THE

EXILED

QUEEN

CINDA WILLIAMS CHIMA

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HarperVoyager An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Cinda Williams Chima 2010

Cinda Williams Chima asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780007384228

Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2011 ISBN: 9780007384211

Version: 2017-01-12

For Linda and Mike—who shared a world

of make-believe and kick-butt Barbies.

Thanks for putting up with all the talking animals.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One - The West Wall

Chapter Two - In The Borderlands

Chapter Three - In The Autumn Damps

Chapter Four - Delphi

Chapter Five - Into The Fens

Chapter Six - Flatland Demons

Chapter Seven - On The Road Again

Chapter Eight - Oden’s Ford

Chapter Nine - The Road West

Chapter Ten - Cadet

Chapter Eleven - Mystwerk House

Chapter Twelve - Raised from the Dead

Chapter Thirteen - Charmcasting for Beginners

Chapter Fourteen - Dean’s Dinner

Chapter Fifteen - Friends And Enemies

Chapter Sixteen - A Meeting With The Dean

Chapter Seventeen - In Mystwerk Tower

Chapter Eighteen - Abelard’s Crew

Chapter Nineteen - Caught In The Act

Chapter Twenty - Star-Crossed

Chapter Twenty-One - A Vermin Problem

Chapter Twenty-Two - The Waking Dream

Chapter Twenty-Three - A Meeting Of Exiles

Chapter Twenty-Four - News From Home

Chapter Twenty-Five - Blueblood Ways

Chapter Twenty-Six - Dangerous Dancing

Chapter Twenty-Seven - When Dreams Turn to Nightmares

Chapter Twenty-Eight - Word from Home

Chapter Twenty-Nine - A Babe in the Woods

Chapter Thirty - This Rough Magic

Chapter Thirty-One - Betrayal

Chapter Thirty-Two - Shifting Alliances

Chapter Thirty-Three - Matrimony or Murder

Chapter Thirty-Four - Shoulder Taps

Chapter Thirty-Five - Old Friends

Chapter Thirty-Six - Detours

Chapter Thirty-Seven - A Parting of the Ways

Keep Reading

By Cinda Williams Chima

About the Publisher

Chapter One The West Wall

Lieutenant Mac Gillen of the Queen’s Guard of the Fells hunched his shoulders against the witch wind that howled out of the frozen wastelands to the north and west. Looping his reins around the pommel of his saddle, he let his horse, Marauder, navigate the final half mile descent to the Westgate garrison house on his own.

Gillen deserved better than this miserable post in this miserable corner of the queendom of the Fells. Patroling the border was a job for the regular army—the foreign mercenaries, called stripers, or the Highlander home guard. Not for a member of the elite Queen’s Guard.

He’d been away from the city only a month, but he missed the gritty neighborhood of Southbridge. In Southbridge there was plenty to distract him on his nightly rounds—taverns and gambling halls and fancy girls. In the capital he’d had high- up connections with deep pockets—meaning plenty of chances to do private work on the side.

Then it had all gone wrong. There’d been a prisoner riot at Southbridge Guardhouse, and a Ragger street rat named Rebecca had jammed a burning torch into his face, leaving one eye blind, his skin red and shiny and puckered with scar tissue.

In late summer he’d taken Magot and Sloat and some others to retrieve a stolen amulet over in Ragmarket. He’d done the job on the quiet under orders from Lord Bayar, High Wizard and counselor to the queen. They’d searched that tumbledown stable top to bottom, had even dug up the stable yard, but they didn’t find the jinxpiece nor Cuffs Alister, the street thief who’d stolen it.

When they’d put the question to the rag- taggers who lived there, the woman and her brat had claimed they’d never heard of Cuffs Alister, and knew nothing about any amulet. In the end, Gillen had burned the place to the ground with the rag- taggers inside. A warning to thieves and liars everywhere.

Sensing Gillen’s inattention, Marauder seized the bit in his teeth and broke into a shambling run. Gillen wrenched back on the reins, regaining control after a bit of showy crow hopping. Gillen glared at his men, sending the grins sliding from their faces.

That’d be all he needed—to take a tumble and break his neck in a downhill race to nowhere.

Some would call Gillen’s posting to the West Wall a promotion. He’d been given a lieutenant’s badge and was put in charge of a massive, gloomy keep and a hundred other exiles— all members of the regular army— plus his own squadron of bluejackets. It was a larger command than his former post at Southbridge Guardhouse.

Like he’d celebrate ruling over a dung heap.

The Westgate keep guarded the West Wall and the dismal, ramshackle village of Westgate. The wall divided the mountainous Fells from the Shivering Fens. A drowned land of trackless swamps and marshes, the Fens were too thick to swim in and too thin to plow, impassable except on foot until the hard freezes after solstice.

All in all, control of Westgate keep added up to little opportunity for a man of enterprise like Mac Gillen. He recognized his new assignment for what it was: punishment for his failure to give Lord Bayar what he wanted.

He was lucky to have survived the High Wizard’s disappointment.

Gillen and his triple splashed through the cobbled streets of the village and dismounted in the stable yard of the keep.

When Gillen led Marauder into the stable, his duty officer, Robbie Sloat, swiped at his forehead, his pass at a salute. “We got three visitors to see you from Fellsmarch, sir,” Sloat said. “They’re waiting for you in the keep.”

Hope kindled in Gillen. This might mean new orders from the capital, at last. And maybe an end to his undeserved exile.

“Did they give a name?” Gillen tossed his gloves and sopping cloak to Sloat and ran his fingers through his hair to tidy it.

“They said as they’d speak only to you, sir,” Sloat said. He hesitated. “They’re baby bluebloods. Not much more’n boys.”

The spark of hope flickered out. Probably arrogant sons of the nobility on their way to the academies at Oden’s Ford. Just what he didn’t need.

“They demanded lodging in the officers’ wing,” Sloat went on, confirming Gillen’s fears.

“Some in the nobility seem to think we’re running a hostel for blueblood brats,” Gillen growled. “Where are they?”

Sloat shrugged his shoulders. “They’re in the officers’ hall, sir.”

Shaking off rainwater, Gillen strode into the keep. Before he’d fairly crossed the inner courtyard, he heard music— a basilka and a recorder.

Gillen shouldered open the doors to the officers’ hall to find three boys, not much older than naming age, ranged around the fire. The keg of ale on the sideboard had been breached, and empty tankards sat before them. The boys wore the dazed, sated expressions of those who’d feasted heavily. The remnants of what had been a sumptuous meal were spread over the table, including the picked- over cadaver of a large ham Gillen had been saving for himself.

In one corner stood the musicians, a pretty young girl on the recorder, and a man— probably her father— on the basilka. Gillen recalled seeing them in the village before, playing for coppers on street corners.

As Gillen entered, the tune died away and the musicians stood, pale- faced and wide- eyed, like trapped animals before the kill. The father drew his trembling daughter in under his arm, smoothed her blond head, and spoke a few quiet words to her.

Ignoring Gillen’s entrance, the boys around the fire clapped lazily. “Not great, but better than nothing,” one of them said with a smirk. “Just like the accommodations.”

“I’m Gillen,” Gillen said loudly, by now convinced there could be no profit in this meeting.

The tallest of the three came gracefully to his feet, shaking back a mane of black hair. When he fixed on Gillen’s scarred face, he flinched, his blueblood face twisting in disgust.

Gillen clenched his teeth. “Corporal Sloat said you wanted to see me,” he said.

“Yes, Lieutenant Gillen. I am Micah Bayar, and these are my cousins, Arkeda and Miphis Mander.” He gestured toward the other two, who were red- haired— one slender, one of stocky build. “We are traveling to the academy at Oden’s Ford, but since we were coming this way, I was asked to carry a message to you from Fellsmarch.” He cut his eyes toward the empty duty room. “Perhaps we can talk in there.”

His heart accelerating, Gillen fixed on the stoles draped over the boy’s shoulders, embroidered with stooping falcons. The signia of the Bayar family.

Yes. Now he saw the resemblance— something about the shape of the boy’s eyes and the exaggerated bone structure of the face. Young Bayar’s black hair was streaked with wizard red.

The other two wore stoles also, though with a different signia. Fellscats. They were all three wizardlings, then, and one the High Wizard’s son.

Gillen cleared his throat, nerves warring with excitement. “Certainly, certainly, your lordship. I hope you found the food and drink to your liking.”

“It was... filling, Lieutenant,” Young Bayar replied. “But now it sits poorly, I’m afraid.” He tapped his midsection with two fingers, and the other two boys snorted.

Change the subject, Gillen thought. “You favor your father, you know. I could tell right away you was his son.”

Young Bayar frowned, glanced at the musicians, then back at Gillen. He opened his mouth to speak, but Gillen rushed on, meaning to have his say. “It wasn’t my fault, you know, about the amulet. That Cuffs Alister is savage and street- smart. But your da picked the right man for the job. If anyone can find him, I can, and I’ll get the jinxpiece back, too. I just need to get back to the city is all.”

The boy went perfectly still, staring at Gillen through narrowed eyes, his mouth in a tight, disapproving line. Then, shaking his head, he turned to his cousins. “Miphis. Arkeda. Stay here,” Bayar said. “Have some more ale, if you can stomach it.” He flicked his hand toward the two musicians. “Keep these two close. Don’t let them leave.”

Young Bayar crooked his finger at Gillen. “You. Come with me.” Without looking back to see if Gillen was following, he stalked into the duty room.

Confused, Gillen followed him in. Young Bayar stood staring out the window overlooking the stable yard, resting his hands on the stone sill. He waited until the door had closed behind him before he turned on Gillen. “You . . . cretin,” the boy said, his face pale, eyes hard and glittering like Delphi coal. “I cannot believe that my father would ever engage someone so stupid. No one must know that you are in my father’s employ, understand? If word of this gets back to Captain Byrne, it could have grievous consequences. My father could be accused of treason.”

Gillen’s mouth went dead dry. “Right. A course,” he stuttered. “I... ah... assumed the other wizardlings was with you, and . . .”

“You are not being paid to make assumptions, Lieutenant Gillen,” Bayar said. He walked toward Gillen, back very straight, stoles swaying in the breeze from the window. As he came forward, Gillen backed away until he came up against the duty table.

“When I say no one, I mean no one,” Bayar said, fingering an evil- looking pendant at his neck. It was a falcon carved from a glittering red gemstone— a jinxpiece, like the one Gillen had failed to find in Ragmarket. “Who else have you told about this?”

“No one, I swear on the blood of the demon, I an’t told no one else,” Gillen whispered, fear a knife in his gut. He stood balanced, feet slightly apart, ready to leap aside if the wizardling shot flame at him. “I just wanted to make sure his lordship knew that I did my best to fetch that carving, but it wasn’t nowhere to be found.”

Distaste flickered across the boy’s face, as if this were a topic he’d rather not dwell on. “Did you know that while you were searching Ragmarket for the amulet, Alister attacked my father and nearly killed him?”

Blood and bones, Gillen thought, shuddering. As the long-time streetlord of the Raggers gang, Alister was known to be fearless, violent, and ruthless. Now it seemed the boy had a death wish, too. “Is . . . is Lord Bayar all right?” Is Alister dead?

Young Bayar answered the spoken and unspoken questions. “My father has recovered. Alister, unfortunately, escaped. My father finds incompetence difficult to forgive,” he said. “In anyone.” The bitter edge to the boy’s voice caught Gillen off guard.

“Er, right,” Gillen said. He plunged on, compelled to make his case. “I’m wasted here, my lord. Send me back to the city, and I’ll find the boy, I swear. I know the streets, and I know the gangs that run ’em. Alister’s bound to turn up in Ragmarket sooner or later, even though his mam and sister claimed he hadn’t been around there for weeks.”

Young Bayar’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, fists clenched. “His mother and sister? Alister has a mother and sister? Are they still in Fellsmarch?”

Gillen grinned. “They’re burnt up, I reckon. We torched their place with them shut up inside.”

“You killed them?” Young Bayar stared at him. “They’re dead?”

Gillen licked his lips, unsure where he’d gone wrong. “Well, I figured that’d show ever’body else they’d better tell the truth when Mac Gillen asks questions.”

“You are an idiot!” Bayar shook his head slowly, his eyes fixed on Gillen’s face. “We could have used Alister’s mother and sister to lure him out of hiding. We could have offered a trade for the amulet.” He closed his fist on thin air. “We could have had him.”

Bones, Gillen thought. He never could say the right thing to a wizard. “You might think so, but believe me, streetlord like Alister, his heart’s cold as the Dyrnnewater. Think he cares what happens to his mam and sis? Nope. He cares about nobody but hisself.”

Young Bayar dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “We’ll never know now, will we? In any event, my father has no need of your services in hunting Alister. He has assigned others to that task. They’ve succeeded in cleaning the street gangs out of the city, but they’ve had no luck finding Alister. We have reason to think he’s left Fellsmarch.”

The boy rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand, as though he had a headache. “However. Should you ever cross paths with Alister, by accident or otherwise, my father desires that he be brought to him alive and intact, with the amulet. If you could manage that, you would, of course, be richly rewarded.” Young Bayar tried to look indifferent, but the tightness around his eyes told a different story.

The boy hates Alister, Gillen thought. Was it because Alister tried to kill his father? Anyway, Gillen could tell that there was no use pressing the matter of his return to Fellsmarch. “A’right, then,” he said, struggling to hide his disappointment. “So. What brings you to Westgate? You said you had a message for me.”

“A delicate matter, Lieutenant. One that will require dis -cretion.” The boy made it clear he doubted Gillen had any discretion. Whatever that was.

“Absolutely, my lord, you can count on me,” Gillen said eagerly.

“Had you heard that the Princess Raisa is missing?” Bayar said abruptly.

Gillen tried to keep his face blank. Competent. Full of discretion. “Missing? No, my lord, I hadn’t heard that. We get little news up here. Do they have any idea . . .”

“We think there’s a chance she may try to leave the country.”

Oh, ho, Gillen thought. She’s run off, then. Was it a mother-daughter spat? A romance with the wrong sort? A commoner, even? The Gray Wolf princesses were known to be headstrong and adventuresome.

He’d seen the Princess Raisa up close, once. She was small but shapely enough, with a waist a man could put his two hands around. She’d given him the once- over with those witchy green eyes, then whispered something to the lady beside her.

That was before. Now women turned their faces away when he offered to buy them a drink.

Before, the princess might have been swept off by someone like himself— a worldly, military man. He’d even had thoughts, himself, of what it would be like to—

Bayar’s voice broke in. “Are you listening, Lieutenant?”

Gillen forced his mind back to the matter at hand. “Yes, my lord. A’course. Uh. What was that last bit?”

“I said we think it’s also possible she might have taken refuge with her father’s copperhead relatives at Demonai or Marisa Pines camps.” Bayar shrugged. “They claim she’s not with them, that she must have gone south, out of the queendom. But the southern border is well guarded. So she might try to leave through Westgate.”

“But . . . where would she go? There’s war everywhere.”

“She may not be thinking clearly,” Bayar said, color staining his pale face. “That is why it is critical that we intercept her. The princess heir may put herself into danger. She may go somewhere we can’t reach her. That would be . . . disastrous.” The boy closed his eyes, fussing with his sleeves. When he opened them to find Gillen staring at him, he swiveled away and gazed out the window again.

Huh, Gillen thought. Either the boy’s quite the actor, or he really is worried.

“So we need to be on the watch for her here at Westgate,” Gillen said. “Is that what you’re saying?”

Bayar nodded without turning around. “We’ve tried to keep the matter quiet, but word is out that she’s on the run. If the queen’s enemies find her before we do, well . . . you understand.”

“Of course,” Gillen said. “Ah, do they think she’s . . . traveling with anyone?” There. That was a clever way to put it, to find out if she’d run off with somebody.

“We don’t know. She may be on her own, or she may be riding with the copperheads.”

“What exactly would Lord Bayar like me to do?” Gillen asked, puffing up a little.

Now the boy turned to face him. “Two things. We want you to set a watch for Princess Raisa at the border and intercept her if she tries to cross at Westgate. And we need a party of trusted guards to ride to Demonai Camp to verify that she’s not there.”

“Demonai!” Gillen said, less cheerfully. “But . . . you can’t be— you’re not thinking we’d be taking on the Demonai warriors, are you?”

“Of course not,” Bayar said, as if Gillen were a half- wit. “The queen has notified the Demonai that her guard will be visiting the upland camps to interview the savages. They can hardly refuse. Of course, they’ll know you’re coming, so you’ll have to dig deeper to find out whether the princess is there, or has been there.”

“You’re sure they’re expecting us?” Gillen said. The Water -walkers were one thing— they didn’t even use metal weapons. But the Demonai— he was in no rush to go up against them. “I don’t want to end up full of copperhead arrows. The Demonai, they got poisants that will blacken a man’s—”

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant Gillen,” Bayar said sharply. “You’ll be perfectly safe, unless, of course, you are caught snooping around.”

He’d send Magot and Sloat, Gillen decided. They were better suited for that task. It was best if he stayed behind and kept an eye out for the princess. That would need careful handling and a clear head. And discretion.

“I expect you’ll need at least a salvo of soldiers to make a thorough search.”

“A salvo! I only got a hundred or so soldiers total, plus a squadron of guards,” Gillen said. “I don’t trust the sell- sword stripers and Highlanders. It’ll have to be a squadron, that’s all I can spare.”

Bayar shrugged; it wasn’t up to him to solve Gillen’s problems. “A squadron, then. I would go myself, but as a wizard I am, of course, forbidden to venture into the Spirits.” Bayar again fondled the gaudy jewel that hung at his neck. “And my involvement couldn’t fail to raise difficult questions.”

’Course it would raise questions, Gillen thought. Why would a wizardling involve himself in military matters anyway? Protecting the Gray Wolf queens was the job of the Queen’s Guard and the army.

“We would like you to proceed without delay,” Bayar said. “Have your squadron ready to leave by tomorrow.” Gillen opened his mouth to tell him all the reasons why it couldn’t be, but young Bayar raised his hand, palm out. “Good. My companions and I will remain here until you return.”

“You’re staying here?” Gillen stuttered. That, he did not need. “Listen, if the queen wants us to go into the Spirits after the princess, she ought to send reinforcements. I can’t leave the West Wall unprotected while we—”

“Should you locate the princess, you will discharge her into our custody,” Bayar went on, ignoring Gillen’s protest. “My cousins and I will escort her back to the queen.”

Gillen studied the boy suspiciously. Was he being set up somehow? Why would he give the princess over to these wizardlings? Why wouldn’t he take her back to Fellsmarch and collect the glory (and possible reward money) himself ?

Sometimes when he did work for the High Wizard he wasn’t sure who he was working for— the wizard or the queen. But this was big. He meant to get more out of this venture than the Bayars’ undying gratitude.

As if reading Gillen’s thoughts, the boy spoke. “Should you find the princess and deliver her to us, we will pay a bounty of five thousand crowns and arrange your return to a post in Fellsmarch.”

Gillen struggled to keep his mouth from falling open. Five thousand girlies? That was a fortune. More than he’d expect the Bayars to pay to take credit for returning the princess to court. Something else was going on. Something he didn’t need to know about, in case he was ever questioned.

It made risking Sloat and Magot in the Spirits a lot more appealing. And all the more reason for Gillen to keep a close watch at the border.

“I’d be proud to do whatever I can to help return the princess to her mother the queen,” Gillen said. “You can count on me.”

“No doubt,” Bayar said dryly. “Employ people who know how to keep their mouths shut, and tell them no more than necessary to get the job done. There is no need for any of them to know about our private arrangement.” Fishing in a pouch at his waist, he produced a small, framed portrait and extended it toward Gillen.

