A small measure of a thing is a medicine. A large measure of the same thing is a poison. Balance is the key to the universe as life flows into death and back again.

-The Twenty-Nine Mysteries, Book 13

Umreh, Dhasherah Region, Qarda

Akona felt closer to home in Umreh than she had felt in two moons.

She and Styri stood at the edge of the woods on a steep slope overlooking the town. She surveyed the dense cluster of brick and wood structures—a central well, shops, outlying houses, and a small Temple of Eloei with a pure limestone façade. Tiny white flakes of snow floated down from the sky. It didn’t stick to the ground, not like in Myrenthos, but it was the closest thing to Myrenthos she’d find in Qarda.

Umreh. The northernmost city. Less than a moon at sea separated them from home.

Akona knew the way out from here. She’d said her prayer to Tychene for good luck. Now all that was left to do was move through the town and do what needed to be done. “Stay close. No Myrenthian after this. Understand?”

“I understand.”

“Promise me.” Akona held out her arm.

Styri sighed, locking arms with her. “Promise,” she said in Qardish.

“Good,” Akona replied in kind. She led the way down the hill, crunching fallen leaves and twigs as she went.

They wore plain black kiftar robes, thick and heavy enough to conceal their youthful frames, head coverings drawn up and cinched to cover all but their eyes. They would speak Qardish if they had to speak at all. Umreh was a large enough town of several thousand that they could blend in for a day undetected. If they kept to their plan, no one would find them here—not even the emperor’s spies.

Then they would be on the first ship home.

The first step of their plan was to acquire the funds needed for a trip north to Myrenthos. Dead emperor or not, nothing could stop Qarda’s ravenous appetite for trade with all her neighbors. It was common to pay off the captain of a small cargo ship for safe passage to wherever he happened to be going—in this case, any Myrenthian port would do. The hike home from there would be child’s play compared to everything that came before it.

The ways of the fox, Akona thought. These were the ways of cunning, of trickery, of stealth, that the glademothers had taught them. Only the ways of the fox could buy them passage home.

The two of them made their way in from the outskirts of Umreh to the town square. Here, merchants traded wares for coins, townspeople wandered through the central market, and worshipers filed in and out of the Eloheed temple. They were able to slip into the throng seamlessly.

“Him,” Akona whispered in Qardish. “Red shegehref.” She indicated their target in as few words as possible.

They moved like shadows through the small crowd. Akona drew on her training from the glademothers and the cunning of Mother Moon. It wasn’t the first time they’d picked someone’s pockets—it was a favorite pastime of theirs back home. But it was the first time they’d done it for something more than spending money.

Styri picked up her pace, walking in front of the man. Theirs was a two-pronged approach. She gradually veered into his path to set the trap, imperceptibly, step by step, little by little. Akona was the one who fished into his pocket; she saw its contents swaying as he walked, heard the metal jingling against itself.

One, two, three... five coins, she thought. They felt heavy in her fingers as she maneuvered them silently into her own pocket. When the man turned his head in his red shegehref, Styri sprang the final phase of their ruse.

“Ow!” Styri exclaimed in Qardish, letting him crash into her. She pretended to lose her balance. The man’s attention was diverted—he froze in his tracks, pulling back. “Please, sir... I am only thirteen years old. Be careful where you walk.”

“Of course, of course,” he answered, sounding embarrassed. “My apologies.” He walked on past them in a hurry.

Akona retreated to the edge of the crowd, discreetly flashing the coins to her older sister. “Five akkahs,” she said, grinning. The Eloheed holy mountain, Mount Tulaylal, was embossed on the front of each gold piece. “We should only need one to buy passage on a ship.”

“Are you sure?” Styri asked her. “We should be sure first. Or else we need to try again.”

“Not worth the risk. I know we won’t need more than one each. That leaves us three coins for more supplies.”

Styri smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that. I’m starving.”

***

“Algahar,” said the captain accepting passengers for his cargo ship. Akona knew it meant north in Qardish.

“Ka, algahar,” she answered. Yes, north. A gold coin tumbled from the oversized sleeve of her kiftar into his palm. “For me and my cousin.” She motioned for Styri to ascend the ramp into the docked ship with her, but the captain held out his hand. Styri slowed on her approach.

“One each,” said the captain gruffly. He had the tanner skin of a Qardish man but dressed in the more familiar Myrenthian-style shoulder tunic. Maybe he was of mixed lineage.

Akona handed over their last akkah. “Of course,” she muttered demurely. “One each.”

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The captain narrowed his eyes at them but soon relented, pocketing the coins. “We leave at dawn. Last room on the left below deck.”

When the twins had boarded the ship, the captain had his crew retract the ramp. Night bled into early morning; Mother Moon prepared to sink below the horizon with her host of stars. They twinkled like shards of glass across the wine-dark sea.

“This way,” said Akona. She lit a lantern and led the way down the cramped, musty corridor below deck.

She breathed a sigh of relief when they arrived at their room. It was actually the last door on the right, not the left, but she forgave the captain’s honest mistake with the directions. All the other rooms were occupied; twelve of the cramped cabins were already closed with passengers inside, while the six crew members split two cabins of their own, plus the captain’s quarters toward the front. The ship was capable of holding twenty passengers in all—they had lucked out claiming the last vacancy in the final room.

“We’re doing it,” Styri squealed quietly. “We’re actually doing it. We’re going home!”

