Page 1 of Sharpest Court

Prologue

Zeke Cromwell hated the mornings after a summer rainfall.

By the time he strolled up the path of his uncle’s farmhouse, his crate empty from deliveries, the air was bloated with moisture and the dullroot fields were steaming in the gray light of dawn.

The mist lapped around him, flooding his lungs, and he quickened his steps.

Though he was accustomed to the discomfort that dullroot produced inside him, he preferred to control its administration. A few puffs of dullroot smoke every day—painful, yes, but familiar. Freeing in a way that Uncle Cyrus, a Wholeborn, couldn’t understand. Many Wielders manage their specters without the poison, the old fool always said. You can, too.

Zeke despised that word: specter. Parasite was more like it. What better term was there for an entity that overruled its host, broadcasting every impulse and emotion?

So ten years ago, when Zeke’s mother had gone and died from fever, thereby abandoning him to her older brother’s care, Zeke had seen in his new home an opportunity. Because Uncle Cyrus owned a dullroot farm in the Creakish highlands. And the poison had become Zeke’s cure.

He was stepping through the back door when he heard a woman’s voice and paused.

Then someone cried out, and his heart rate spiked. Cyrus.

Zeke cursed internally. How many times had he told his uncle to hire guards? Now Cyrus needed rescuing from thieves.

And if there was one thing Zeke hated more than being a Wielder, it was being a hero.

Silently promising to give Cyrus a tongue-lashing later, Zeke grabbed a pair of garden shears. He wouldn’t know how to use them in a fight, but hopefully they would make him look intimidating enough that he wouldn’t have to.

With his back to the wall, Zeke approached the lounge and peeked inside. He saw two women, each with similar blond braids and matching black masks concealing the lower halves of their faces. Wearing leather combat uniforms strapped with weapons, they appeared better equipped than the average highland thieves. More intimidating, too, as they towered over Cyrus, who was tied to a chair.

“We’ve read your journals,” said the taller thief, brandishing a tattered notebook. “We know you have information on the person we want.”

“Please,” Cyrus rasped, blood trickling from his lip. “My memory is not what it was.”

“No matter,” purred a second, sweeter voice. Metal scraped as she drew a thin knife from her belt. “We’re happy to sharpen you up.”

Zeke went rigid. Though he couldn’t fathom who they were searching for—or why they were questioning his uncle—he suddenly understood that these women were not thieves.

And they wouldn’t leave his uncle alive.

Zeke darted back to the kitchen and traded the shears for Cyrus’s cane, its handle round and solid. Then he grabbed the slingshot he used to scare away voles and plunged a hand into the bowl of clay marbles beside it. He was pocketing the marbles when Cyrus screamed.

Goose bumps erupted on Zeke’s skin. Every impulse urged him to run and never return.

Instead, he tucked the cane under one arm and inched toward the lounge again.

“Mara,” one woman snapped, and his uncle’s scream broke off. “Pace yourself.”

A sighing, pouting pause. “Yes, Aunt Briar.”

Mara. Briar. Zeke had never heard those names, but he committed them to memory as he set a marble in his slingshot and aimed for a window by the front door.

With a prayer to all the gods he’d never worshipped, he fired.

The smash blasted through the silence.

“What was that?” Briar demanded.

Cyrus began stammering. “There are creatures on our farmland. Skunks, foxes—”

“We know your nephew lives here,” Mara crooned. “Perhaps he’s come to say hello.”

“Stay here,” Briar ordered. “I’ll check.”