It was the Princess Raisa, head and shoulders only, wearing a low- cut dress that exposed plenty of honey- colored skin. Her dark hair billowed around her face, and she wore a small crown, glittering with jewels. Her head was tilted, and she had a half smile on her face, lips parted, as though she were just about to say something he wanted to hear. She’d even written something on it. To Micah, All my love, R.

There was something about her, though, something familiar, that he . . .

Bayar’s hand fastened around Gillen’s arm, stinging him through the wool of his officer’s tunic, and he nearly dropped the painting.

“Don’t drool on it, Lieutenant Gillen,” Bayar said, as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. “Please make sure your men are familiar with the princess’s appearance. Bear in mind, she will likely be in disguise.”

“I’ll get right on it, my lord,” Gillen said. He backed away, bowing himself out before young Bayar could change his mind. Or take hold of his arm again. “You and your friends make yourselves to home,” he said. Five thousand girlies would buy a lot of hospitality from Mac Gillen. “I’ll tell Cook to prepare whatever you like.”

“What are you going to do about the musicians?” Bayar asked abruptly.

Gillen blinked at him. “What about them?” he asked. “Do you want them to stay on here? They might help pass the time, and the girl’s a pretty one.”

Young Bayar shook his head. “They’ve heard too much. As I said, no one must connect you with my father or know that you are working for him.” When Gillen frowned, still confused, Bayar added, “This is your fault, Lieutenant, not mine. I’ll handle my cousins, but you are the one who will have to deal with the players.”

“So,” Gillen said, “are you saying I should send them away?”

“No,” Bayar said, straightening his wizard stoles, not meeting Gillen’s eyes. “I’m saying you should kill them.”

Chapter Two In The Borderlands

Han Alister reined in his pony at the highest point in Marisa Pines Pass. He looked out over the jagged southernmost Queens toward the hidden flatlands of Arden beyond. These were unfamiliar mountains, homes to long- dead queens with names he’d never heard. The highest peaks poked into the clouds, cold stone unclothed by vegetation. The lower slopes glittered with aspens haloed by autumn foliage.

The temperature had dropped as they climbed, and Han had added layers of clothing as necessary. Now his upland wool hat was pulled low over his ears, and his nose stung in the chilly air.

Hayden Fire Dancer nudged his pony up beside Han to share the view.

They’d left Marisa Pines Camp two days before. The clan camp sat strategically at the northern end of the pass, the major passage through the southern Spirit Mountains to the city of Delphi and the flatlands of Arden beyond. The road that began as the Way of the Queens in the capital city of Fellsmarch dwindled into little more than a wide game trail in the highest part of the pass.

Though it was prime traveling season, they’d met little trade traffic along the trail— only a few hollow- eyed refugees from Arden’s civil war.

Dancer pointed ahead, toward the southern slope. “Lord Demonai says that before the war, the wagon lines ran from morning to night in season, carrying trade goods up from the flatlands. Food, mostly— grain, livestock, fruits, and vegetables.”

Dancer had traveled through Marisa Pines Pass before, on trading expeditions with Averill Lightfoot, trademaster and patriarch of Demonai Camp.

“Now the armies swallow it up,” Dancer went on. “Plus, a lot of the cropland has been burned and spoiled, so it’s out of production.”

It will be another hungry winter in the Fells, Han thought. The civil war in Arden had been going on for as long as Han could remember. His father had died there, serving as sell- sword to one of the five bloody Montaigne princes— all brothers, and all laying claim to the throne of Arden.

Han’s pony wheezed and blew, after the long climb from Marisa Pines Camp. The air was thin at this altitude. Han combed his fingers through the shaggy pony’s tangled mane, and scratched behind his ears. “Hey, now, Ragger,” he murmured. “Take your time.” Ragger bared his teeth in answer, and Han laughed.

Han took a proprietary pride in his ill- tempered pony— the first he’d ever owned. He was a skilled rider of borrowed horses. He’d spent every summer fostered in the upland lodges— sent there from the city by a mother convinced he carried a curse.

Now everything was different. The clans had staked him his horse, clothing, supplies, food for the journey, and paid his tuition for the academy at Oden’s Ford. Not out of charity, but because they hoped the demon- cursed Han Alister would prove to be a potent weapon against the growing power of the Wizard Council.

Han had accepted their offer. Accused of murder, orphaned by his enemies, hunted by the Queen’s Guard and the powerful High Wizard, Gavan Bayar, he’d had no choice. The pressure of past tragedies drove him forward— the need to escape reminders of his losses, and the desire to be somewhere other than where he’d been.

That, and a smoldering desire for revenge.

Han slid his fingers inside his shirt and absently touched the serpent amulet that sizzled against the skin of his chest. Power flowed out of him and into the jinxpiece, relieving the magical pressure that had been building all day.

It had become a habit, this drawing off of power that might otherwise pinwheel out of control. He needed to constantly reassure himself the amulet was still there. Han had become strangely attached to it since he’d stolen it from Micah Bayar.

The flashpiece had once belonged to his ancestor, Alger Waterlow, known by most people as the Demon King. Mean -while, the Lone Hunter amulet made for him by the clan matriarch, Elena Demonai, languished unused in his saddlebag.

He should hate the Waterlow flashpiece. He’d paid for it with Mam’s and Mari’s lives. Some said the amulet was a black magic piece— capable of naught but evil. But it was all he had to show for his nearly seventeen years, save Mari’s charred storybook and Mam’s gold locket. They were all that remained of a season of disaster.

Now he and his friend Dancer were to travel to Mystwerk House, the charmcaster academy at Oden’s Ford, and enter training as wizards under sponsorship of the clans.

“Are you all right?” Dancer leaned toward him, his copper face etched with concern, his hair twisting in the wind like beaded snakes. “You look witch- fixed.”

“I’m all right,” Han said. “But I’d like to get out of this wind.” Even in fair weather the wind roared constantly through the pass. And now, at summer’s end, it carried the bite of winter.

“The border can’t be far,” Dancer said, his words snatched away as he spoke them. “Once we cross, we’ll be close to Delphi. Maybe we can sleep under a roof tonight.”

Han and Dancer traveled under the guise of clan traders, leading pack ponies loaded with goods. Their clan garb offered some protection. That and the longbows slung across their backs. Most thieves knew better than to confront members of the Spirit clans on their home ground. Travel would be riskier once they crossed into Arden.

As they descended toward the border, the season rolled back, from early winter to autumn again. Past the tree line, first scrubby pines and then the aspen forest closed in around them, providing some relief from the wind. The slope gentled and the skin of soil deepened. They began to see scattered crofts centered by snug cottages, and meadows studded by sturdy mountain sheep with long, curling horns.

A little farther, and here was evidence of the festering war to the south. Half hidden among the weeds to either side of the road were discards— empty saddlebags and parts of uniforms from fleeing soldiers, household treasures that had become too much of a burden on the uphill trail.

Han spotted a child’s homespun dolly in the ditch, pressed into the mud. He reined in, meaning to climb down and fetch it so he could clean it up for his little sister. Then he remembered that Mari was dead and had no need of dollies anymore.

Grief was like that. It gradually faded into a dull ache, until some simple sight or sound or scent hit him like a hammer blow.

They passed several torched homesteads, stone chimneys poking up like headstones on despoiled graves. And then an entire burnt village, complete with the skeletal remains of a temple and council house.

Han looked at Dancer. “Flatlanders did this?”

Dancer nodded. “Or stray mercenaries. There’s a keep at the border, but they don’t do a very good job patrolling this road. The Demonai warriors can’t be everywhere. The Wizard Council claims wizards could take up the slack, but they’re not allowed and they don’t have the proper tools, and that’s the fault of the clans.” He rolled his eyes. “As if you’d find wizards out here in the rough even if they were allowed to be.”

“Hey, now,” Han said. “Watch yourself. We’re wizards in the rough.”

They both laughed at the double joke. They’d come to share a kind of graveyard humor about their predicament. It was hard to let go of the habit of making fun of the arrogance of wizards— the kinds of jokes the powerless make about the powerful.

They reached a joining of trails from the east and west, all funneling into the pass. Traffic thickened and slowed like clotted cream. Travelers trickled past, heading the other way, toward Marisa Pines and likely on to Fellsmarch. Men, women, children, families, and single travelers, groups thrown together by chance, or joined together for protection.

Loaded down with bundles and bags, the refugees were silent, hollow- eyed, even the children, as if it took everything they had to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Adults and younglings alike carried clubs, sticks, and other makeshift weapons. Some were wounded, with bloodstained rags tied around their heads or arms or legs. Many wore lightweight flat-lander clothing, and some had no shoes.

They must have left Delphi at daybreak. If it had taken them this long to get this distance, they were never going to make it through the pass by nightfall. Then it was two more days to Marisa Pines.

“They’re going to freeze up there,” Han said. “Their feet will be cut to ribbons on the rocks. How are the lytlings going to manage the climb? What are they thinking?”

One little boy, maybe four years old, stood crying in the middle of the trail, fists clenched, face squinched up in misery. “Mama!” he cried in the flatlander tongue. “Mama! I’m hungry!” There was no mama in sight.

Pricked by guilt, Han dug into his carry bag and pulled out an apple. He leaned down from his saddle, extending it toward the boy. “Here,” he said, smiling. “Try this.”

The boy stumbled backward, raising his arms in defense. “No!” he screamed in a panic. “Get away!” He fell down on his backside, still screaming bloody murder.

A thin- faced girl of indeterminate age snatched the apple out of Han’s hand and raced away as if chased by demons. Han stared helplessly after her.

“Let it go, Hunts Alone,” Dancer said, using Han’s clan name. “Guess they’ve had a bad experience with horsemen. You can’t save everyone, you know.”

I can’t save anyone, Han thought.

They rounded a turn, and the border fortifications came into view below— a tumbledown keep and a ragged stone wall, the gaps quilled with iron spikes and razor wire in lieu of better repair. The wall stretched across the pass, smashing up against the peaks on either side, centered on a massive stone gatehouse that arched over the road. A short line of southbound trader’s wagons, pack lines, and walkers inched through the gate, while the northbound traffic passed unimpeded.

A village of sorts had sprouted around the keep like mushrooms after a summer rain, consisting of rough lean- tos, scruffy huts, tents, and canvas- topped wagons. A rudimentary corral enclosed a few spavined horses and knobble- ribbed cows.

Spots of brilliant blue clustered around the gate like a fistful of autumn asters. Bluejackets. The Queen’s Guard. Apprehension slid down Han’s spine like an icy finger.

Why would they be on duty at the border?

“Checking the refugees coming in, I can understand,” he said, scowling. “They’d want to keep out spies and renegades. But why should they care who’s leaving the queendom?”

Dancer looked Han up and down, biting his lower lip. “Well, obviously they’re looking for someone.” He paused. “Would the Queen’s Guard be going to all this trouble to catch you?”

Han shrugged, wanting to deny the possibility. If he was so dangerous, wouldn’t they prefer he was out of the queendom rather than in?

“Seems unlikely Her Powerfulness the queen would get this worked up over a few dead Southies,” he said. “Especially since the killings have stopped.”

“You did stick a knife in her High Wizard,” Dancer pointed out. “Maybe he’s dead.”

Right. There was that. Though Han couldn’t really believe that Lord Bayar was dead. In his experience, the evil lived on while the innocent died. Still, the Bayars might have convinced the queen it was worth the extra sweat to put him in darbies.

But the Bayars want their amulet back, Han thought. Would they risk his taking by the Queen’s Guard? Under torture, the history of the piece might just slip out.

Anyway, wasn’t he supposed to be on the queen’s side? He recalled Elena Cennestre’s words the day she’d dumped the truth on him.

When you complete your training, you will come back here and use your skills on behalf of the clans and the true line of blooded queens.

Likely nobody’d told Queen Marianna. They’d be trying to keep it on the hush.

“We know they’re not looking for you,” Han said, shifting his eyes away from Dancer. “Let’s split up, just to be on the safe side. You go ahead. I’ll follow.” That would prevent any heroics on Dancer’s part if Han got taken.

Dancer greeted this suggestion with a derisive snort. “Right. Even with your hair covered, there is no way you could pass for clan once you open your mouth. Let me do the talking. Lots of traders pass through here. We’ll be all right.” Still, Han noticed that Dancer tightened the string on his bow and slid his belt-dagger into easy reach.

Han readied his own weapons, then tucked stray bits of fair hair under his hat. He should have taken the time to color it dark again, so he’d be less recognizable. Survival hadn’t seemed especially important until now. Han slid his hand inside his shirt, touching his amulet. He wished for the thousandth time he knew more about how to use it. A little charmcasting might do them some good in a tight spot.

No, maybe not. Better if nobody knew that Cuffs Alister, street thief and accused murderer, was suddenly a wizard.

Excruciatingly slowly, they worked their way toward the border. It seemed the guard was doing a thorough job.

When they reached the front of the line, two guards stepped out and gripped the bridles of their horses, halting them. A mounted guard with a sergeant’s scarf angled his mount in front of them. He studied their faces, scowling. “Names?”

“Fire Dancer and Hunts Alone,” Dancer said in Common. “We’re clan traders from Marisa Pines, traveling to Ardenscourt.”

“Traders? Or spies?” the guardsman spat.

“Not spies,” Dancer said. He steadied his pony, who tossed its head and rolled its eyes at the guardsman’s tone. “Traders don’t get into politics. It’s bad for business.”

“You’ve been profiting from the war, an’ everybody knows it,” the bluejacket growled, displaying the usual Vale attitude toward the clan. “What’re you carrying?”

“Soap, scents, silks, leatherwork, and medicines,” Dancer said, resting a proprietary hand on his saddlebags.

That much was true. They planned to deliver those goods to a buyer in Ardenscourt to help pay for their schooling and keep.

“Lessee.” The guardsman unstrapped the panniers on the first pony and pawed through the goods inside. The scent of sandal-wood and pine wafted up.

“What about weapons or amulets?” he demanded. “Any magical pieces?”

Dancer lifted an eyebrow. “There’s no market for magical goods in Arden,” he said. “The Church of Malthus forbids it. And we don’t deal in weapons. Too risky.”

The sergeant gazed at their faces, his brow puckered with puzzlement. Han kept his eyes fixed on the ground. “I dunno,” the guardsman said. “You both got blue eyes. You don’t look much like clan to me.”

“We’re of mixed blood,” Dancer said. “Adopted into the camps as babies.”

“You was stole, more like,” the sergeant said. “Just like the princess heir. The Maker have mercy on her.”

“What about the princess heir?” Dancer said. “We haven’t heard.”

“She’s disappeared,” the sergeant said. He seemed to be one of those people who loved sharing bad news. “Some say she run off. Me, I say there’s no way she would’ve left on her own.”

So that’s it, Han thought, happying up a little. This extra care at the border had nothing at all to do with them.

But the bluejacket wasn’t done with them. He looked around as if to make sure he had backup, then said, “Some say she was took by your people. By the copperheads.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Dancer said. “The Princess Raisa’s of clan blood herself by her father, and she fostered at Demonai Camp for three years.”

The bluejacket snorted. “Well, she’s not in the capital, they know that,” he said. “She might come this way; that’s why we’re checking everybody who comes through. The queen is offering a big reward for anyone that finds her.”

“What does she look like?” Dancer asked, like he was sniffing at that big reward.

“She’s a mix- blood too,” the bluejacket said, “but I hear she’s pretty, just the same. She’s small, with long dark hair and green eyes.”

Han was ambushed by a memory of green- eyed Rebecca Morley, who’d walked into Southbridge Guardhouse and wrested three members of the Ragger street gang from Mac Gillen’s hands. That description would fit Rebecca. And a thousand other girlies.

Since his life had fallen apart, Han hadn’t thought of Rebecca. Much.

The sergeant finally decided he’d held them up long enough. “All right, then, go on. Better watch yourselves south of Delphi. The fighting’s fierce down there.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Dancer was saying, when a new voice cut into the conversation, sharp and cold as a knife blade.

“What’s this all about, Sergeant? What’s the delay?”

Han looked up to see a girlie about his own age, bulling her horse through the crowd of foot travelers around the gate like she didn’t care if she trampled a few.

He couldn’t help staring. She looked like no girlie he’d ever seen before. Her mane of platinum hair was caught into a single long braid that extended to her waist, accented by a streak of red that ran the entire length. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were the color of cottonwood fluff, and her eyes a pale, porcelain blue, like a rain- washed sky. She was surrounded by a nimbus of light— evidence of unchanneled power.

She rode a gray flatlander stallion as blueblooded as she was, sitting tall in the saddle as if to extend her already considerable height. Her angular features looked familiar. It wasn’t a beautiful face, but you wouldn’t soon forget it. Especially when she had a scowl planted on it. Like now.

Her short jacket and divided riding skirts were made of fine goods, trimmed in leather. The wizard stoles draped over her shoulders bore the stooping falcon insignia, a falcon with a song-bird in its talons, and a glowing amulet hung from a heavy gold chain around her neck.

Han shuddered, his body reacting before his slow- cranking mind. The stooping falcon. But that signia belonged to . . .

“I— I’m sorry, Lady Bayar,” the sergeant stuttered, his forehead pebbled with sweat despite the cool air. “I was just questioning these traders. Making sure, my lady.”

Bayar. That’s who the girl reminded Han of— Micah Bayar. He’d only seen the High Wizard’s son once, the day Han had taken the amulet that had changed his life forever. Who was she to Micah? She looked about the same age. Sister? Cousin?

“Take hold of your amulet,” Dancer murmured to Han, sliding his hand under his deerskin jacket. “It’ll draw off the power so maybe they won’t notice your aura.”

Han nodded, gripping the serpent flashpiece under his jacket.

“We’re looking for a girl, you idiot,” Lady Bayar was saying, her pale eyes flicking over Han and Dancer. “A dark, dwarfish sort of girl. Why are you wasting time on these two copperheads?” she added, using the Vale name for clanfolk.

The two guards gripping Han’s and Dancer’s horses hastily let go.

“Fiona. Mind what you say.” Another wizard reined in behind Lady Bayar, an older boy with straw- colored hair and a body already fleshy with excess. His twin wizard stoles carried a thistle signia.

“What?” Fiona glared at him, and he squirmed like a puppy under her gaze.

He’s either sweet on her or afraid of her, Han thought. Maybe both.

“Fiona, please.” The young wizard cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t describe the Princess Raisa as dwarfish. In fact, the princess is rather—”

“If not dwarfish, then what?” Fiona broke in. “Stumpy? Stunted? Scrubby?”

“Well, I—”

“And she is dark, is she not? Rather swarthy, in fact, due to her mixed blood. Admit it, Wil, she is.” Fiona did not seem to take well to being corrected.

Han fought to keep the surprise off his face. He was no fan of the queen and her line, either, but he’d never expect to hear such talk from one of the Bayars.

Fiona rolled her eyes. “I don’t know what my brother sees in her. Surely you’re a more discerning judge of women.” She smiled at Wil, turning on the charm, and Han could see why the wizardling was taken with her.

Wil flushed deep pink. “I just think we should show some respect,” he whispered, leaning close so the sergeant couldn’t hear. “She is the heir to the Gray Wolf throne.”

Dancer edged his pony forward, hoping to pass on by while the jinxflingers were embroiled in their debate. Han pressed his knees against Ragger’s sides and followed after, keeping his head down, his face turned away. They were past the wizards, entering the gate, almost clean away, when . . .

“You there! Hold on.”

It was Fiona Bayar. Han swore silently, then put on his street face and turned in his saddle to find her staring at him.

“Look at me, boy!” she commanded.

