Passion Play by Beth Bernobich

changed into the plainest of her traveling clothes. She located a bag for her belongings and packed her clothes and blankets. After a moment’s thought, she added a knife her brother had given her years before, then a handful of bracelets and necklaces. The jewelry she could keep hidden, then sell once she reached Duenne. But no silk stockings or skirts. Nothing fine or obviously expensive. She must not call attention to herself.
    She looked at her shelves, which were crowded with books—poetry books, volumes of essays, texts on history. One shelf alone held her old lesson books, with notes scrawled in their margins. If only she could take one—just one book for her exile.
    The quarter-hour chimes sounded, followed by two gongs from the hour bell. No time to choose, she could buy more once she reached Duenne. Quickly, she stuffed her money into a leather purse. She paused, thinking of robbers, then removed her money, divided it into three heaps. One share went into her boots. She wrapped a second portion in a handkerchief and tucked it into her shirt. A third went into the bottom of her bag along with her jewelry. She slung the bag over her shoulder, and with a last survey of her room, she left.
    Outside, the corridor was still and dark. She glanced down the hall, toward her grandmother’s suite. But there could be no visit nor farewells, even silent ones—not if she wished to avoid notice.
    Good-bye, she thought. I love you. Remember me.
    She glided through the hallway and down the stairs, finding her way by touch. When she rounded the last turn and came into the silent entry hall, she hesitated. Ten more steps to the door. It took her several long moments before she could bring herself to take the first of those ten.
    I will never see this house again. I will never see Klara or Ehren. Or my grandmother.
    She drew a long breath. Her pulse was beating fast and hard, but her hands were steady as she unbarred the doors. A cool breeze blew against her face as she stepped outside.

CHAPTER THREE
     
    THICK FOG SWIRLED around her, and a green grassy scent, like the fragrance of new wildflowers, drenched the air. Somewhere to her left, a torch burned. By its light she could just make out several figures moving about. They were little more than flickers and smudges against the eerie white blankness. From a distance came the muted whuff of a horse, footsteps, and numerous voices speaking in low tones. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but she recognized the soft, slurring lilt of a northern Károvín dialect. Everything else was muffled, as though wrapped in cotton. The fog, of course.
    It was the fog that caused them to lose their way in the hills. An unnatural fog, called up by the king’s mage-trackers, who led these soldiers directly to her and the young man from Veraene’s Court. He had died messily. Remembering, her stomach lurched. She swallowed the bile in her throat and pulled against the ropes binding her to the stake. They did not budge.
    A rough hand took hold of her chin and raised her head. It was Ferda Krecek, a captain recently assigned to castle duty. Leos’s dog, the men called him. He examined her dispassionately, his eyes narrowed to dark slits. The torchlight gave his brown complexion a ruddy cast.
    I did not expect to catch you so easily, he said.
    I should have learned more magic, then, she said breathlessly.
    Ah, defiance. He did not appear impressed.
    Not defiance, she said. A chance for peace, for honor—
    He stopped her with an abrupt gesture. There is no honor in treason.
    “Shit, shit, shit! You damned idiot!”
    “Damn yourself, you piss-faced son of a whore.”
    Therez scrambled to her feet, slipped, and fell against a door’s framework. It took her a moment to take in her surroundings—cobblestones and men’s voices arguing, smoking torches that reeked of tar, and dawn’s gray light seeping across the sky. Not far away stood Melnek’s western gates, closed until