“Be quiet!” Akona rebuked her. She saw her sister’s giddiness deflate in the low light of the lantern. “We are going to visit family from the homeland. Remember?” She shook her head at Styri. “Do you mean to sift defeat from victory?”

“Sorry.” Styri’s shoulder sank. “Can we eat now? Please?”

“Sure. Let’s close the door. Then we can talk more freely.” Akona twisted the half-rusted doorknob and shoved the warped door shut. Like all the other rooms, theirs was packed half-full with wooden crates and tall barrels full of cargo.

“What do you suppose is in these things?” Styri pried open one of the lids, which was surprisingly easy to crack.

“Looks like those green fruits that taste like butter,” said Akona. “But don’t touch those. That’s the cargo.” She pulled out a string-wrapped parchment package full of salted fish, wishing she had some spices to go with it—their three coins only went so far in Umreh.

“Why not?” Styri shrugged. “There have to be a hundred... maybe two hundred in this barrel. How many barrels are there? No one will notice if we take a couple. And shouldn’t we save the salted fish and dried fruits, since those won’t spoil for a while?”

Akona tapped her chin in thought. Her sister had a point. “Fine. Let’s have one each for our breakfast. But no more.”

“I want to make sure I find just the right one.” Styri dug into the barrel, squeezing each fruit individually as she went. “The softer ones taste—” She gasped. A hand grabbed her by the wrist.

“Styri!”

“Help!”

The barrel fell over, and her with it. The dark green fruits rolled all over the floor.

“Don’t you move,” said a male voice. In the flickering lantern light, Akona made out a short, slim figure. The orange glow played off the sharp edge of a dagger held against her sister’s throat. He was barely taller than she was.

“Let me go,” Styri whimpered. “Please. I’ll scream.”

“Shut up,” the man hissed. The glint of saliva was visible on his bared teeth. “Scream and you die. And I escape into the sea before they even find you. Got it?”

“Do what he says, Styri,” said Akona quietly. She understood that drawing attention would only be more dangerous for them. There was no help coming. “What do you want? We have no money. We have no...” Then her heart sank when she caught up to her racing thoughts. Of course.

“I almost had you in the woods,” said the man. “Then again outside of Hadif. You didn’t notice me that time. The Deceiver must have been watching over you that day. But now the light of Eloei has found you at last.”

Akona swallowed her fear. “I think you’re mistaken. We don’t—”

“Enough.” There was venom in the veracidin’s voice. “You speak in the language of your father. Lies. Now you will speak to me in the language of my father. Understand, moon witch?”

“How—how can you even prove it?” Akona shrugged. “You need proof, or else we’re just a pair of scared foreign girls. How can you prove our guilt to your people? You can’t!” Come on, she thought. Take the bait.

“Oh, but I can, witch. I can. You see, I know you took something from Hierophant Drakhman Sanzeen, Eloei grace him. For how else would you prove your victory to the traitorous Hessandra? You cut off part of his beard with a piece of the Hierophant’s jewelry. One of a kind, solid gold.” He grinned, pleased with himself. “I know you have it with you. Hand over your bag or I’ll cut her throat!”

“Don’t!” Akona pleaded. “Don’t, please, just... I will hand it over!”

“Slowly,” the veracidin warned her.

“Slowly, yes. I promise.” She bent down toward her bag, pretending to grab it slowly by the mouth, when really her fingers hooked into the opening and dug discreetly through the contents. “Here. By Epephon, just take it.”

It happened all at once. A quiet whoosh. A grunt. Styri used the moment to twist away free from his grasp. The veracidin dropped his dagger, poison coursing through his veins from the tip of Akona’s dart. He fell to one knee, grabbed for his blade—Styri kicked it away. She stomped once on his hand for good measure.

Akona retrieved his dagger from the floor. “Good work,” she breathed to her sister.

“You remembered the code,” Styri answered, panting from panic. She rubbed a scratch on her throat—no blood. “Praise be to Epephon, Goddess of the Kill.”

“Praise be. Of course I remembered it. I’m just glad you did.”

“What have you done to me, witch?” the veracidin choked out through gritted teeth. He plucked the dart from his inner thigh, but it was already too late. “Eloei curse you in the Hereafter...”

“Save your strength,” said Akona. “It’s over. Do you have any final words? I will say a prayer for you to Thanmor if you’d like.”

The veracidin was foaming at the mouth now. He sprawled out unnaturally on the floor, face half-down, arm contorted, with one of his legs twitching. “I hope those slavers... eat you... alive... when you go north,” he wheezed.

“West?” Styri murmured in Myrenthian. “What does he mean?”

“No, he said algahar,” Akona corrected her in their native tongue. “North. I’m not sure what he meant by slavers, though...”

“But algareh is north. That’s what the captain said. Right?”

Akona’s stomach filled with ice water. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up straight. “No... That’s not right. He said algahar... North... I... I couldn’t have misheard him.”

“So you mixed up the directions again?” Styri’s eyes were wide in the orange lantern light. “Akona. Algareh is north! Algahar is west! We are on the wrong ship!”

A hissing, whistling sound came from the dying spy. It was something like laughter. “So it is... written,” the veracidin said in Myrenthian. Then, in Qardish, “Eloei... laughs... last.” There was one more wheeze, then nothing.

The floor listed suddenly. Through their thin slit of a window near the ceiling, Akona saw the pinkish blush of dawn breaking over the horizon.

The ship is leaving port, she realized.

“We set sail!” hollered the captain above deck. His booming voice was muffled through the groaning wood. “To Grackenwell!”