Han looked up, directly into her porcelain blue eyes. The amulet sizzled in his fingers, and some devil spirit made him lift his chin and say, “I’m not a boy, Lady Bayar. Not anymore.”

Fiona sat frozen, staring at him, her reins clutched in one hand. The long column of her throat jumped as she swallowed. “No,” she said, running her tongue over her lips. “You’re not a boy. And you don’t sound like a copperhead, either.”

Wil reached over and touched her arm, as if trying to regain her attention. “Do you know this . . . trader, Fiona?” he asked, contempt trickling through his voice.

But she kept staring at Han. “You’re dressed like a trader,” she whispered, almost to herself. “You’re in copperhead garb, yet you have an aura.” She looked down at her own glowing hands, then up at him. “Blood and bones, you have an aura.”

Han glanced down at himself, and saw, to his horror, that the magic blazing through him was excruciatingly apparent, even in the afternoon light. If anything, he was brighter than usual, power glittering under his skin like sunlight on water.

But the amulet was supposed to quench it, to take it up. Maybe, in times of trouble, he spouted more magic than the piece could manage.

“It’s nothing,” Dancer said quickly. “Comes of handling magical objects at the clan markets. Sort of rubs off sometimes. It doesn’t last.”

Han blinked at his friend, impressed. Dancer had developed a talent for “amusing the law,” as they’d say in Ragmarket.

Dancer gripped Ragger’s bridle, trying to tug the horse forward. “Now, much as we’d love to stay and answer jinxflinger questions, we need to move along if we don’t want to sleep in the woods.”

Fiona ignored Dancer. She continued to stare at Han, eyes narrowed, head tilted. She sucked in a breath and sat up even straighter. “Take off your hat,” she commanded.

“We answer to the queen, jinxflinger. Not to you,” Dancer said. “Come on, Hunts Alone,” he growled.

Han kept his eyes fixed on Fiona, his hand on his amulet. His skin prickled as magic and defiance buzzed through him like brandy. Slowly, deliberately, he grasped his cap with his free hand and ripped it off, shaking his hair free. The wind pouring down through Marisa Pines Pass ruffled it, lifting it off his forehead.

“Take a message to Lord Bayar,” Han said. “Stay out of my way, or your whole family goes down.”

Fiona stared. For a moment she couldn’t seem to get any words out. Finally she croaked, “Alister. You’re Cuffs Alister. But . . . you’re a wizard. That can’t be.”

“Surprise,” Han said. Standing tall in his stirrups, he gripped his amulet with one hand and extended the other. His fingers twisted into a jinx as if they had a mind of their own, and magical words poured unbidden from his mouth.

The road bulged and buckled as a hedge of thorns erupted from the dirt, forming a prickled wall between Han and Dancer and the other wizards. It was chest- high on the horses in a matter of seconds.

Startled, Han ripped his hand free of the flashpiece, wiping his hand on his leggings as if he could rid it of traces of magic. His head swam, then cleared. He looked over at Dancer, who was glaring at him like he couldn’t believe his eyes and ears.

Fiona’s tongue finally freed itself. She screamed, “It’s him! It’s Cuffs Alister! He tried to murder the High Wizard! Seize him!”

Nobody moved. The wall of thorns continued to grow, stretching spined branches into the sky. The bluejackets gawked at the trader who’d turned into a would- be murderer that pulled thorn hedges out of the air.

Dancer swung his arm in a broad arc, sending flame spiraling in all directions. The hedge smoked, then caught fire. Ragger reared, trying to shake Han off. The guardsmen flung themselves to the dirt, covering their heads, moaning in fear.

Han slammed his heels into Ragger’s sides, and the startled pony charged forward through the gate, followed closely by Dancer, flat against his pony’s back, hair flying. Ahead of them, travelers pitched themselves out of the way, diving into ditches on either side of the road. Behind them, Han could hear shouted orders and trumpets blaring.

Crossbows sounded, the guardsmen firing blindly over the gatehouse. Han pressed his head against Ragger’s neck to make a smaller target.

Fiona shouted, “Take him alive, you idiots! My father wants him alive!” After that there were no more crossbows, which was a blessing because the road between the border and Delphi was broad and gently sloping. Once their pursuers made it over or around Han’s barrier, he and Dancer would make pretty targets.

Han looked back in time to see Fiona blast a ragged hole through the blazing hedge. The two wizards burst through, followed by a triple of unenthusiastic mounted guardsmen. The bluejackets likely had no desire to come up against anyone who could fling flame and thorns.

“Here they come,” Han shouted, urging Ragger to greater speed.

“Guess they’ve decided to get in your way,” Dancer called back.

Han knew Dancer would have plenty to say later. If there was a later.

The wizards were already gaining on them, eating up their lead. They’d eventually catch up, with a broad road before them and their long- legged flatland horses giving them the advantage of speed. There was no way he and Dancer could win against two better- trained wizards. Not to mention a whole triple of blue jackets.

What came over you, Alister? Han said to himself. Whatever faults he had, stupidity wasn’t one of them. It might be tempting to confront Fiona Bayar, but he’d never entangle Dancer in a grudge match he was likely to lose.

Han remembered how the magic had felt coursing through him like strong drink. And like strong drink, it had made him lose his head. Likely it was because he didn’t know what he was doing. Tightening his grip on his reins, he resisted taking hold of the amulet again.

“We’ve got to get off this road,” he shouted, spitting out dust. “Is there someplace we can turn off ?”

“How should I know?” Dancer shouted back. He looked ahead, squinting against the declining sun. “It’s been a while.” They thundered on another half mile, and then Dancer called, “You know, there is a place up ahead where we might lose them.”

Delphi Road followed a clear trout stream, sharing the valley it had carved through the declining Spirits to the south. Dancer looked off to the left, seeking a landmark. Han rode up beside him, trying to maintain their breakneck pace.

“Along here Kanwa Creek turns west, and the road runs due south,” Dancer said. “We can turn off and follow the creek and maybe lose them. It’s a narrow canyon, rocky and steep. Made for ponies, not for flatlander horses. Look for a rock shaped like a sleeping bear.”

The turnoff couldn’t come too soon. As the sound of pursuit grew louder, Han turned his head and saw that the two wizards were now only three or four pony lengths behind them. When Fiona saw Han looking, she stood in her stirrups and dropped her reins. Fumbling at her neck, she extended her other hand.

Flame rocketed toward Dancer. Had Fiona not been on horseback, it might have struck true. At it was, it seared Wicked’s shoulder. The pony screamed and veered to the left, crashing into Ragger and nearly launching all of them from the road.

Han struggled to keep his pony from going down, while Dancer wrenched Wicked’s head back into the straight.

The message was clear: Fiona Bayar wanted Han alive, but Dancer was fair game.

Han yanked his blade free, expecting to find their pursuers right on top of them. When he looked back, he was surprised to see Fiona and Wil falling behind, fighting to regain control of their rearing and plunging horses. The bluejackets bunched up behind them, trying to avoid colliding with the two wizards. It seemed the wizards’ blueblood mounts weren’t trained to carry riders launching flaming attacks.

“There it is!” Dancer pointed ahead to where a massive granite boulder bulked into the road, squeezing it from the left. It did, indeed, resemble a sleeping bear, its head resting on two massive paws. As if recognizing it as a sanctuary, Wicked surged forward, Han and Ragger following close behind.

The bluejackets and charmcasters must have got themselves sorted out, because once again Han could hear horses pounding after them.

Han and Dancer swerved around the promontory of rock, temporarily out of sight of their pursuers. Just on the other side, the ground fell away into dizzyingly steep rock terraces. Kanwa Creek plunged over a series of cascades between sheer stone walls and out of sight. The roar of falling water echoed up through the canyon.

“You mean to go down there?” Han looked around for other options. Ragger being his first horse, he didn’t want to see him lamed his first week out. Not to mention stumbling and sending the two of them head over heels into the chasm.

Dancer urged Wicked down the first rock- strewn slope. “I’ve been this way before. I’d rather risk Kanwa Canyon than Lady Bayar.”

“All right,” Han said. “Ride ahead, since you can move faster. I’ll catch up.” Han reasoned that Fiona was less likely to fire if he brought up the rear.

The good thing was, nobody would come this way if they had any other choice. Especially on flatlander horses.

Dancer and Wicked disappeared around a curve in the canyon downslope, descending recklessly fast. Dancer and his pony had been together for two years. Han gave Ragger his head and let him follow after Wicked at his own pace, fighting the temptation to rush him forward. Han was keen to be out of sight before the wizards rounded Sleeping Bear Rock and began launching flame at them from above.

Ragger picked his way sure- footedly down the steep canyon, sending small stones sailing into the abyss below. The pony pressed so close against the stone wall that Han’s right leg scraped against rock, ripping his leggings and taking off the top layer of skin.

When they reached creek level, the pony navigated a series of waterfalls, then splashed aggressively through the shallows after Dancer, eager to overtake his rival.

Han looked back and upslope. High above, he saw two riders at the top of the canyon, their wizard auras framing them against the brighter sky. They were arguing; their loud voices funneled down the canyon.

Han guessed that Fiona was insisting they pursue Han and Dancer into the canyon, and Wil was arguing against it.

Good luck, Wil, Han thought, and heeled Ragger forward.

They descended through several more steep gorges, navigating ledges so narrow that Han felt like he was treading air. Don’t look down, he thought, keeping his eyes fixed on the path ahead. They made frustratingly slow progress compared to what they could have done on the road.

Han looked back often, but heard and saw nothing of pursuit. After several hours they stopped in a grassy meadow to water the exhausted horses. The sun had disappeared behind the tall peaks, the gloom under the trees thickened, and it grew cooler again, despite the lower altitude. Han didn’t look forward to navigating this trail in the dark.

It didn’t matter. They’d crossed the border, and for now, at least, it seemed they’d lost their pursuers.

Han flopped down on his belly and cupped his hands, scooping water out of the creek to drink. The water was clear and stunningly cold.

“What came over you back there?” Dancer demanded, squatting next to him and dipping his canteen to fill it. “We were nearly clear, and then you had to ruin it. Slipping across a border unrecognized isn’t exciting enough for you?”

Han wiped his mouth on his sleeve and settled back on his heels. “I don’t know why I did that. I can’t explain it.”

“You couldn’t keep your hat on?” Dancer recorked his canteen and splashed water into his face, rinsing away the road dust.

“It was like there was this backwash of power from the flash-piece,” Han said. “I don’t know if there’s something wrong with the magic I put into it, or if it’s because I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Demon- cursed, his mother had said. Maybe it was true.

The normally easygoing Dancer wasn’t done yet. In fact, he was just getting started. “You couldn’t keep your mouth shut? I’m calling you Glitterhair from now on. Or Talksalot.”

“I’m sorry,” Han said. He had nothing else to say. He couldn’t blame Dancer for being angry. It had been an unnecessary, foolhardy stunt. Dancer had never seen this side of him. It was like he’d gone back to his death- wish days as streetlord of the Raggers.

“Where did you learn to fling jinxes?” Dancer persisted. “You said you didn’t know anything about magic. You didn’t even know you were a wizard until a couple of weeks ago. Here I’ve been trying to teach you what little I know, and then you go and conjure up a thorn hedge. Maybe you should be teaching me.”

“I don’t know how I did that,” Han said. “It just kind of happened.” Dancer must think he’d been holding out on him, that he didn’t want to share what he knew. When Dancer said nothing, Han added, “I didn’t know you knew how to throw flame.”

“I don’t,” Dancer said, his voice tight with betrayal. “It just spurts out like that when I’m scared to death.” He stood, smacking the dust off his leggings, and left to see to the horses.

Han pulled his amulet out of his neckline and turned it in his hands, examining it for clues. He had to learn how to control the thing. Otherwise, there was no guarantee this wouldn’t happen again.

Now the Bayars knew he was a wizard, and that he was heading south. At least they wouldn’t know what he was up to or where he was going. Han rather liked the notion of the Bayars wondering and worrying about where he’d surface next, and what he’d do when he did.

Chapter Three In The Autumn Damps

Raisa shivered and pulled her wool cloak more closely around her shoulders. Soggy with rain and glazed with ice, it probably weighed more than she did. She scooted closer to the fire, extending her frozen hands. Steam rose from the sodden fabric.

Maybe if she actually sat in the flames, she’d be warm again. She already smelled like a wet sheep toasted over a wood fire.

It had taken a week to cross the high country between Demonai Camp and the West Wall. A week of freezing weather and early autumn snows, of huddling together in tents while the wind howled outside. Raisa had foolishly assumed that the weather would improve as they descended toward Leewater, the ocean to the west she’d never seen.

In that she’d been mistaken. The early high country snows turned to sleet and icy rains— relentless storms that rendered the trails treacherous. They’d been camped for a week in this miserable between-place. They’d pitched their tents in a small box canyon that blocked the worst of the winds, and waited for the weather to clear.

It would have been easier traveling by way of the Dyrnne -water Valley, which ran through a break in the Spirits from Fellsmarch to the West Wall. But there was too great a chance they’d be intercepted on the easy road.

“Lady Rebecca?”

It took Raisa a moment to realize she was being addressed. When she looked up, the cadet Hallie Talbot loomed over her, extending a mug of hot tea.

“Call me Morley,” Raisa said automatically, accepting the tea and sipping the hot liquid. She shouldn’t allow Hallie to wait on her, but it took more strength than she possessed to say no.

Rebecca Morley was her alias, meant to hide her from those hunting the runaway princess heir of the Fells. The other Gray Wolves believed she was a daughter of the minor nobility whose parents had bribed her way into the military academy at Oden’s Ford. Nobody knew who she really was but her friend Amon Byrne.

Early on, Raisa had asked Hallie to cut her hair, to alter her looks. The cadet had obliged using her belt knife. Hallie’s skills as a barber were dubious. The result was a ragged cap that reached to Raisa’s earlobe on one side and her chin on the other.

Raisa’s hair had always been a point of vanity for her— long and thick, a wavy mass falling nearly to her waist. It was her best physical feature. She closed her eyes and extended her neck, remembering how Magret used to brush it with a boar- bristle hairbrush. . . .

“You’d be warmer and dryer in your tent, my—Morley,” Hallie said, breaking in on her thoughts once again. “You’ll catch your death out here.”

Raisa bit back a sharp retort. In camp, it seemed they were constantly on top of one another. Everything was difficult— from starting a fire to using the privy. Boredom and the constant close contact made them all snappish.

Well, it made Raisa snappish, at least. The others took it in stride.

“If I spend any more time staring at four canvas walls, I’ll go mad,” Raisa grumbled.

At first she’d shared a tent with Amon, Mick Bricker, and Talia Abbott. It was three per tent, with Raisa making the fourth since she was extra. That was fair in a triple of nine plus one. It had been cramped but cozy.

Then she’d awakened in the middle of the night to find herself snuggled up against Amon, one arm flung across his chest, nose buried in his wool undershirt. As children, they’d slept that way a hundred times.

This time it was different. Raisa crashed into consciousness, suddenly aware of his familiar scent, the thump of his heart under her arm, his rigid body. Amon lay on his back, still as stone, as though she were a viper who might strike if he twitched. He was jammed against the wall of the tent, eyes wide open, hands fisted, sweat beading on his forehead. He took quick, shallow breaths like he was in pain.

When he saw she was awake, he disentangled himself and stalked out of the tent.

After that, he’d swapped Mick with Hallie and moved into one of the other tents, leaving the three female guards together.

It wasn’t like she’d rolled onto him on purpose. It wasn’t like she’d attacked him.

He was inconsistent. Half the time he insisted she act like any soldier, the other half he was making special rules that applied only to her. She never went on patrol, and she never stood watch alone. He told the others it was because she was a first- year cadet and the others more experienced. He’d turned into the worst kind of bully.

They had plenty of food, but it was nasty stuff— hard biscuits and dried meat of undetermined origin, cheese going moldy in the damp. The nuts and dried fruit weren’t bad, but there was only so much of that Raisa could stomach. At the middays, if she didn’t finish her portion, Amon would nag her until she did.

“You’re losing weight, Morley. Up here, you need insulation. Once we start moving, you’ll need to keep up. I don’t want you fainting away from hunger. No one’s going to carry you, skin and bones or not.” And so on.

So what if she lost weight? Anyone would, under the circumstances.

They drilled every morning. Walked for miles in a large circle around the camp, in all kinds of weather. Every day, Amon assigned someone to match swords with Raisa, to work on her stance, her stamina, her form. Everyone took a turn but Amon Byrne. He probably knew what a mismatch that would be.

Still, the bouts were always humiliating. And exhausting. Everyone in the Wolfpack had a longer reach than she did. They could stand back in total safety and clip her at their leisure, smack her with the flat of their blades while she was kept constantly moving. It was like having eight big brothers and sisters to pick on her.

“If you’re going to be a cadet,” Amon would say, “you’ll be competing with people who’ve been fencing since they could hold a stick.” People such as Amon, who’d always known he would be a soldier like his father.

Maybe he wanted to work her hard enough to wear her down, to make her give up the idea of hiding among the warrior cadets at Wien House. His idea was that she’d stay in the temple close, cloistered with the dedicates, gardening and reading and studying healing and doing needlework with the speakers.

There, she’d be less likely to be recognized by students from home. Few Fellsians attended the Temple School at Oden’s Ford. There were fine ones closer to home.

Raisa knew mingling with the other students was risky, but she’d accept the risk. She’d spent enough time in a cloister. She wanted to learn about the real world.

Raisa set her mug down on a rock, wrapped her arms around her trousered legs, and rested her chin on her knees. Sweet Hanalea in chains, she was tired of this.

Hallie was on watch in camp. Talia Abbott was on patrol, looking for trouble over a three- mile radius. Everyone else huddled in the other two tents. Except for Amon, who was missing, as usual.

Amon used the name Morley like a stick to keep her at bay. To bury the memory of the childhood they’d spent together, finishing each other’s sentences, using their assets and talents to support and defend each other.

That younger Amon had taught her to hold her own in the physical, rough-and-tumble world outside of court. He’d taught her the skills her mother had neglected— riding bareback, long-bow archery, and a dangerous form of soccer played from horseback. He’d taught her tavern games— nicks and bones, darts, battle cards, and dicing.

Amon had been the conduit through which the skills he learned from his father and older cousins and on the streets of Fellsmarch were passed to Raisa. They’d sparred with wooden training swords. He showed her how to throw a knife and hone a real blade. When Raisa was twelve, he’d taught her how to disable an opponent in a street fight as soon as he learned it himself.

Raisa had her own talents to contribute to their childhood enterprises. People naturally deferred to her lineage, granting her an authority she didn’t necessarily have. With Raisa to front them, they could get away with anything.

Of course we’re allowed to ride out alone, she’d tell the stableman with breezy confidence. Saddle up Devilspawn and Thunderheart. Yes, those two. Yes, the queen approves. Do you really want to bother her?

Of course Amon is invited to the party/ allowed to help himself in the pantry/ allowed to choose weapons from the royal armory/can ride any horse he wants.

They were lucky they’d survived to their naming. But they’d had fun.

Then Amon had turned thirteen, the age when warrior cadets were named and sent to Wien House, the military academy at Oden’s Ford. Raisa had gone to Demonai Camp, to be fostered with her father’s family. They’d been apart more than three years.

Amon had returned to Fellsmarch at seventeen, tall, lean, and handsome, an intriguing combination of worldly soldier and familiar friend. Now Raisa wanted him to teach her different things, or to learn them along with her, but he was being unco-operative. A few tantalizing kisses— that was all they’d had. At first he’d seemed interested, but now . . .

