the castle itself. Garrin resisted the urge to look over his shoulder once they reached the courtyard. He didn’t want to appear suspicious.

“Do you see Dellon?” Arya asked, lifting her hood over her hair. The sun was bright, but a cutting breeze sent swirls of snow around their feet and made both of them pull their cloaks tighter.

“He was supposed to meet us in the training grounds,” Garrin answered. “If he can’t find anyone there, we’ll go right to the soldier’s barracks.”

“Are you allowed there?” Arya asked.

Her voice was teasing, but the reminder of Renton’s restrictions made him scowl. “He hasn’t specifically forbidden me from it, so I might as well go there while I can.”

Arya laughed. “You’ll have to find a focus for this rebellious attitude soon, otherwise you’ll get yourself into trouble.”

At least one member of the council was conspiring against him—what other trouble could there be?

At least trouble left them alone long enough to reach the training grounds undisturbed. The sound of clashing metal and the shouts of men touched their ears before they could see the fights, bringing a wave of nostalgia with it. Garrin had trained here in his childhood, though only with the sons of other nobles. No one was allowed to hit him, but Garrin had convinced one of his teachers—a grizzled soldier named Hennrig—to spar with him when the other boys wouldn’t. Hennrig still went easy on him, but he would at least point out when Garrin had done something wrong. Or he had until Garrin’s head tutor found out and gave Hennrig other duties during training time.

Had that also been Renton’s influence? The possibility deepened the scowl on Garrin’s face and made him grind his teeth together. Was there any part of his life that Renton had not meddled in?

There was one thing. He glanced at Arya, her hood fluttering over her golden hair as another gust of wind swept past them. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, her eyes bright with excitement. Renton had tried to influence her creation, but Garrin’s last-minute adjustments had taken her back out of the marshal’s control. She really was the only one not connected to Renton.

The only one he could trust.

The wind shifted, and a voice carried across the yard as the soldiers came into view. “Your Highness!”

Most of the soldiers continued sparring, but two detached from the main group and made their way toward Garrin and Arya. The taller of the two was dressed in Sage’s robes, but the shorter—though only shorter by an inch or so—wore the armor and uniform of the castle guards. “The goddess is with us today,” Dellon called, pulling his robes tighter about his huge frame as he hurried across the yard.

“You’ve found an escort?” Garrin asked, glancing over at the other figure. “One who understands what we’re doing?”

Dellon patted his companion’s shoulder. “Yes, and one who agrees with it.” He hesitated when he saw Arya, but after a moment he gave a swift bow and smiled at her. “Your Highness. You will be joining us?”

“I will be,” Arya said.

“Excellent,” Dellon said. “Then let me introduce our escort for the day. Your Highnesses, this is Elonie.”

Garrin blinked at the soldier. He was built like Dellon—tall and muscular, with a proud bearing that spoke of competence and confidence. A helmet hid most of his face, but what Garrin could see of his jaw was lean and shaved, without the short beard many of the guards favored. Elonie reached up to remove his helmet, letting loose a long braid that fell gracefully about his shoulders.

Elonie smiled and offered a salute. “Your Highness,” he said, his voice soft. Soft as Dellon’s, but not so low. Blue eyes framed by long lashes seemed to laugh at Garrin as he finally put the pieces together.

“Dellon,” he muttered. “Is this...?”

“Our escort into Gillesport,” Dellon beamed. “My sister.”