There was no chance of a marriage between them. Her mother had made it clear that she disapproved of a dalliance with an officer of the Guard. Was that why Raisa was so fixed on him? Or was it because she was used to getting what she wanted?

That couldn’t be it. The threat of a forced marriage to a wizard had sent her into exile. A marriage that violated the Nming—the agreement that had ended the wars between wizards and clans. Some days it seemed that no one got less of what they wanted than the princess heir of the Fells.

Still, Raisa’s heart beat faster whenever she got close to Amon Byrne. She noticed everything about him— the way he moved, the way he sat on a horse, the way he tilted his head and chewed on his lower lip when working a problem, the way he rubbed his stubbled chin at the end of the day.

Whenever he turned those gray eyes on her, the blood rushed madly around her body, heating every part of her . . . when she wasn’t fighting with him. They did a lot of that, lately. Some -times it seemed he provoked her on purpose.

And now he was avoiding her. She was convinced of it. He left camp nearly every day for several hours. She had no idea where he went, but she couldn’t help thinking it was because of her. She felt restless and tired of sitting around, freezing to death.

At court, it seemed like she never even had time to think. Out here, she thought too much. Chewed on things like a dog with a rawhide.

Maybe he thinks of you as a friend, she thought. He doesn’t want to ruin that friendship by pushing it further.

Well, you are friends, but lately he scarcely talks to you.

Or maybe he’s interested, but views you as unattainable. He’s afraid if he makes a move he’ll be refused or humiliated.

Or maybe it’s the blasted Byrne honor getting in the way. He finds you attractive, but he knows there’s no future in it, so he’s not going to get entangled.

He just doesn’t know how to say any of that. He’s never been good with words.

Raisa was used to speaking her mind. She wasn’t flighty Missy Hakkam, mooning over every officer in a uniform, dreaming of marriages to foppish nobles with big palaces and tiny brains.

I’ll go and find him, she thought. We’ll have a frank discussion, no tears or drama, and get this settled. But she needed to find a way to slip off on her own.

“I guess I will rest in my tent for a while,” she told Talbot.

Hallie grunted approval and laid another log on the fire.

Leaving her empty mug where it was, Raisa crawled into her tent, which was only fractionally warmer than outside. She found her baldric and strapped it on. Crouching at the rear of the tent, she thrust her sword under the tent wall. Then she flopped down on her back and slid underneath the rear wall and back out into the rain.

Once on her feet, she shoved her sword into the baldric. Keeping at the back of the tents, she walked toward the entrance of the canyon until she reached the privy tent, the one farthest away from the others. She waited until Hallie was occupied stacking firewood, then slipped through the border of trees and out of the canyon.

Raisa had studied tracking with the Demonai warriors. She scanned the ground until she spotted boot prints amid the ruck of leaves. And there, another, where water collected and froze at a low place. She picked out a path beaten into the slushy ground from Amon’s daily trips to wherever he went.

Raisa followed his trail for a mile or so, wiping rain from her face and blinking ice from her lashes. The path followed a clear, half- frozen stream for a while, then veered sharply off to the west, climbing into an aspen forest, ending in an upland meadow. Raisa stopped amid the trees edging the meadow and peered out.

Amon stood centered in the meadow, stripped to breeches and undershirt. His sword belt and other gear were arranged in a neat pile at the periphery of the field.

He held a long staff in his two hands, and he was in constant motion, bending, twisting, circling around, the staff a whistling blur as he swung it over his head, swept it forward, lifted it high, and skimmed the ground. It was an elaborate dance, and he’d clearly been at it for some time. His dark hair lay in wet strands on his forehead, and his skin steamed in the chilly air.

Raisa stared at him— at the muscles rippling across his chest and his corded arms— and all her good intentions flew out of her head. He was beautiful and deadly, totally unself-conscious. He went at it as if determined to work himself to exhaustion. He didn’t look like he was enjoying himself. More like it was punishment. She could hear the rasp of his breathing from where she stood.

How in the name of the Lady could he be coatless? It was freezing out. Raisa shivered, the cold penetrating deeper now that she’d stopped moving.

She stood (almost literally) frozen for another long moment while her courage drained away. This was wrong, her spying on him. Whatever was going on, he meant it to be private. She’d find another time to speak her mind. She’d go back to camp, sneak into her tent, and stay there until he returned.

You’re just a coward, she thought.

But before she could move, Amon paused in the midst of a sequence, the staff horizontal in front of him, his head cocked. He flipped the quarterstaff to a vertical position, turned, and looked directly at where Raisa was hiding.

“Rai?” he whispered.

Bones. How did he know? Timidly, she stepped out of the woods. They stood staring at each other across an expanse of frozen grass and stumpy shrubs.

“I came looking for you,” she said finally. “I wondered what you were doing.”

“You came by yourself ? Where’s Hallie?” he demanded, looking around as if the other cadet might be hiding in the brush, too.

Hallie’s supposed to be watching me, Raisa thought. So much for being just another soldier. “I slipped away. She thought I was in my tent.”

“You shouldn’t have come. It’s not safe for you to be out here on your own.”

“If it’s not safe for me, it’s not safe for you,” Raisa said. “Aren’t you cold?”

“No. I’m not,” Amon said, as if it hadn’t occurred to him till then.

The silence coalesced around them once more.

“That’s impressive. What you were doing,” she said. “What is that called?”

He studied the weapon in his hands as if he’d forgotten it was there. He seemed absent, distracted. “I learned it from the Waterwalkers. They call it sticking. Their staffs are made of ironwood— it grows in the marshes. They don’t use metal weapons, but a weighted staff is deadly in the hands of a stick-master.” He shut his mouth, as if to cut off the flood of words— a whole month’s worth for him.

“Were there Waterwalkers at the academy?” Raisa asked, surprised. “Was that where you learned it?”

Amon shook his head. “No. I fostered in the Fens for six months during one of my terms at Wien House. I was sponsored by the marshlord, name of Cadri.”

“Is this what you do every day? When you leave?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Pretty much. I . . . ah . . . train in different ways. It helps relieve the tension.”

Tension? Raisa squinted at him. It was miserable, true, what with the rain and ice and wind and bad food and all. But it was more tedious than tense, in Raisa’s opinion. She almost wished something exciting would happen, to break the boredom.

Was he really worried about an attack? That seemed unlikely, despite his warnings. They were still in the Fells, and Demonai Camp kept this area well patrolled. Besides, who would venture out in this weather if they didn’t have to?

Perhaps it was just the stress of knowing his father was counting on him to keep the princess heir safe; of not knowing what would happen when they reached Oden’s Ford.

It had been too long since they’d had any fun. Raisa yanked off her gloves and stuffed them inside her coat, then strode toward him.

Amon flipped the staff horizontal, making a barrier between them. “We’d better get back to camp,” he said, jerking his head in that direction.

Raisa stopped a foot away and looked up at him. “Amon. Could you teach me?”

“Teach you what?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

“That battle dance. How to fight with a staff.” She took hold of the staff, slippery with ice. She couldn’t compete with his swordplay, but she could learn this.

It would be like the old days. Amon had been her first weapons master.

He shook his head. “It’s too heavy for you.”

“You can take most of the weight. Just show me the moves. If it works out, I can always get something lighter.” She could see how it could work, using the staff. Being small wouldn’t matter so much when she had a long staff to leverage her reach and the strength of her blows. Once she had the moves down, any kind of staff would serve. With a reinforced staff, she could fight off a swordsman. And the weight of it would build up her shoulders and arms.

“You might get hurt.” Amon seemed to be looking everywhere but at her.

“I’m not breakable,” Raisa snapped. “I’ll try not to hurt you, either.”

He cleared his throat. “I’m just . . . it’s not a good idea for us to have a go at each other.”

“Oh, really? Why not?”

“Just trust me, all right?”

Amon had never been one to be threatened by capable girls. And he’d never taken it easy on her in physical competitions because she was female. Any more than she gave him quarter in those areas in which she excelled. Was he angry that she wanted to be part of his military life? Maybe it had been a relief for him to be away from her, to go down to Oden’s Ford and live with less demanding people.

“I’m stronger than you think,” Raisa insisted. She should be, after all that drilling. “Here. We don’t have to fight against each other. Let’s try this.” She ducked under the horizontal staff so she was inside the circle of his arms, between him and the staff. She turned her back to him, gripped the staff with her two hands, positioning them beside Amon’s. “Now, give me some of the weight and let’s try some moves.”

Amon released a long breath of frustration. And resignation. Another moment, and she felt the weight of the staff in her hands. Amon spoke in her ear, and she could feel his warm breath on her neck. “Turn to the right, swing it up high, down to the ground, thrust forward. Turn again, fast to the left, now bend at the waist.”

It was like an odd sort of front- to- back dance where you couldn’t see your partner’s face, only hear his voice. It was surprisingly graceful, anchored as they were, connected by the weight of the staff. Amon seemed to be taking special pains not to slam into her. His arms pressed against her shoulders, though, and she felt the heat of his body against her back, driving away the cold.

She heard only the whistle of the staff, the crunch of icy grass beneath their feet, the sound of their breathing. Her skin tingled, anticipating each contact between them.

Little by little, Amon gave her more of the weight. Raisa struggled to keep the staff moving, dragging in cold air in ragged gasps, sweating inside her heavy clothing.

Then it happened. She slipped on a patch of ice, Amon tried to adjust, their legs became tangled together, and they fell. He came down on top of her, but managed to brace himself and so avoid flattening her. She heard a smack as the quarterstaff landed some distance away. So they didn’t get a self- administered clubbing, at least.

Raisa giggled, and then she was laughing, snorting with mirth, helpless to free herself. “W . . . we are a dangerous pair, Amon Byrne.” She pressed her hands against his chest, and then noticed that he wasn’t laughing. His gray eyes were roiled with frustration. Sliding his hands under her head, he kissed her, pressing her hard against the frozen ground. She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him back.

By the Lady, she thought. I do love kissing Amon Byrne.

He ripped himself free and sat up. “Blood of the demon,” he said, his face ashen. He bent double, looking almost ill. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. We can’t do this.”

Your Highness? Raisa blinked at him, thinking it was the best thing that had happened in a very long time. But just then a strange voice broke in on them.

“Step away from the princess heir.” This coincided with the metallic whisper of swords sliding free of their scabbards.

Raisa whipped around, yanking her own sword free, ending in a low crouch. A dozen horsemen had emerged from the trees, all wearing the camouflage scout uniform of the Queen’s Guard. One wore a corporal’s scarf tied around his neck. He looked familiar.

Amon sprinted for the edge of the woods, where his sword and clothing lay, but one of the horsemen wheeled his horse and charged toward him, swinging a large club with a spike at the end.

“Amon!” Raisa shouted.

Amon launched himself sideways. The club missed his head but slammed into his shoulder, sending him flying to the ground.

The other guards dismounted. Two of them grabbed Amon’s arms and hauled him upright. Blood dripped from the wound in his shoulder and spattered the frozen ground.

The corporal dug in his carry bag and made a great show of pulling out a small, framed portrait. He looked from the portrait to Raisa and nodded with satisfaction, then tucked it back away. “Your hair’s different, but it’s you all right,” he said.

“What is the meaning of this?” Raisa demanded.

“Calm down, Your Highness,” the corporal said. “You’re safe now.”

“I was safe before, Corporal,” Raisa said, advancing on Amon and his captors, her sword extended in front of her. It was foolish to confront a dozen armed men with one sword, but she was seized by the desire to cut someone. “It’s only now I feel in danger. Release Corporal Byrne immediately and explain yourselves.”

“We saw Corporal Byrne attacking you, Your Highness,” the officer said, sliding a warning look at his comrades. “Who would have thought it, and him the son of the captain of the Queen’s Guard.”

“He was not attacking me,” Raisa said. “We were practicing self- defense.”

“Never you mind, Your Highness,” the corporal said. “It must have been a scary thing, to be carried off by a member of your own guard. But he won’t harm you no more. We’ll make sure of that.” He smiled chillingly, and Raisa suddenly remembered where she had seen the corporal before. He was Robbie Sloat, who’d been one of the guardsmen at Southbridge Guard -house the day she and Amon had rescued the Raggers.

“We was on our way to Demonai Camp, to look for you, Princess,” Sloat said. “Now we don’t have to go there at all.”

Sloat barked out orders, and the other guards collected Amon’s sword and his belt dagger and tied his hands behind his back. They took Raisa’s sword, but didn’t bother to search her or bind her hands.

How had Sloat ended up out here in the rough, close to the West Wall?

Whatever he was doing here, she knew it meant they were in terrible trouble.

Sloat faced Amon, ignoring Raisa. “So, Corporal Byrne, I know you’re not out here on foot. Where’d you come from? Where are your horses and who else is with you?”

Amon said nothing, his face hard and set, and an awful, blank look in his eyes.

Sloat slammed his fist into Amon’s midsection, and Amon doubled over, the air whooshing out of him. After a long moment, he straightened, but still said nothing.

“Corporal Sloat,” Raisa said, and enjoyed seeing him flinch when she spoke his name. “Just stop it. I can tell you what you want to know.”

“No, Your Highness,” Amon said, shaking his head. “Don’t tell him anything.”

“We brought three salvos with us, Highlanders loyal to the line,” Raisa said, looking Sloat in the eyes. “I expect they’ll be here any minute.”

Sloat laughed for show, but Raisa noticed he glanced around just the same.

Raisa pressed her point. “When my mother hears what you’ve done, you will find out what vengeance means to a Gray Wolf queen.”

Startled into honest speech, Sloat blurted, “Oh, yeah? Well, we an’t taking you back to the queen. Least not right away.”

“What?” It was Raisa’s turn to be startled. “Why not? What’s this all about?”

Sloat smiled. “Never you mind, Your Highness. We’re taking you back to Lieutenant Gillen, and he says the queen’ll be no problem.”

“Gillen? Mac Gillen?” That was the greasy- haired, snaggletoothed sergeant of the Queen’s Guard who had tortured prisoners at Southbridge Guardhouse and threatened to put her on the rack. And for that he was made lieutenant?

Raisa’s mind raced. Gillen was in Southbridge, wasn’t he? What could he possibly have to do with . . . Never mind. Gillen was nasty, but he was just the muscle. Somebody else was yanking his strings. Sloat must be convinced he’d never hang for it, or he wouldn’t be telling her this much.

She glanced at Amon, bloody and bound tightly, his arms still pinioned by two of the renegade guardsmen, who no doubt knew his reputation as a fighter. Raisa could tell from his intent and focused expression that he was trying to think of something, any way, to change these impossible odds.

Sloat yanked on his gloves. “All right, let’s get out of here,” he said. “You’ll ride double with me, Your Highness.” Seizing Raisa’s arm, he dragged her toward his horse.

“What about him?” one of the guards gripping Amon asked.

“Take him into the woods and kill him,” Sloat said. “We’ll ride on ahead.”

“You— wouldn’t— dare!” Raisa said, struggling to rip free.

“Well, yes, I would, Your Highness,” Sloat said, grinning, keeping tight hold on one wrist while he swung up onto his horse. “You see, Corporal Byrne went mad with desire and kidnapped the princess he was supposed to protect. When we tried to rescue you, he resisted and was killed. And you’re going to keep your mouth shut because you don’t want word to get out that you was out here carrying on with a soldier.” Looking pleased with the story he’d made up, Sloat leaned down and reached out his other hand, meaning to haul Raisa into the saddle in front of him.

When Sloat’s smug face appeared at eye level, Raisa stiffened her fingers and stabbed them into his eyes, a technique Amon had shown her all those many years ago. Sloat howled, backhanding her across the face with such force that she landed on the ground, the breath exploding from her lungs.

Raisa spat out blood from a split lip. The mounted corporal loomed high over her, rubbing his streaming eyes, his face purple with rage. Then he stiffened, eyes bulging, rage dissolving into surprise. He groped behind his back, flinched again, then toppled off his horse, narrowly missing Raisa. He ended with his head and shoulders on the ground, one foot caught in his stirrup. Two black- fletched arrows bristled his back.

Demonai arrows.

Bedlam ensued. Guards dove for cover, including Amon’s captors, who abandoned him at the center of the field. Horses ripped free of their tethers and plunged into the woods. Spooked by the body dragging at its stirrup, Sloat’s horse screamed and kicked, and Raisa had to roll one way, and then another, to avoid its flying hooves.

Running a zigzag course, Amon charged across the field and shouldered Sloat’s horse so it wouldn’t trample Raisa. “Go!” he shouted, jerking his head toward the trees. “Get under cover!”

He made too good a target standing there holding back the horse with his body. Raisa rolled to her feet and ran in a half-crouch to Amon. Pulling free her belt knife, she cut the cords binding Amon’s hands.

“They’re Demonai,” Raisa gasped into Amon’s ear. “The archers. On our side.”

More Demonai arrows arced over the meadow, and two more guards fell, one with an arrow sticking out of his throat. The attack was all the more frightening because the archers were silent, apparently invisible.

Amon pulled Raisa into the edge of the forest, shoving her up against a tree.

“Stay here,” he growled. Snatching up his quarterstaff, he waded into the meadow, swinging it at the renegades fleeing in all directions.

“Amon!” Raisa called. “Be careful.” She wasn’t at all sure the Demonai would distinguish between Amon and the rest of the guards.

It was all over in a matter of minutes. Amon stood alone in the clearing, breathing hard. All of the guards were down, four felled by Amon and his wicked staff.

Raisa quieted Sloat’s panicked horse and yanked the dead guardsman’s boot free of the stirrup. Shadows in the fringes of the woods coalesced and came forward, some dragging the bodies of the guards who’d fled into the trees. All at once there were a half dozen Demonai in the meadow, clad in their nearly invisible traveling cloaks.

Two of them walked toward Raisa. One, tall and raptor-eyed, she recognized as the warrior Reid Demonai, called Nightwalker. His shoulder- length hair was sectioned off into multiple plaits wrapped in colorful thread. Raisa had met him at Demonai, though he wasn’t in camp much. Only two years older than Raisa, he was already a legend, hotheaded and deadly, the object of much speculation by the girls in the camps.

In fact, he and Raisa had shared a brief romance during her time at Demonai Camp. But she’d found that a romance with Reid was like fighting a series of daily skirmishes in an ongoing war of egos.

The girl beside him looked to be about Raisa’s age, and she moved with an easy, long- legged grace that Raisa envied. Her head of dark curls hung free from thread wrappings. Though dressed in Demonai colors and fully armed, she did not wear the Demonai warrior amulet around her neck.

“Find out if any of them still live,” Reid said to the girl, who broke away to kneel beside the nearest fallen guardsman.

“Princess Raisa, how goes it with you?” Reid asked calmly, as if they were meeting at a harvest feast.

But his eyes gave him away. They glittered with excitement and feral joy. His face and clothing splattered with blue-jacket blood, the Demonai warrior looked elated, exhilarated by the recent battle. Nightwalker was much too fond of bloodshed.

“Did the Vale- dwellers harm you?” he asked, looking her up and down, taking in her cadet uniform. “I saw the guardsman strike you.” He reached out and ran his thumb along the corner of Raisa’s mouth, then wiped her blood on his leggings.

“I am well, Nightwalker,” Raisa said, licking her finger and rubbing her face. “Please accept my thanks for your service to the line.”

Reid inclined his head, accepting his due, his dark eyes riveted on her in a way that most girls found irresistible.

Raisa felt Amon’s presence beside her, and turned. He’d found his shirt and sword belt, and slid them on. Blood already soaked through from his wounded shoulder.

“Corporal Byrne, this is Reid Demonai, called Nightwalker,” Raisa said. “Corporal Byrne is a member of my personal guard,” she said to Reid.

“Son of Edon Byrne?” Reid asked. When Amon nodded, Reid said, “I know your father. An honest Valesman,” he said, as if that were a rare find.

“Do you have a healer with you?” Raisa asked. “Corporal Byrne is wounded.”

“There’s no need, Your Highness,” Amon said, expressionless. “It’s not serious.”

Reid’s gaze flickered from Raisa to Amon. “You fought well, Corporal,” Reid conceded. “Once you were— ah— free.”

The young warrior returned, having finished her survey. “All dead,” she said.

“Too bad,” Reid said. “I would have liked to have saved at least one for questioning.” He tilted his head toward the girl next to him. “This is Digging Bird of Marisa Pines Camp, a warrior apprentice. Her arrows took three of the enemy today.”

The girl bowed her head, her cheeks coloring.

Digging Bird has a bad case of Reid Demonitis, Raisa thought. “You fought very well,” she said, smiling at the warrior. “I’m sure it won’t be long before you carry the Demonai name and amulet.”

“Thank you for coming to our aid,” Amon said, the words propelled by his relentless honesty. “If not for you, I would be dead, and the princess heir a captive.”

Reid shrugged as if to say, it was nothing.

“Which raises a question,” Amon went on. “How did you happen to be here?”

“We often patrol this area,” Reid said. “Watching for jinxflingers and trespassers. The Guard presence in these parts has been rather thin.”

“Then you weren’t following us?” Amon asked.

Reid’s eyes narrowed. He glanced at Digging Bird, then back at Amon. “Well, yes. We were.” Raisa suspected he might have lied had the girl not been there as witness.

“We would have welcomed you to our fire,” Amon went on.

“We were watching over the princess heir,” Reid admitted without apology.

“Well then,” Amon said. “Good you were here.” He did not smile. “We should get back to camp,” he said, looking at Raisa. “Hallie may have missed you by now, and we’d better move on. Lieutenant Gillen may be nearby.”

“You would be welcome to be our guest at Demonai Camp, Briar Rose,” Reid said, using Raisa’s clan name. “We would be glad to offer escort.”

“We just came from there,” Raisa said. “We’re heading for Westgate. I’m leaving the Fells for now, until I can get things . . . sorted out with the queen.”

“Are you sure that’s wise? To leave the Spirits?” Reid raised an eyebrow.

Raisa felt a prickle of unease, the return of her earlier forebodings. “It’s not that I want to leave,” she said. “It’s just that right now it doesn’t seem wise to stay.”

“We can protect you, Your Highness. No one will touch you at Demonai.” He smiled and touched the longbow that slanted across his back. “No one should force you from your birthright. I urge you to seek the protection of the clans.”

Raisa bit back a harsh response. After all, Nightwalker had just saved her from . . . Gillen, for a start. But she didn’t like the suggestion that she was running away.

Wasn’t that just what she was doing? Shouldn’t she stay and hold her ground? When she was queen, she wouldn’t be able to run from conflict.

When she said nothing, Reid pressed on, encouraged by her silence. “Given the dangers here, it may seem safer in the flatlands, but that is an illusion. Away from the protection of the camps, you will be vulnerable to flatlander assassins.”

“It is not my own safety I’m worried about,” Raisa snapped. “I do not intend to start a war. We can’t afford it right now. It would tear the country apart.”

“It’s time to teach the jinxflingers a lesson,” Reid said. “We cannot continue to appease them while they trample over—”

“If I meant to appease wizards, I would be married by now,” Raisa interrupted. “I will protect the Gray Wolf line. But I will not choose between my parents. I will allow time for cooler heads and good sense to prevail.”

“It seems to me the Princess Raisa has made her intentions clear,” Amon said. “If there’s nothing else, we need to get back and break camp before nightfall.”

Reid stared at Amon for a long moment. Then turned to Raisa and inclined his head. “Of course, Your Highness. I just wanted you to know that you have options. Naturally, we would be honored to escort you back to your camp.”

He swung around to Digging Bird, who was watching this exchange with intense interest and not a little surprise.

She’s probably never seen anyone say no to Nightwalker before, Raisa thought.

“Round up the loose horses,” Reid ordered Digging Bird. “Find suitable mounts for Princess Raisa and Corporal Byrne.”

Reid Demonai would be happy to see a war, Raisa realized. It’s what he lives for.

Chapter Four Delphi

Mountain towns are all different, Han thought.

Mountain towns are all the same.

Geography drives architecture in a mountain town. In Delphi, the houses and other buildings were jammed together, like they’d slid down the slopes and jumbled into the available space along the river.

Houses built onto a hillside are deceiving: short one- stories at the back, and tall four- stories at the front. They reminded Han of brightly painted fancy girls that had seen better days. They backed into the mountainside and spread their long skirts down to the valley floor, their dirty petticoats in the gutters. The streets were narrow and tangled and cobbled with stone— a material plentiful and cheap in the mountains.

Forced into the rocky Kanwa canyon, the streets veered drunkenly around the smallest obstacles— sometimes losing their way entirely.

It was fully dark when they finally descended into the town. A choking pall of smoke thickened the air, requiring extra effort to breathe.

“It stinks worse than Southbridge,” Han said, wrinkling his nose. A different, unfamiliar stink, at least.

“They burn coal for heat and cooking here,” Dancer explained. “The smoke gets trapped in the valley. It’s worse in winter— the fires burn night and day.”

There was money in town. Intermingled with stores and businesses and more modest dwellings were street- front palaces and rich- looking row houses. Some of the houses occupied entire city blocks, faced with kilned brick and carved stone.

“Mine owners,” Dancer explained. “But even the miners make good money. The war in Arden has stoked the market for iron and coal, and prices are high. Lightfoot says the Delphians don’t mind the stinking air. They say they’re breathing money. It’s allowed them to keep their own army and stay independent of both Arden and the Fells.”

As they neared the center of town, the streets clogged up with people, reminding Han of Fellsmarch on market day.

It was a diverse crowd— black- skinned men and women from Bruinswallow, clad in the loose, striped clothing of the southerners. Southern Islanders with their dark skin, elaborate jewelry, and tangles of black hair. Leggy Northern Islanders with fair hair and blue eyes, some haloed with auras. Multiple languages collided in the streets, and exotic music poured from inns and taverns.

There was more evidence of wartime prosperity— elegant shops with all manner of trade goods; jewelry stores with glittering displays, take- away food stores with exotic offerings and intriguing, spicy smells. Han’s stomach rumbled and his mouth watered.

“Let’s find something to eat,” he said, resisting the temptation to nick a twist of salt bread from a street vendor. Hunger always seemed to bring out his old habits, but he knew better than to do slide- hand in unfamiliar territory, with no escape route laid out.

You don’t need to steal to eat, he reminded himself, touching the money pouch tucked inside his leggings as if it were a talisman.

Farther south, the city seemed darker than Fellsmarch. Everything was layered with a veneer of soot that soaked up light.

“Don’t they have lamplighters here?” Han asked, as their tired ponies plodded through a splash of light spilling from a narrow storefront church skirted on three sides with tall steps. A black- robed cleric with a golden rising sun emblazoned on his robes swept leaves and dirt out of the doorway, sending debris raining down on their heads.

Dancer shook his head. “No lamps, nor lamplighters,” he said. He fingered his amulet, conjuring a blossom of light on the tips of his fingers while Han looked on enviously. Han touched his own flashpiece, and power sizzled down his arm, exploding in flames that rocketed halfway across the street, startling passersby.

Embarrassed, Han tucked his offending hand under his other arm.

“Demons!” someone shouted in the Common speech. “Sorcerors! Blasphemers!” Han looked up in surprise to see the black- robed priest charging down the steps, swinging the broom over his head like a weapon, his face contorted with rage.

Ragger skittered sideways, rolling his eyes and showing his teeth to the irate priest. Han dug in his heels, and the pony lunged forward, carrying him out of danger. Dancer ducked his head and wrenched Wicked to one side as the broom whistled past.

The priest screamed after them, “Abominations! Harlots of evil! Begone, you wicked tools of the Breaker!” He shook the broom at them, seeming to think he’d driven them off.

“Shaddap, ya nasty crow of Malthus, or I’ll break you!” a bulky, bearded miner shouted at the priest, to general laughter. The priest retreated back inside, driven by a chorus of catcalls and threats.

“What was that all about?” Han said, when they were a safe distance away. “I’ve been called a lot of names, but never a harlot of evil before.”

“Meet the Church of Malthus,” Dancer said, grinning. “The state church of Arden. They have a foothold in Delphi, but I guess they’re not especially popular up here.”

Speaker Jemson had talked about the Church of Malthus at the Southbridge Temple School. After the disaster of the Breaking, the ancient empire of the Seven Realms had fractured. In the Fells, the old faith had continued, anchored by the temples where speakers taught about the duality of the Maker and the Breaker, and the Spirit Mountains, where dwelt the dead and sainted queens.

In Arden, after the Breaking, there arose an influential speaker who had pruned and shaped the ancient faith in a new direction. Saint Malthus attributed the Breaking to the Maker’s displeasure with the charmcasters that had caused it. Magic, he’d taught, was not a gift but the tool of the Breaker, and wizards were demons in his employ. Seduced by wizards, the queens of the Fells were equally to blame. Queen Hanalea in particular was seen as a kind of beautiful witch— a wanton totally without scruples.

Ever since, Church of Malthus had thrived as the state church in Arden.

“Do you think this is the kind of welcome we’ll get in Arden?” Han mused.

Dancer grinned wryly. “I think the less jinxflinging we do in Arden, the better.”

This was new to Han— the notion that magic was somehow sinful. The clans despised wizards, but it was more an issue of history and abuse of power. The clans, after all, had their own magic.

It was only the Demon King— Alger Waterlow, Han’s ancestor— who was thought to be unequivocally evil.

“This place looks good,” Han said, pointing out a two- story building with a broad front porch crowded with locals and soldiers. The tavern was called The Mug and Mutton, and the wooden sign out front bore a grinning sheep hoisting a mug of ale.

Han had an eye for taverns and inns. They’d been a second home for him since he was small— where food, drink, and easy pickings came together. He could tell which places were worth a visit by the smells spilling from them and the custom on hand.

He and Dancer dismounted. Dancer stayed with the horses while Han fought his way through the crowd onto the porch and into the noisy interior.

The clientele inside mirrored those on the porch, except for several families seated around tables. Some had come straight from the mines, their clothes black with soot, and their eyes shining against their grimy faces. Soldiers leaned against the walls, clad in a motley of uniforms— the sober dun colors of Delphi, the scarlet of Arden, unemployed mercenaries who showed no colors, and a few Highlanders and stripers.

Otherwise there were students, tradespeople, and fancies.

Han parted with a few of his precious girlies, booking a room and spending a couple of extra coppers on a chance at a bath. Delphi was pricy, all right.

Han and Dancer led their horses down a narrow alley to the stable behind the inn, ordered extra grain rations for the ponies, and entered the tavern by the back door.

Dinner came with the room and consisted of pork stew (not mutton), a hunk of brown bread, and a tankard of ale.

Han claimed a table in the corner with his back to the wall but close to the back door. That way he could see all the comings and goings without being obvious about it.

The serving girl hovered, flirting. At first Han put it down to personal charm until he realized with some surprise that, despite their days on the road, he and Dancer were as prosperous-looking as anyone in the room.

Han had been booted from plenty of taverns in Ragmarket and Southbridge on suspicion of slide- hand and cheating at cards. That and his chronic inability to pay. He found he rather liked sitting at a table to eat until his stomach was full, chatting up pretty girls without fear of being chased off.

“What’s the news of the war in the south?” Han asked the plush, apple- cheeked server. He touched her arm. “Who’s winning?”

She leaned close to Han. “There was a big battle outside the capital last month, sir. Prince Geoff ’s armies won, so he holds Ardenscourt. He’s declared himself king.”

“What about the other brothers? Have they given up?” Han asked, wondering if the war would soon be over, and what that would mean for his future.

The girlie shrugged. “All I know is what I hear in the tap-room. I believe Prince Gerard and Prince Godfrey are also still alive, and as far as I know, they’ve not given up.”

“There aren’t any princesses?” Han asked.

She squinted at him. “Aye, there’s one princess. Lisette. But princesses in Arden are just for show. And marrying off.”

Han glanced at Dancer, who shrugged. How would you even tell if a king’s blooded heirs were really his? Flatlanders were peculiar, for sure.

Han watched as the server walked away, wondering when she’d be off work.

He continued his study of the other patrons. It didn’t take long to figure out who was armed and who wasn’t, what weapons they carried, and who toted a heavy purse. A while longer, and he knew who was skilled at cards, who at nicks and bones, and who was cheating at both.

This was courtesy of Han’s brief stint as a card hustler. That kind of thievery was harder to prove, if you were any good at it. The bluejackets weren’t so likely to toss you in gaol for picking pockets at cards.

But he’d learned it was easy to get cornered in a taproom full of sore losers. Also that angry gamblers aren’t above smashing your head in, whether they know how you’re cheating or not. Especially when you’re only thirteen, and haven’t got your growth.

Dancer was edgy and restless all through the meal, flinching at sudden noises— the clatter of pots and pans on the hearth or two drunks shouting at each other. Despite his knowledge of Delphi and Delphian ways, he didn’t care for cities in general and crowds in particular. As soon as he finished eating, he stood. “I’m going up,” he said.

“I booked a bath,” Han said generously. “You go first.”

Dancer eyed him suspiciously. “Stay out of trouble, will you?” he said.

“Yes, Dancer Cennestre.” Yes, Mother. Han grinned at Dancer’s back when he turned away. Han motioned to the server and ordered cider. He meant to keep his wits sharp and his hand off his amulet.

Han idly surveyed the next table, where a foursome played royals and commons, a Fellsian card game Han knew well. The man facing Han was cheating— a needle point for sure. An over-plush man in Ardenine flatlander garb, his round face was cratered from some ancient bout with the pox. Though it was cool in the common room, he mopped at his sweating face with a large handkerchief. Coppers and girlies and notes of promise were stacked in front of him, evidence of his success.

It didn’t take long for Han to figure out his system. The sharp was a busy man for someone so large, always flailing his hands around in a distracting way. He used the distraction to second deal, bottom deal, and palm cards. He won nearly every hand he dealt, and a good number of those he didn’t— losing just often enough to kill suspicion.

Han wasn’t impressed. The sharp was just your standard hand mucker with a rowdy, aggressive style of play. The smart players came and went, soon perceiving that they were at a disadvantage. But one player stayed throughout, stubbornly trying to win back her losses.

She sat with her back to Han, a brimmed hat pulled low over her head, collar turned up, shoulders hunched. Han guessed she was a girlie close to naming age, a Southern Islander from her dark skin and curls. Under her overlarge coat, she wore the brilliant colors Southern Islanders favored, but her clothes were ill-fitting, as though they had been borrowed, begged, or stolen.

Something about her seemed familiar— the way she tilted her head and danced in her chair, jiggling her leg as if she couldn’t quite sit still. Han craned his neck, but couldn’t get a good look at her face under the hat.

Han drank his cider and tried to ignore the drama playing out in front of him, but his eyes kept straying back to the girl and her increasingly desperate wagers. She ran out of money and continued with scrips for payment.

She should know better, Han thought. Anyone who wins that much is cheating.

Finally, the flatlander drained his mug of ale and slammed it down on the table. “Well, I’m cashing in,” he said loudly. “Mace Boudreaux knows enough to quit while Lady Luck’s still smiling.”

Two of the players scowled, collected their depleted stakes, and left.

The island girl did not rise. She sat frozen for a moment, then leaned forward. “Nuh- uh. Let’s keep playing. You got to give me a chance to win it back,” she said. Her voice was soft and musical, carrying the familiar cadence of the Southern Islands.

Han’s skin prickled in recognition.

“Sorry, girlie, I’m done,” Mace Boudreaux said. “Guess luck’s running against you. Time to pay up.” He raked in the money in front of him and secreted it in several hidey places on his person. Then pushed the payment notes across the table to the girlie.

She stared down at the scraps of paper on the table in front of her.

She doesn’t have it, Han thought. She’s done.

“I’ll be right back with the rest of it,” she said, jackknifing to her feet and turning toward the door.

The sharp’s hand snaked out and grabbed the girlie around the wrist, jerking her toward him. “Oh no you don’t,” he growled. “I’m not letting you out of my sight until you pay up.”

The girl tried to yank her hand free. “I don’t carry that kind of money around. I got to get it from my room.”

Boudreaux stuck his face in close to the girl’s. “I’ll just come with you, then,” he said, licking his lips and looking her up and down with a greasy smile. “If you don’t have the money, there may be a way you can earn it out.”

The girlie spat in his face. “In your dreams, you scummer-sucking, limp- nippled, gutter- spawned—”

“Do you want to go to gaol?” Boudreaux growled, brushing away the spit and giving her a bone- rattling shake.

The girl stiffened. Han could tell from the ropy scars on her wrists and ankles that she’d been in gaol. He guessed she didn’t want to go back.

“I’ll call the guard,” Boudreaux threatened, his voice rising. “I got rights.”

Before Han could put two thoughts together, he was standing next to their table. “Hey, now. Just a friendly game, right? No need to get the guard involved, is there?” He slapped the sharp on the back and punched him in the shoulder, grinning like a country boy deep in his cups.

Boudreaux glared at Han, unhappy with the unexpected intrusion. “It’ll be friendly as long as the girlie pays up. I got rights.”

“You can work something out.” Han swung around to face the girl, and nearly fell over from surprise.

It was Cat Tyburn, who’d replaced Han as streetlord of the Raggers. She stared back at him, frozen. Han blinked, looked again, and she was still Cat. She’d changed, and not for the better. No wonder he hadn’t recognized her at first.

She’d always been thin, but now she was skin and bones, like a razorleaf user. Her eyes seemed to take up half her face, and they were cloudy and dull— likely from drink and leaf. She’d always been proud, but now she looked beaten down. There were holes in her ears and nose where her silver had been, and her silver bracelets and bangles were gone also. All of it lay in front of the sharp.

Her face said that the last person she expected to see in the world was Han Alister.

Han grabbed Boudreaux’s arm to steady himself and cover his amazement. As he did so, he slid a spare deck off the table and into his pocket, his mind working furiously.

What was she doing there? Cat had been born in the islands, but as long as he’d known her, she’d never strayed far beyond the few blocks that made up Ragmarket. Why would she leave when she had a good gang, good turf, and a good living?

More important, how could he help her out of the mess she was in? It sure wouldn’t do her any good to land in a Delphian jail.

He could accuse Boudreaux of cheating, but he’d long ago learned to keep his mouth shut in a tavern unless he knew the clientele. For all he knew, he was surrounded by Boudreaux’s best mates.

Cat still stared at Han like he’d crawled out of the grave and given her a cold cadaver kiss.

“C’m over here, girlie,” Han slurred, taking her elbow. “Le’s you and me talk.” Her body went rigid under his hand, but she allowed him to tow her out of earshot of the pock- faced sharp.

When they were at a safe distance, Han suddenly sobered up.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed.

“I could ask you the same question,” she retorted.

“I asked first.”

Cat’s face shuttered tight. “I had to leave Ragmarket.”

“Who’s streetlord, then?” Han asked, stumbling into speech. “What about Velvet?”

“Velvet’s dead,” Cat said. “They all are— or disappeared. No need for a streetlord in Ragmarket now.” She shivered, her ragged nails picking at her coat. “They came right after you left. Killed everyone. I’m alive because I wasn’t there.”

“Who came?” Han asked, because it seemed expected, though he already knew.

“Demons. Like the ones that did the Southies.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Han’s mouth was dry as dust. “Did they . . . were they looking for me?”

“Like I said, I wasn’t there.” Not an answer. “I didn’t know where you’d gone. I thought they’d hushed you too.”

Bones. He left death behind him even when he went away. No wonder Cat was jittery.

“I’m real sorry about Velvet,” Han said. “And . . . everything.”

She just looked at him, eyes wide, shaking her head no.

“Come on, girlie!” Boudreaux roared. “You two gonna talk all night or what? I want my money.”

Han waggled his hand at the sharp to quiet him and leaned in close to Cat. “How much do you owe your friend over there?” he whispered.

“Why?” Cat demanded with her usual charm. “What business is it of yours?”

“I don’t got all night,” Han said. “How much?”

She looked around the room, as if seeking escape from the question. “Twenty- seven girlies and some change,” she said.

Hanalea’s blood and bones. Han had money, but not enough to pay off her debt and still get to Oden’s Ford. And he didn’t mean to beggar himself paying off a cheating needle point.

Han tilted his head toward Boudreaux. “He’s cheating, you know.”

“He is not!” Cat hissed, looking over her shoulder. “I’m cheating him.”

Han knew not to smile. “Well.” He rubbed his chin. “He’s doing a better job.”

Cat’s hand crept to the blade at her waist. “The thieving dung- eater. I should’ve known. Well, we’ll see how he looks without his—”

“No.” Han put his hand on her arm to stay her. “I’ll play for you and win it back.”

Cat jerked away from him. “Leave off, Cuffs. I don’t want your help. I got into this myself, and I’ll get out of it my own way.”

“By cutting his throat?” Han shook his head. “In Ragmarket, maybe. You don’t want to get into trouble so far from home.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to owe you,” she said.

Well, that he could understand. “You won’t owe me. I’m the one owes you a blood debt.”

Again, she shook her head wordlessly, swallowing hard several times.

“Let me do this,” Han said. “Please.”

“Anyway, the needle point’s done,” Cat said. “He won’t play. He said so.”

“He’ll play me,” Han said, pulling out a bulging purse and waving it under her nose.

Cat’s eyes went wide again. She swept back her hair, trying to act offhand, like she saw that kind of plate every day. “What if you lose?”

“Trust me. I won’t. I’m better than him,” Han said, looking into her eyes and willing her to believe him, though he had no idea why she would. “Just play along with me, all right?” he said. Facing away from the gambler, he prepped for the game, moved money around, stacked and stowed his cards while Cat watched, all squint- eyed.

“All set. Come on,” he said, possessing her arm and strutting back to Boudreaux’s table like he was the cock of the yard. “I’ll cover the girlie’s debt,” he said to the sharp. “If you play me.”

“Play you?” Boudreaux said disdainfully. “Nuh- uh. I told you I was done. If you want to pay what the girlie owes, go ahead, boy. If you even got the money.”

“My da’s a trader,” Han said, conjuring an aggrieved expression. “I got plenty of money. See?” He plunked his full purse on the table, in the process knocking over the sharp’s glass of ale, spilling the remains. “Oh, sorry,” he said. “Don’t know m’own strength.” He plucked Boudreaux’s handkerchief out of the sharp’s pocket and mopped clumsily at the spillage.

Boudreaux’s greedy eyes fastened on the purse. It was much more than Cat owed. “Well,” he said, wedging himself back in his chair, “mayhap I can stay a little longer.” He snapped his fingers at the server. “Bring me another ale,” he said with a toothy smile.

Han handed the sopping handkerchief back to Boudreaux and settled into the chair opposite the sharp. It figured. He had no trouble swaying a mark these days, now that he was out of the game. It was easier to believe in a sixteen- year- old with a wad of cash than a twelve- year. It was that lack of respect as a lytling that had forced him out of sharping into slide- hand and rushing on the streets.

Now he was better suited to the con. He could play the role of the son of a trader, out on his own for the first time. A warm and loaded mark for sure.

“You sit here, girlie,” Han said, patting the seat of the chair next to him and leering at Cat. “Bring me luck.”

Cat perched on the edge of the chair, angled away from Han like she might catch the itches. Her hands twisted together in her lap, her face hard and inscrutable.

“You deal first, boy,” Boudreaux said blandly. Typical sharp. Let the mark win first, to encourage him to bet bigger on the next round.

Han shuffled the cards, at one point losing hold of them, spilling them onto the table. Careful, he thought. Don’t overdo it. He scooped them up and reshuffled them with the bleary, intense attention typical of the very drunk.

It was easy enough to win the first round. Boudreaux folded, shaking his head mournfully, before there was much money on the table.

“Ha!” Han crowed, closing his hand over Cat’s. She flinched as if stung, and he let go. “You’ve brought me luck already.” She just looked back at him, unsmiling.

Why, Alister, why do you get yourself tangled up in these things? Han thought.

Now Boudreaux dealt the cards, and won, though Han didn’t allow much money to go out before he called for display. After that, it was back and forth a few times, and at the end of it, Han was ahead by ten girlies. He continued to play the drunken fool, loudly celebrating his good fortune and boo- hooing when he lost.

Han hadn’t even mucked the deck so far. The handkerchief was out of play, and Han ruined Boudreaux’s sleight of hand by insisting on cutting the cards before the deal. Plus he was naturally lucky at cards.

As Mam had always said, Lucky at cards, or lucky at life. One or the other. Not both.

Boudreaux’s enthusiasm waned along with his winnings. Cat just sat there scowling, as though Han were playing with her money.

Time to finish this, Han thought. I’ll teach the sharp a lesson, send Cat away with her money, and go to bed. The deck came back to him, and this time he seized it in a sharp’s grip and mucked it good during the shuffle. Boudreaux made the cut, and Han remade the deck during the deal. He watched Boudreaux’s face as he scanned his cards. The sharp cradled his hand close to his chest like a baby, and Han knew he had him.

They bet and raised and bet and raised, and soon there were stacks of girlies in the center of the table. The sharp asked for one card, and Han handed him the demon card that would seal the deal. Han fanned his cards within the shelter of his hands, peered at them, licked his lips nervously, and matched the sharp’s bets every time.

Cat kept looking from Han to the stacks of money at the center of the table, twitching the way she did when she was nervous. If he lost, he’d be in the hole big time.

But he wouldn’t lose.

By now several patrons had wandered over from the bar to watch the action.

“What about her silver?” Han asked, waving his hand at the pot as the wagers mounted. “Put that in and I’ll match it in girlies.” He grinned over at Cat.

Boudreaux pushed Cat’s studs, bangles, and earrings into the center of the table. “Display,” he said, spreading his cards on the table. “A demon triple, red dominant.” He looked up at Han and grinned a wolfish grin.

It was a fine hand. A very fine hand. That hand would beat just about anything. Except: “Four queens, Hanalea leads the line.” Han displayed his cards on the table and sat back, watching the sharp.

For a long, charged moment, Boudreaux said nothing. He stared down at the table like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Reaching out his thick forefinger, he stirred the cards in front of him as if they might reveal something else.

The flatland sharp opened and closed his mouth like a beached fish, and it took several tries before any sound came out. “That— that ain’t right!” he bellowed, slamming his hand down on the table, putting his replacement ale at risk.

Han briskly raked his winnings into his carry bag and tossed it over his shoulder, leaving enough girlies on the table to pay Cat’s debt. The key in such situations was a quick getaway.

Boudreaux’s piggy eyes narrowed with rage. He slung out an arm and took hold of Han’s shirtfront. “Not so fast,” he hissed.

“Let go!” Han said, trying to pull free.

“You’re a cheat!” Boudreaux shouted, producing a large curved knife from under his coat and pressing it against Han’s throat. “A cheat and a thief and a fraud.”

The onlookers surrounding the table stepped back a pace.

The blade was a nasty surprise. Most sharps and card muckers were cowards at heart, which was why they chose that mode of thievery. But Boudreaux outweighed Han twice over, and Han knew from experience that there was nobody more furious than a cheat cheated.

Han thought of the flash under his shirt, the knives at his waist, wondering if he could reach either or any without getting his throat cut.

“Now,” the sharp said, his florid face inches from Han’s, his beery breath pouring over him, “give over the bag, boy, and I might not cut off your ears.”

Focused on the blade under his chin, Han didn’t quite follow what happened next. Boudreaux yelped and disappeared, hitting the floor hard enough to dent it. His knife spun across the room, nearly beheading a miner snoring softly at the next table.

Han threw himself back, out of danger. Boudreaux flailed about on the floor like he had the spasms. And behind him, deftly avoiding his flying limbs, was Cat, a garrotte twisted around Boudreaux’s throat.

Oh, right, Han thought. Cat was a deft flimper, as well as a demon with a blade.

The sharp’s face turned red, then blue, and his eyes bulged out alarmingly. Cat bent low over Boudreaux, crooning to him, some lesson she wanted him to learn.

Boudreaux’s flailing diminished, became less organized.

“Cat!” Han shook off his astonishment and put his hand on her shoulder. “Leave him go. You don’t want to swing for him.”

Cat looked up at him, blinking as if surfacing from a trance. She let go of Boudreaux and sat back on her heels, stuffing the garrote into her pocket.

A commotion at the front drew Han’s attention. A clot of brown uniforms filled the doorway, colors of the Delphian Guard. Han swore, knowing he’d stayed too long. He stood slowly and pulled Cat to her feet. Keeping hold of her hand, Han began backing toward the rear door, but a bristle- bearded miner the size of a small mountain stepped into their path.

“You’d best stay, boy, and take what’s coming to you for what you done,” he growled, grinning as though he personally were looking forward to the show.

“I didn’t do anything,” Han complained, the refrain of his entire life. It was just his luck to get mixed up in a barroom brawl in a strange country and get tossed in gaol. It would mean a quick end to his career as a wizard sell- sword for the clans. He’d let down Dancer, who’d have to travel on alone. What was the last thing Dancer had said to him before he went up to bed? Stay out of trouble.

Han closed his hand around the hilt of his knife, looking for the clearest path to the door. Then slowly he released his grip. He might get through the door, but he wouldn’t get away clean with Dancer upstairs and his horse in the stable.

Cat pulled her hand free and drew her own blades, keeping them hidden flat against her forearms.

“What’s going on?” one of the brownjackets demanded. He wore an officer’s scarf knotted around his neck, in unfamiliar flatland colors. He pointed at Boudreaux, still on the floor. The sharp rubbed his bruised throat and sucked air in great gasps. “What happened to him?” the officer asked.

Han opened his mouth, but the miner beat him to it. “That cheating thiever Mace Boudreaux got beat at cards for oncet. Turns out he’s a sore loser. He jumped the boy what beat him, and we had to settle him.”

To Han’s astonishment, heads nodded all around.

“Who settled him?” the officer persisted.

“We all did,” the miner said, glaring around the room as if daring someone to contradict him. “We all joined in.”

It seemed that Cat was not the only one who’d lost money to Mace Boudreaux. He wasn’t getting much sympathy from this crowd.

“Where’s the boy what beat him?” the guardsman demanded.

For a moment, nobody spoke, but then Han’s miner gave him a shove forward. “This is the one,” he said. “He done it.”

The brownjacket looked Han up and down as if he couldn’t believe it. “Good at cards, are you, boy?” He raised an eyebrow.

Han shrugged. “I get by.” He felt rather than saw Cat moving up beside him. Just like the old days, when Cat had his back.

The brownjacket grinned and stuck out his hand. “I’d like to buy you a drink, then,” he said, and the rest of the patrons whistled and clapped and stamped their feet.

It just goes to show you, Han thought. You never know who’s in the room when you get into a fight.

It was a struggle to get out of there after that. Boudreaux recovered and slunk away unnoticed. Han had to turn down a dozen offers of drinks or he’d have ended up under the table. Cat retreated to a corner, seeming to disappear into the shadows, but every time he turned to look, her eyes were fixed on him.

Probably wants her money, he thought.

It was near closing time when he finally extricated himself from the crowd of well- wishers and joined Cat at her table. Fishing into his carry bag, he withdrew a handful of girlies and counted them out.

She watched, saying nothing. Han didn’t expect effusive thanks, but still. Cat usually had plenty to say.

He pushed the stacks of coins across the table toward her. “There you are; you’ve made up your losses and more.”

She looked down at the money but made no move to touch it. “What is it about you?” she demanded. “Wherever you go, people make way for you. You walk in a stranger and end up the toast of the taproom.”

“What are you talking about?” Han growled. “I got nothing— no family, no place to live, no way to make a living.”

She reached out and fingered the sleeve of his jacket hesitantly, as if he still might turn to vapor and smoke. “You got fine new clothes and you got a full purse. You sell off a big taking or what?”

Han instantly felt even guiltier. He pressed his lips together and shook his head.

“Why would you risk your stash for me?” she persisted.

“Wasn’t my stash,” Han said. “I took it off Boudreaux before we played.”

Like he was some robber out of the stories that took from the rich and gave to the poor. Ha. He was the poor, usually.

“If you already had his money, why’d you play him, then?” Cat asked.

Han shrugged. “He needed beating and I thought I could do it. Never thought he’d pull a knife.” He didn’t say aloud what else he was thinking. If you beat somebody at the thing they’re best at, they’re more likely to give way.

Cat eyed him like she didn’t much believe him. “You still never said. What are you doing here? Where are you going?”

Han shrugged. “I had to leave Fellsmarch, too. We thought we’d try our luck in Ardenscourt,” he lied. The fewer people who knew where they were going, the better.

She lifted an eyebrow. “We?”

“I’m traveling with a friend,” Han said, leaving Cat to make whatever assumption she chose. “How about you? I didn’t know you played nickum sharp.”

“I’m still learning, as any fool can see,” she said, scowling.

“Well, you can’t earn reliable money sharping unless you get more practice at card mucking. Better find another line of work meantime.”

“I’ve looked,” Cat said glumly. “I been here for a couple weeks. I tried to get on at the mines, but they won’t hire if you’re marked as a thief.” She held up her right hand, branded by the queen’s law. Least they hadn’t chopped it off.

“How’d you end up here, anyway?” Han asked.

“I was on my way to a place called Oden’s Ford.”

Han was taking a gulp of cider, and nearly inhaled it. Coughing, he set the mug down. “Oden’s Ford! Why are you going there?”

“It was Speaker Jemson’s idea,” Cat said, poking at the stacks of coins. “They got schools there, he says. He wanted me to go to the Temple School.”

“Why not go to Southbridge Temple School?” Han said, trying to sort out what this might mean to him. “Why would Jemson send you all the way to Oden’s Ford?”

“If I was still in Southbridge, I’d be dead. Just like Velvet.” Cat yanked off her hat and slapped it down on the table. “They was hunting me, the demons that killed the others. It was just a matter of time before they caught me. So Jemson, he says, go to Oden’s Ford. He’s always dogging me to go and study music, and he’s tight with the master of the Temple School there. He told her all these stories about how I can play the basilka like some kind of angel choir, and got me enrolled. He paid my fees— said the Princess Raisa gives money to Southbridge Temple students. He give me an old horse and some money, and put me on the road.” Cat scrubbed her hand through her curls.

Cat was a rum player on the basilka. Back in Ragmarket, she used to play to pass the time until darkman’s hour, when the Raggers went to work. Some days Han would just lie there, halfway between waking and sleeping, letting the music carry him someplace else.

“Jemson says if I study music and art and reading and writing and pretty talk, I might get on as a lady’s maid or teacher or something.” Cat snorted. “Like they’d hire a marked thief.”

Han tried to get his mind around the notion of Cat as a lady’s maid.

Cat looked up and read his expression. “Forget it. I got this far, then I decided I an’t going. Jemson, he thinks he got me backed into a corner, but I an’t taking vows.”

“You don’t have to take vows to go to the Temple School,” Han said. “Some do, but you—”

“I don’t care. I don’t belong there, in a covey of bluebloods. They be sweet as flatland cider to your face while they’re gibing behind your back.”

She’s afraid, Han thought. She’s afraid she’ll be made fun of. Afraid she won’t be good enough. Maybe with good reason. What did he know about Oden’s Ford? Nothing.

Cat pushed the money toward Han and stood. “I’m glad for what you did, but I can’t take this.”

Han made no move to pick it up. “It’s your money. Not mine. I just took it back from a thief. If you don’t take it, you’ll be leaving it for the help.”

She shook her head stubbornly, biting her lip.

“Look,” Han said. “Here’s how I see it. I got a lot to answer for. I owe you. Just let me do this thing, will you?”

It was true. He desperately wanted to ease the load of guilt he carried around.

“If you want to do something for me, here’s what I want,” Cat said abruptly. “Let me come with you.”

“What?” Han gaped at her. It had been a whole evening of surprises. “You don’t even know what we’re doing!”

“It don’t matter,” Cat said. “I an’t cut out for temple life, no matter what Jemson says. I’ll swear to you. Like before.”

Like when Han was streetlord of the Raggers, and Cat was his right hand. And more.

Han eyed Cat warily. With Velvet gone, was Cat looking to rekindle what had once been between them? That seemed like a bad idea. When they were together, they’d fought like two cats stuffed into a bag. He had enough drama in his life as it was.

As if she’d read his thoughts, she said, “If you’re walking out with a girlie, I won’t be inching in,” she said. “This is strictly shares. Strictly business.”

Thoughts pinged around Han’s head like coppers in a jar. Cat thought joining up with her old streetlord was a way to avoid going to school. But he was heading for school himself. He had no need of a crew and no way to support one. He’d be spending money, not earning money, so there’d be no shares.

He looked at Cat. She glared at him, tapping her foot because he was taking too long to answer. He couldn’t help recalling that when he’d wanted to go to Demonai Camp with Bird and she’d refused him, she’d had some good reasons, too.

If he refused her, she’d go back to the life for sure. If she went back to the gangs, she’d be dead before she turned twenty, demons or not. Streetlords never got old.

Maybe Jemson was right— maybe school was what she needed. Han wouldn’t get any thanks for trying to save her. But there might be a way.

“You can come,” Han said finally. “But we’re going to Oden’s Ford ourselves. You come with me, you got to go to school.”

“What?” She sat frozen, hands pressed against the table so hard her knuckles were white. “That’s a ripe clanker if I ever heard one.”

“It’s true,” Han said. “Why else do you think we—”

“Liar!” Cat shook her head, eyes glittering. “You’re a glavering, gutter- swiving, muck- sucking liar, Cuffs Alister, that’s what you are. You an’t going to Oden’s Ford, no bloody way.” Cat scraped back her chair and stood, fists clenched, vibrating with rage.

“I swear it,” Han said, sliding to his feet and keeping the table between them in case she drew a blade on him. “I’m sorry. I should have told you, but I thought you—”

“Shut it, Cuffs. If you didn’t want me to come with, you should’ve just said so.” She scooped up her money and stuffed it into her carry bag. “You think because you’re pretty that every girlie wants to walk out with you. Well, you an’t so pretty that I can’t find somebody else.”

She stalked out of the tavern, letting the door slam behind her.

Well, Han thought. Least she’s more like her old self, anyway.

Chapter Five Into The Fens

After the encounter with the renegade guards on the western slope, Raisa worried they’d have more trouble at Westgate. But when they arrived at the West Wall in the early morning, Mac Gillen was nowhere to be seen. The guards at the gate were mostly regular army, a mixture of gray- jacketed Highlanders and mercenaries with striped trim.

The sergeant in charge was a Queen’s Guardsman, though, named Barlow. When Amon told Barlow that they were cadets traveling to Oden’s Ford via Westgate, the sergeant greeted him with derision.

“So you don’t want to go through Arden, eh? You cadets wouldn’t want to get your uniforms dirty, would you?” he said, rolling his eyes. “Wouldn’t want to have to blood your shiny new weapons before you show ’em off at school.”

It was the typical disdain of the line soldier for the academy-bred. The members of the Wolfpack seethed, but Amon ignored it. He’d seemed preoccupied, having even less to say than usual since the incident with Sloat and the rescue by the Demonai warriors.

Disappointed that Amon didn’t rise to the bait, Barlow added, “Well, Corporal, if you think this way’s safer than travelin’ through Arden, you’ll soon find out different.”

“What do you mean?” Amon asked, finally granting Barlow his full attention.

The sergeant spat on the ground. “The new road is gone. The Waterwalkers done wrecked it. They heaved a mess of boulders into there.”

Amon stared at him. “What? I helped build that road. Why would they do that?”

“The Waterwalkers been raiding over the border, stealing livestock and food,” Barlow said. “We put a stop to it, so they busted up the road. Nowdays, if you want to get down to the Fens, you have to take the old road. An’ that means climbin’ down over the cliff and clinging to the icy rocks by your toenails. Them horses’ll never make it.”

“I still don’t see why they’d destroy the road,” Amon persisted. “It was built just a year and a half ago. It seems like they’d be hurting themselves.”

The sergeant shrugged, not meeting Amon’s eyes. “Guess we an’t welcome there no more. Anyways, if you do manage to climb down without breaking your necks, you’ll find out why they call it the Shiverin’ Fens. You’ll be shivering all right. You’ll wish you’d gone the other way. Them Waterwalkers’ll have you crying for your mommies.”

“I assume you’re speaking from experience, sir?” Raisa asked. This drew grins from the other Wolves and a warning look from Amon.

“I was there just a little more than a year ago,” Amon said to Barlow, “and had no trouble. I stayed at Rivertown and Hallowmere.”

“You did, did you?” The sergeant wet his lips and swallowed. “Well, there’s trouble now. Skirmishes all along the border. Bad blood all around.”

“Is it really as bad as that?” Raisa asked. “We’ve not heard anything about this in the capital.”

“You listen to me, cadet,” Barlow said, his jowly face pinking up with anger. “The Waterwalkers, they got special plans for such morsels as you. They’ll feed you to the watergators. That’s how they sacrifice to their gods.”

“There are no such things as watergators, sir,” Raisa said, rolling her eyes.

The sergeant snorted. “Aye, you say that now. We’ll see what you say later. If you’re alive to make the report. Them water -gators grow to be a hunnert feet long with teeth the size of broadswords and just as sharp. I spoke to a man saw one swallow a pole boat whole, with everybody on board.”

“We’ll be careful, sir,” Amon said. “Thank you for the warning. Now move along, Morley,” he said to Raisa. “Or you’ll be the one raising tents in the dark.”

Now what? Raisa wondered. Are we going to walk all the way to Oden’s Ford? If we can’t take the horses along, we won’t have a choice.

The sergeant raised his hand. “Just a minute,” he said. “You there. Lady cadets. What’s your names?”

“Why do you ask, sir?” Amon asked, edging his horse between the Wolves and the sergeant.

“Well . . .” The sergeant looked up at the garrison house, scowling. “There’s some wizardlings in there want to see every young lady what passes through here.”

“Why is that, sir?” Hallie drawled. “If you’re playing match-maker, I don’t go in for jinxflingers, just so you know.”

The Gray Wolves snickered, and Barlow’s color deepened. “Seems the princess heir has run off or been carried off or some such,” he said. “So they’re on the lookout for her to cross the border here. Even though, as I said, she’d be a fool to come this way.”

“Why are wizards out hunting for the princess?” Amon asked, trying to sound casual. “Isn’t that our job?”

“Well, that’s what I thought,” Barlow said. “You never know, these days. Wizards are sticking their noses where they don’t belong.”

“Sir, I’m surprised wizards would come to a place as remote as this,” Raisa said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Being so used to servants and rich food and all that.”

“You got that right,” Sergeant Barlow said, eyeing Raisa with a little more approval. “There’s three of ’em, and they an’t any older ’n you. I hear one of ’em’s the son of the High Wizard himself.”

Micah! Raisa’s mouth went metallic, and a shiver ran through her. She glanced over at Amon, who was expressionless as any statue in the temple.

“Lieutenant Gillen said to give them whatever they want,” Barlow went on, “but they been eating and drinking up all the best we got, stayin’ up to all hours, then sleeping in, demanding this and that, and never happy with what we give ’em.

“At first they stayed down here at the gate, but there’s so little traffic I guess they didn’t think it was worth their time. So now they can’t be bothered to come down here theirselfs, but they want us to detain any ladies that come through and fetch ’em down here to look ’em over.” He hawked and spat on the ground. “We’re shorthanded as it is. Sent half a squadron up to Demonai Camp and they an’t returned.”

Raisa looked up at the garrison house, a huge stone structure with slitted windows that frowned over the road. She turned away quickly, resisting the urge to hide her face. The back of her neck prickled and her heart tremored. At that very moment, Micah Bayar might be gazing down on her.

The memory of his treachery still stung. Micah had bewitched her with his wizard kisses and the help of an illegal seduction amulet. I think we could be good together, he’d said. Once we get through this. This being a forced wedding between them.

“Well, sir, it seems to me that Talbot, Abbott, and Morley are soldiers, not ladies,” Amon said calmly, though he clenched his reins so tight his knuckles whitened. “It’s bad enough that wizards are poking into places where they have no business. D’you think Lieutenant Gillen would want them interfering with cadets in the Queen’s Guard?”

Sergeant Barlow pondered that a moment. “You know, I don’t think he would.” He took in Hallie’s straw- colored braid, Talia’s lanky build, and Raisa’s ragged cap of hair. “None of you favor the princess anyways.”

He looked over his shoulder at the garrison house. “But mayhap you’d better move along before them wizardlings haul theirselfs out of bed.”

Wasting no time in taking the sergeant’s advice, they clattered over the stone pavers surrounding the garrison house and between two great statues of carved stone: Queen Hanalea and her daughter, Alyssa, founders of the new line of queens. The ancient queens faced each other across the road, their long shadows pointing the way. Raisa resisted the temptation to look back over her shoulder. They kept moving until they had rounded the shoulder of the mountain and were well out of sight.

“That was close,” Raisa said, reining in and speaking low in Amon’s ear. “If Micah had been down at the gate . . .” She didn’t finish.

Amon nodded. “Thank the Maker that Barlow has no love of wizards.”

“What about the Waterwalkers?” Raisa asked. “Was he just trying to scare us?”

Amon shook his head. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense, what he said.” He turned away from Raisa and called, “Hey, Garret, ride ahead and check out the road, see if what Sergeant Barlow says is true.”

“Aye, Corporal Byrne,” Garret said, touching his heels to his pony’s sides.

“When can a soldier disobey an order?” Raisa asked.

Amon drew his dark brows together and tilted his head back, looking down his nose at her. “Why do you want to know?”

“I want to know what to expect from my guard in the future.”

“Well, soldiers are taught two important rules. One is that you obey orders, even those you don’t like, even those you disagree with. If you don’t, it’s insubordination. The other is that following orders is no excuse for doing wrong or wasting soldiers’ lives needlessly. A good soldier is a thinking person.”

Raisa blinked at him. “But . . . isn’t that contradictory?”

Amon nodded. “It’s the soldier’s dilemma. Most of the time it’s simple enough. If your commander tells you to clean the latrine, you do it, even though you don’t want to. If your commander tells you and your salvo to lead the charge, you do it, even though you’re afraid. If she tells you to retreat, you leave the field, even if your blood’s up.”

Raisa nodded, nudging Switcher in close. “When can you say no?”

“If you disobey an order, you’d better have a good reason. Lots of times you have to make that decision in a heartbeat. That’s the problem with the guard these days. Too many soldiers don’t know the difference between right and wrong.”

Raisa put her hand on Amon’s knee. His leg was all muscle and bone under the camouflage twill, and she felt the usual current of energy between them. “Do you feel that you know right from wrong?” she asked.

“I do,” Amon said, looking down at her hand. “My da made sure of it.” He said this with such intensity that it stopped Raisa’s mouth and she waited. After a pause, he went on. “But it’s not enough to know right from wrong. You need the strength to do what’s right, even when what you want most in the world is the wrong thing.”

With that, he urged his horse forward, breaking contact with Raisa’s hand.

A mile or so farther on, Raisa became aware of a sound: a dull, sullen roar that grew louder as they traveled forward.

While they’d been talking, the others had gotten ahead of them. Mick rode back toward them. “It’s the Dyrnnewater Cascades, sir. Careful. We’re nearly on top of them.”

It wasn’t like you could come up on them unwarned. Ahead, a freezing white mist obscured the trail. As they rode into it, Raisa’s skin pebbled and her hair clumped down in wet strings. Water dripped from the end of her nose. Amon turned up the collar of his uniform jacket and raked wet black hair off his forehead.

Now that they were crowded in close to the river, Raisa could smell the faint but familiar stench of the city of her birth. She wrinkled her nose.

A low wall enclosed the road to either side. Ahead, the river split around several large rocky islands and foamed through a series of violent rapids as they neared the escarpment. Switcher became skittish, dancing nervously and tossing her head.

At that point, the new road veered off to the east, descending in a series of switchbacks toward the valley floor. The old road continued straight on, following the river. It was hardly more than a rocky path.

Garret waited at the split. “It’s true, sir. The new road’s impassable. Road’s smashed up less than a mile ahead.”

Now what? Raisa thought. Would they have to go back by way of Westgate, past Micah Bayar again? Maybe this time they wouldn’t be so lucky.

“Guess we’ll have to take the old road,” Amon said.

You mean the one where we have to hang on by our toe-nails? Raisa thought.

“Dismount!” Amon called, then said to Raisa, “Careful. The rocks are slippery, even for the ponies. And if they spook, they’ll go right over the edge.”

The Gray Wolves swung out of their saddles, clutching ner vously at their horses’ reins. They walked forward, boots crunching in the strange gray gravel of the path.

And suddenly they were at the edge of the world Raisa knew, overlooking a sea of mist. Hawks wheeled and pivoted over the cliff ’s edge, borne skyward by the updrafts.

“Lady of light,” she breathed. She took a step back, feeling dizzy, as if she might be swept away by the relentless movement of water. Amon gripped her arm to steady her.

The Dyrnnewater poured over the lip of a wide overhang and thundered into the valley below. The river was deep green as it furled over the edge, then exploded in foamy spray as it struck rock on the way down. Mist collected on their hair and clothing, then froze so that within minutes they resembled a collection of silver- headed elders.

This was a sacred place, full of history. During the War of the Wizard Conquest, Queen Regina, the last free queen of the old line, had been trapped with a small army of loyalists at the edge of the escarpment. She had thrown her daughters over the edge, then leaped after them to prevent their being captured. But the river had refused to swallow the queen and the princesses, had cushioned their landing and spat them out alive on the banks below. A miracle by the Maker’s hand.

After that, Regina had bowed her proud head, knowing that the line was meant to survive and that its redemption lay somewhere in the future. The queens had passed three hundred years in captivity before the Breaking freed them.

Creeping forward, Raisa peered over the edge. It was like looking down into a milky sea, its features hidden under a mantle of mist. The Shivering Fens were an ocean of grass and stubby trees, nothing tall enough to poke through the grounded clouds.

Raisa shuddered, chilled by the damp and the prospect of climbing down into that mist. The Fells claimed to rule the Shivering Fens, but Raisa had never been there, and as far as she knew, Queen Marianna had not, either. How could they claim allegiance to a place they knew so little about?

Etched into the side of the bluff, alongside the river, she saw the faint tracings of a rocky path, obviously little used. At the top of the cliff stood an abandoned garrison house, the walls in dis-repair, heaved and tumbled by repeated freezes and thaws, and next to it, a small shrine to Queen Regina. A marble statue centered the shrine, stained and worn by weather— the fearless queen cradling two babies. Raisa made the sign of the Maker and knelt in the weeds before the queen’s altar.

We need to better honor the old ways, she thought. This is my blood, my inheritance, overgrown and neglected. We once ruled the Seven Realms, and now we can barely manage one.

Her prayer finished, she turned to find that Amon had come up beside her. He stood, hands tucked under his arms to warm them, the wind stirring his hair, studying the cliff face, as if he really meant to climb down there.

“That’s a road?” she asked, pushing up to her feet. Surely not.

“That was the only road before we built the new one. The Waterwalkers don’t use horses, so they had no need of a road that horses and wagons could use.”

“And you helped build the new road?”

“Aye. My da offered up the sweat of my brow in trade for learning Waterwalker ways.” He paused, chewing his lower lip. “They have a debt and payment system they call gylden. They’re proud— they’d rather you were in debt to them than they to you.

“Lord Cadri is ruler of the Waterwalkers. Years ago, my father saved his life when he would have bled to death after a hunting accident. Ever since, he’s been trying to find a way to pay off the gylden, and my da’s trying to keep him beholden. Not because he expects repayment, but because it’s an advantage to the Fells. My da asked Lord Cadri to foster me for a summer. That should’ve offset some of the debt. But I helped design and build the road— so he still owes gylden to my father.”

“Does Queen Marianna know this is going on?” Raisa asked.

Amon shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. She’s never paid much attention to the Fens, given the war in Arden and troubles at home. Da tries to make sure she doesn’t need to. I don’t like hearing that there’s trouble along the border.”

Raisa couldn’t help remembering her mother warning her away from any dreams of a match with Amon. They’re soldiers, the queen had said, and that’s all they’ll ever be.

You have no idea what a treasure you have in the Byrnes, Mother, Raisa thought.

“How do we get down?” she asked, mopping freezing slush from her face.

Amon knelt at the edge of the precipice, examining a rusted metal apparatus bolted to the rock. “We use ropes as a fail- safe,” he said. “It’s too risky to go down unroped.” He turned and shouted orders to the other Wolves, who produced coils of rope from their saddlebags.

“What about the horses?” Raisa asked.

“They go down roped, too.” Amon shouldered open the rotting door to the garrison house. Raisa heard him rummaging around inside. He emerged several minutes later, smeared with dirt, cobwebs powdering his hair, but looking pleased with himself. He carried an armload of leather straps, iron fittings, and swivels.

Raisa eyed them distrustfully. How long had they been there? How badly were they damaged by rot and rodents? Switcher tossed her head and snorted, as if sensing Raisa’s dismay. Raisa stroked the mare’s nose to soothe her.

Amon deftly looped a rope around the large pulley attached to the rocky outcropping, secured it with an iron catch, and attached a swivel. Then he strapped a broad leather harness around his body and between his legs, clipping it to the rope.

“How do you know this will work?” Raisa asked, imagining flailing horses slamming against the cliff face, breaking their legs.

“I’ve done it before.” Amon turned to Mick and Hallie. “I’ll go down first, secure the other end, and scout the situation at the bottom. I’ll pull on the rope three times to let you know when to pull me up.”

Amon tugged on a pair of deerskin gloves. He grasped hold of the rope with both hands, backed to the edge of the cliff, pushed off, and dropped out of sight.

Stifling a cry of dismay, Raisa leaned over the cliff and looked down. The cliff jutted into a severe overhang, nothing but yawning space below. Amon was a hundred feet down already, running rope through the pulley, using his legs to kick off from the cliff face. A moment later, he was swallowed by the mist.

He’s done this before, Raisa told herself. How many other secrets was he hiding?

It took the better part of the day to lower the horses, soldiers, and all their supplies down the cliff face to the bottom. The Gray Wolves cut down several thick lodgepole pines and used them to build a hoist for the horses. Amon blindfolded the horses before they lowered them in great leather harnesses fashioned for the purpose. This arrangement kept the horses far from the rocky escarpment, so they couldn’t injure themselves, and kept pony panic and mayhem to a minimum. To Raisa’s relief, the leather strapping held.

Raisa descended halfway through, when there were equal numbers of guards on top and bottom. Aside from a nasty bruise on her elbow where she struck the cliff face once, some rope burns on her hands, and a raw place on her thigh where the strap chafed her, she arrived uninjured. She found the bounding descent exhilarating— like flying. It helped that she couldn’t see all the way to the bottom because of the fog.

Amon seemed vastly relieved when she made it down in one piece. “Just don’t ever mention this to the queen, all right?” he said, as if there weren’t already a whole list of things not to mention to Marianna. “And don’t tell my da you went down on your own.”

By the time everyone was settled at the bottom, the daylight was fading. They pitched their tents in the shadow of the rock wall and struggled to kindle fires in the misty damp. After feeding and watering the horses, they stuffed down a quick cold meal. Nobody said much. The freezing fog seemed to press in on them from all sides.

“I’m surprised nobody is here to greet us,” Amon said. “The Waterwalkers usually keep a close watch on the Cascades. I’d think they’d come meet anyone crazy enough to use the old road. Rivertown’s just a little ways south, right on the river. Tomorrow we’ll stop there and pay our respects and ask permission to pass through.”

The wind picked up as dusk fell, and the mist stirred and eddied like restless spirits. Several times, Raisa thought she saw pale faces gazing at them through the trees, their eyes like dark holes torn in linen corpse wrappers. It was a relief to crawl inside her tent with Talia and Hallie and close the flap, shutting out the weird landscape.

What would it be like to live here full- time, walled in by mist?

The Gray Wolves rose early the next morning and struck camp without prompting. Everyone seemed eager to mount up and ride on.

The Dyrnnewater was like a river transformed. Rough and rowdy above the falls, it became a sluggish, placid, wide river that leaked listlessly into tributaries on all sides.

It was an alien landscape— tall grasses quilted with waterways and no way to tell where the solid ground was. Fallen trees lay everywhere, like a giant’s game of pitch sticks, rotting and covered in a white, leathery fungus. The mist had frozen overnight, and the ground crackled under their boots. Ice glazed the still pools and every blade of grass, twig, and branch, transforming the marsh into a surreal, colorless world.

“It used to be drier here,” Amon said. “They’ve dammed the Tamron River downstream, and water’s backed up into these wetlands. That’s what killed the trees.”

The murk closing around them was oppressive. An enemy could be lurking a few feet away and there’d be no way to know. Plus, the moisture seemed to dampen and distort sound, so Raisa couldn’t tell what direction it came from or how close the source.

Raisa’s teeth chattered, and not just from the cold. It was like walking through a nightmare when at any moment a demon might reach out with cold fingers and grab you, claiming you for the Breaker. The cadets peered about, straining their eyes; their hands never far from their swords. Their usual cheer dissolved in the frigid damp.

After a half hour of walking, they rounded a curve in the river, and Rivertown loomed out of the mist. What was left of it, anyway.

“Blood of the Demon,” Amon whispered. “Who could’ve done this?”

There hadn’t been much to begin with— just a collection of frail stick- built dwellings centered around a small temple at the river’s edge. Now it lay in ruins— most structures knocked down or burnt to the ground. A few boats lay foundered at the edge of the river like empty crab shells, their hulls pierced through or crushed. A series of pilings marched out from the shoreline, the remains of what had been several small docks.

The Gray Wolves dismounted to search the site, looking for traces of those who had once dwelt there. They found no corpses, at least, but perhaps they’d been dumped in the river or the survivors had carried them off.

Amon bent and picked up a rotting fish basket woven of twine and reeds. He turned it in his hands and poked at it gently with his forefinger. “Well, this was Rivertown,” he said grimly. “Looks like nobody’s been here for a couple of months at least.”

“Do you think they were attacked, or did they destroy it themselves before abandoning it?” Raisa asked.

Amon shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’d guess they were attacked or driven off. These people didn’t have much to start with. They’d have taken everything with them, if they could.” Blinking away raindrops, he looked downriver. “Could’ve been freelancers, come up from the south. But it’d be bloody hard to get to for what they got.”

“I wonder where they went,” Raisa said. “The Water walkers, I mean.”

“Who knows?” Amon whistled to recall the other Wolves, who had spread out over the village. “Guess all we can do is go on,” he said, when they had regathered. “Have your weapons to hand and stick close together. Morley, you’re with me.”

They rode on— for miles, it seemed— following the river until, as Amon had predicted, it fragmented into a web of streams in a trackless maze. Raisa had hoped the murk would clear, but it seemed only to thicken. It was impossible to get her bearings by looking at the sky. Up, down, all around— everything was a milky white blank.

The damp cold began at Raisa’s fingers and toes, gradually penetrating her very core until shivers rolled through her. It was possible she would never be warm again.

Amon pulled out his compass and pointed them south. Now that they weren’t following the river, the going got even rougher. They splashed through freezing pools and thickets of sharp-bladed grass that tore at the horses’ legs and the cadets’ heavy canvas trousers. They dismounted and led their horses, worried their mounts would step into hidden holes and end up lamed. The light changed as the sun went down, but there was no other evidence of time passing, save Raisa’s growing weariness and the cavity in her middle that said she hadn’t eaten for hours.

She soldiered on grimly, taking three steps for every one of Amon’s. Several times he caught her when she stumbled, as if he knew she was about to falter.

Finally, the ground rose a bit. The footing became more solid as they passed through a grove of scrubby bushes with thick, leathery leaves lacquered in ice.

Amon grunted in satisfaction. “This is what I was aiming for. This is the highest ground for miles around. It should be as dry as anywhere in the Fens, and if the mist clears, we can take a look around. A little ways on, we can stop for the night.”

Mick groaned. “We have to stay here in this . . . muck another night, sir?”

“Can’t we just keep going?” Garret flexed his gloved hands and slapped them against his thighs, trying to thaw them out. “I’d rather walk than sit and freeze.”

“The headwaters of the river are still a long ways off,” Amon said. “We won’t get clear of this for a few days, not this time of year. Besides, we can’t walk in the dark. We’ll break our necks or end up waist-deep in a bog.”

“Buck up, Garret,” Hallie said, cheerful as usual. “You’ll feel better once we’ve a fire going and you got something in your belly.”

“If we can even build a fire in this wet,” Mick grumbled.

Raisa didn’t like the idea of passing the night in this freezing swamp any more than the rest of them, but she did look forward to a fire. She increased her pace a bit.

They walked single file, leading their horses, the mist so thick they could scarcely see the person in front of them, when a shout from the rear brought the column to a halt.

“Hallie! Where are you?” Long pause. “Don’t you fool around now. Hallie!”

Nothing.

“What is it, Mick?” Amon called from his position in the lead.

“It . . . it’s Hallie, sir. She’s gone.” Hallie had been bringing up the rear.

“Gone? Since when?” Amon asked.

“Within five minutes, I’d guess, sir. I just looked back and she wasn’t there.”

Amon swore. “I told you to stick together.”

“We did,” Mick insisted. “She was right behind me, I swear it.”

“Form up!” Amon shouted, and the Gray Wolves bunched in close, clutching their horses’ reins, faces pale and anxious. “All right. We’ll find her. She can’t be far away.

“Garret, Talia, Morley, and I will build a fire and set up camp. The rest of you, form two teams of three and scout the back trail. Check back here in fifteen minutes. And be careful. Rope yourselves together if you need to. I don’t want to have to explain to my da how I lost my triple in the Fens.”

Ordinarily, there would have been some jibes and catcalls in response to this, but no one seemed to be in a joking mood. The other six cadets disappeared into the mist, walking back the way they’d come.

Raisa methodically laid a fire, pulling dry tinder out of the weatherized pouch at her belt and digging the clan- made fire kindler out of her saddlebags. Amon and Garret raised the tents while Talia stood guard. They set their weapons in easy reach.

Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty, then twenty- five, and none of the other Wolves returned. Raisa soon had a fire going, shielded from prying eyes by a wall of icy reeds and mud. She strung cording up to dry their wet clothing. Digging out the travel bread and smoked meat and dried fruit that would be their supper, she put water on to boil for tea. She forced herself to pretend that everything would be all right.

As the deadline came and went, Amon transitioned from impatient and irritated to tense and uncommunicative. He jumped at every sound, and there were lots of sounds in the surrounding marsh— frozen twigs creaking, and icy marsh grasses hissing as if stroked by unseen hands. The mist eddied and swirled about them, forming monstrous shapes in the firelight.

Amon stood staring down into the flames. The firelight glazed the hard planes of his face. He’s only seventeen, Raisa thought. He’s only a year older than me, yet he’s been given this huge responsibility. If anything happens to the rest of us, he’ll blame himself, since he’s in charge. How is that fair?

Off in the mist, a horse whickered a greeting. Amon sprinted to where the ponies were tethered, his sword in hand. He disappeared into the fog, leading with his blade. “Hallie!” His shout came back to Raisa, muffled by the thick air.

Moments later, he reappeared, leading a riderless pony. “Hallie’s,” he said shortly, tethering it alongside the others.

Talia and Garret scouted the area around the camp, gathering any burnables they could find while being careful to remain within sight. Amon saw to the horses, but did not remove all of their tack, as if anticipating that they might need to leave in a hurry.

Where would we go? Raisa thought. There was nothing to recommend one spot in this trackless maze over another. Nothing to say that one place was safer than another. They might as well stay here, where there was a chance the others might find their way back. She crawled into the tents and began laying out the bedrolls, telling herself that the others would be exhausted and ready to make an early night of it when they returned.

She was finishing up in the third tent when she heard a shout, suddenly cut off. Then running feet and someone crashing through the underbrush, and Amon shouting, “Garret! Talia?”

Raisa froze in place, holding her breath. A moment later she jumped as Amon shoved aside the tent flap and crouched next to her, speaking into her ear. “They’re gone,” he said. “It’s the Waterwalkers, it has to be. I don’t know how many there are, but I think we have to assume we’re outnumbered.”

“Should we make a run for it?” Raisa whispered.

“If we run, we’ll be taken, too. I’m going to try to get them to come to me so we can find out what’s going on. It’s not like them to attack unprovoked.”

“Maybe things have changed since you were here,” Raisa said, then instantly regretted it when she saw the pain and guilt on Amon’s face.

He thrust a saddlebag into her arms. “There’s some food and supplies in here. I’ll go out and ask for a meeting. You stay in here and listen. If things go wrong, slide out the back and run for it. Maybe you’ll be able to avoid them, one person alone.”

What would it be like, to hear Amon murdered, and then go fleeing through this awful swamp on her own with his killers on her heels?

“No. I will not,” Raisa said. “We’ll stay together, no matter what. We’ll die together, if need be.”

“Please, Raisa,” he said, gripping her hands painfully hard. “This is my fault. We shouldn’t have come this way. I thought I knew what we were getting into, but I should have listened to Barlow. Give me a chance to save you, even if I’ve lost the others.”

“We all thought this was our best chance to cross the border,” Raisa said. “Your father included. I’m not going to second-guess it now. No matter what happens, I think we’re safer together.” Raisa crawled to the front of the tent. “Now, let’s go out. I think it’s better to go out to them than to have them come in after us.”

“All right.” Sliding forward, Amon put his hand on her shoulder. “But stay back, will you? I don’t want them to know who you really are. I’m going to call for a parley.”

They emerged into the eerie vacancy of the campsite. Amon fetched his fighting staff from his horse. Resting it on his upturned palms, he lifted it horizontally in front of him, then laid it down on the grass in the middle of the clearing. He stepped back from it, three long paces, then called out something in what Raisa assumed must be the Waterwalker language.

One more language she didn’t know. Why had she never studied it?

The answer was this: her tutors and advisers in Fellsmarch considered the Waterwalkers scarcely more than savages. They did not use metal weapons or tools, they did not ride horses, and they lived simply, in dwellings they moved from place to place.

Amon waited for a response, and when none came, he repeated the call. On the third repetition, shapes materialized out of the mist and came toward them.

There were three of them— a young man, a boy, really, two or three years younger than Raisa, and a man and woman of middle age. They shared the same thick black eyebrows and strong straight noses. They wore pale robelike garments that made them difficult to see in the freezing mist. All carried fighting staffs like Amon’s.

The young man stood facing Amon. In contrast to Amon’s plain weapon, his staff was intricately carved with fish, serpents, and other fantastical creatures. It was small enough to suit his stature and slight build. His attire was more elaborately decorated than that worn by the others, embroidered with pale, silvery thread in a design that mimicked sunlight on wavelets and fish scales.

“Good day, Dimitri,” Amon said in Common, extending his hands toward the young man.

“Corporal.” Dimitri made no move to reciprocate the gesture, but stood, gripping his staff, his face impassive. Amon tilted his head, studying Dimitri’s face, and pulled back his hands, dropping them to his sides.

“Good day, Adoni and Leili,” Amon said, turning to the older man and woman. They stood stiff and expressionless, their staffs angled across their bodies.

After an uncomfortable pause, Dimitri bent and laid his staff on the ground next to Amon’s. He straightened and took a step back.

Amon settled back on his heels, looking relieved.

The older man and woman followed Dimitri’s example, though neither looked happy about it. They flanked Dimitri, standing to either side and a little behind him.

“Shall we speak Common so that we all can understand?” Amon said, extending a hand toward Raisa.

Dimitri looked at his companions, and they shrugged.

“Will you share my fire?” Amon asked, gesturing toward Raisa’s small blaze.

The Waterwalkers scowled, as if reluctant to share even this small token of hospitality from them.

Bones, Raisa thought, shivering. They’re going to kill us for sure.

Finally, Dimitri ripped free his cloak, threw it down on the ground, and sat on it. The others did the same, arranging themselves cross- legged around the fire.

Amon sat down also, and Raisa sat next to him.

“This is Rebecca Morley,” Amon said, touching Raisa’s shoulder.

“Are you two espoused?” Leili asked bluntly. Ironically, Common always sounded more formal than the other languages used in the Seven Realms.

“No.” Amon shook his head, color staining his cheeks. “She’s a cadet. A first year.”

“Another soldier, then,” Dimitri said.

“Not a soldier,” Amon said. “A student only.”

“Still a soldier,” Dimitri said, looking at Adoni and Leili, who nodded. Raisa’s prickling unease intensified. They are his counselors, she thought. He looks to them for guidance. And they hate us.

“You are lord now?” Amon asked Dimitri.

“I am,” Dimitri said, self- consciously fingering the intricately embroidered hems of his sleeves.

“What about your father?” Amon asked in his direct fashion. “Where is he?”

“My father died at Rivertown,” Dimitri said.

“I’m sorry to hear about Lord Cadri,” Amon said. “How did it happen?”

“Why have you come here with soldiers?” Dimitri burst out.

“We’re traveling through,” Amon said, “on our way to the academy at Oden’s Ford. I stopped at Rivertown to ask a traveler’s blessing, and found it gone.”

“Yes,” Dimitri said. “Rivertown is gone. Destroyed by Fellsian soldiers at midsummer.”

Sweet Hanalea! Raisa opened her mouth, then closed it again without speaking.

“They told me at the West Wall that there’s been trouble along the border,” Amon said. “What is going on?”

The older man spoke in the marsh language, his hands slicing the air. Dimitri glanced at Raisa, then translated quickly. “The Queen of the Fells sends us a Dyrnnewater full of poisons. It grows worse by the day. Fish cannot live in it. It kills the plants we gather for food. Our children sicken and die. Yet when we complain, she does nothing. It’s been a problem for a long time, but now it’s worse than it’s ever been.”

Amon nodded. “I know. Refugees from the Ardenine Wars have crowded into Fellsmarch. They camp along the banks and empty their slop jars into the river. It’s made a bad situation worse.”

The river had been bad as long as Raisa could remember. The sewer systems in Fellsmarch had been built hundreds of years ago, during some prosperous and public- spirited season in the past. Now, with the cost of maintaining a mercenary army and dwindling taxes due to the wartime drop- off in trade, there never seemed to be enough money to pay for repairs.

The clans complained that they sent a clean river out of the high eastern Spirits only to have the Vale dwellers use it as a repository for filth.

“If we can no longer feed our families,” Dimitri went on, “we have no choice but to take from others, especially those who caused this problem. So we’ve sent raiders across the border, and taken foodstuffs from Tamron and the Fells.”

“And the guard destroyed Rivertown in retaliation,” Amon said.

Dimitri nodded. “Yes. I was away at the time. They came down from the fortress at the top of the escarpment, using the road that you and I built. They burned or knocked down all the houses, pierced our boats, destroyed the docks, took all of our nets, our tools, the dried fish and grain we had stored for the winter. They killed everyone who didn’t run away, from the oldest crone to the youngest baby. They bound the children hand and foot, and threw them living into the river to drown.”

Raisa recalled what Barlow had said. The Waterwalkers been raiding over the border, stealing livestock and food. We put a stop to it.

“Blood and bones,” she whispered. “I am so sorry.”

Dimitri glanced at Raisa, frowned in disapproval, then turned back to Amon. “My mother is dead, and my sisters. Most of the men of the village were killed, my father and his father, my brothers, all of my uncles except Adoni. Those who escaped are all crowded into Hallowmere, by the sea.”

Dimitri gestured helplessly. “Those that remain alive will likely starve this winter. We take some fish from the sea, but our boats are not built for the winter storms on Leewater. And our food stores for the winter have been destroyed.”

“Dimitri, Adoni, Leili, this cannot stand,” Amon said, his gray eyes dark with anger. “I will not let it stand. Do you know who commanded those that attacked you?”

“What does it matter?” Leili said with quiet bitterness. “Soldiers are all the same.” She extended her empty arms. “My babies are dead.”

“I am lord now, replacing my father,” Dimitri said. “Uncle Adoni and cousin Leili are my counselors. We’ve continued to cross the border and take what we can from the uplanders. We’ve destroyed the new road, which will make it difficult to move men, horses, and weapons in. But eventually the up -landers will slide down the escarpment and attack Hallowmere, and we expect to be pushed into the sea. We are in a fight to the death. So you understand why we do not welcome soldiers here.”

“We’re not here for fighting. You know that,” Amon said.

“Do we?” Adoni replied, his face hard and impassive.

“Where are the other cadets?” Amon asked, meeting Dimitri’s eyes. “Are they still alive?”

“They are still alive,” Dimitri said. Raisa’s heart rose, until he said, “But not for long.”

“You know me, and you know my father,” Amon said. He sat very straight, his hands on his knees. “My father saved your father’s life. We’ve never lied to you. All we want is to go on to Tamron, and leave you in peace.”

“There is no peace,” Dimitri said. “Not anymore.”

Adoni leaned toward Dimitri and said something in the marsh language.

“My uncle says my debt has been paid with the lives of my father and uncles. The Fells owes us gylden for hundreds of lives. Your deaths will help repay that debt.”

“My father had nothing to do with the destruction of Rivertown,” Amon replied. “He would never drown a child. He probably doesn’t even know about it.”

“He is the captain of the Queen’s Guard,” Leili said in Common. “He is responsible, along with the queen and the army. Perhaps the loss of his son will help him recognize the pain he’s caused.”

“You and your companions will die honorably,” Adoni conceded, “because your father is an honorable man.”

“You know I am not your enemy,” Amon said, looking at each of the Waterwalkers in turn. “Nor are my cadets. My father has a voice at court. If you let us go, I’ll make sure he speaks on your behalf. Killing us won’t help anything, and you’ll turn him against you. You’ll create a debt of honor you can never repay.”

Raisa knew what else he was thinking: If you kill the princess heir, there would be no chance of reconciliation. Ever.

“I’m sorry,” Dimitri said. “You were my friend. Maybe we can be friends again in the afterlife. But not on this earth. Too many deaths divide us now.”

He’s given up, Raisa thought. He thinks it’s over. He’s like a dead person, walking around, waiting to stop breathing. And his people will pay the price.

Raisa stared out into the mist, blinking away icy raindrops and tears of frustration. The fog swirled and coalesced, and a giant gray- white she- wolf sat facing her, its tongue lolling over razor- sharp teeth. Its green eyes gleamed in the firelight, and a rime of glittering ice silvered its fur.

The Gray Wolf— totem of Raisa’s line. Meaning risk. Op -por tunity. A turning point.

I refuse to die here, Raisa said to the wolf. I’m just sixteen. I have too much to do.

The wolf shook itself, flinging bits of ice into the fire. The flames sputtered and popped, sending sparks skyward. It bared its teeth, growling, followed by three sharp yips.

Was it some kind of sign? A pathway to follow?

Raisa came up on her knees, leaning forward, hands clenched. “If you intended to kill us all along,” she said to Dimitri, “why did you even agree to a meeting?”

They all three stared at her, her fury taking them by surprise.

“You call yourself the leader of your people. If you are, you need to save them.”

Dimitri blinked at her. “You don’t understand,” he began.

“I think I do,” Raisa said. “Rivertown was destroyed. Your family was killed. It’s an awful thing. You’re overwhelmed with sorrow. You feel paralyzed. Anyone would, in your place. But you are not allowed the luxury of wallowing in grief.”

Amon gripped Raisa’s knee. “Morley, shut up,” he growled.

“He needs to hear this,” Raisa said. “He’s going to kill us anyway, so what does it matter if he doesn’t like it?” She stood and strode back and forth, pounding her fist into her palm in emphasis. “You know we’re not your enemies. You know we’re no danger to you. And you know that killing us won’t keep the Fellsian army out of your territory. The only reason to kill us is for revenge, to balance the debt you feel is owed you by the queen of the Fells.”

She swung around, facing Adoni and Leili. “It’s so easy. Your counselors are encouraging you to do it. They’re grieving also, and it’ll feel good in the short run. You’ll feel like you’re doing something, when right now you feel helpless.

“But you’re responsible for your people, and killing us will do your people harm. Rulers don’t get to do the easy thing. You don’t get to do what you want to do.”

Amon sat frozen, hands resting on his thighs, as if by moving he might set off an explosion. Adoni and Leili stared at her with a mixture of astonishment and annoyance.

“Be quiet, girl,” Adoni growled. “We don’t need a fledgling upland soldier to lecture us about what we can and cannot do.”

But Dimitri raised his hand to quiet his uncle without taking his eyes off Raisa. “I don’t get to take revenge, you say. What do I get to do?” he asked dryly.

“You get to make the decision that’s best for the Fens, regardless of your own desires. Regardless of tradition. You get to do the smart thing. If you let us go, Corporal Byrne will take your grievance to his father and to the queen. He’ll be an advocate for you, and I will too.”

Raisa realized that promise might be difficult to keep, given her self- imposed exile status. She’d find a way. Somehow. If she survived the day.

She returned to the fire and squatted in front of Dimitri. “What’s most likely to benefit your people— murdering us or letting us go?”

“This girl is a witch- talker,” Leili said to Dimitri. “Why should we believe her?”

Dimitri laced his hands and tapped his forefingers against his chin, thinking.

Perhaps suspecting that his nephew was wavering, Adoni spoke up. “Lord Dimitri, we could let Corporal Byrne go. That would make Captain Byrne beholden to you. Then kill the rest,” he said. He glared at Raisa, as if she might be first on the list.

“That’s not acceptable,” Amon said. “I’m responsible for my triple. I won’t ride away and leave them to die. Do you think my da would welcome back a coward?”

“That’s your choice,” Leili said, shrugging. “Stay and die with them if you insist.”

Dimitri kept staring at Raisa, as if studying her face for clues. Raisa looked past him to where the gray wolf waited in the forest. Dimitri stiffened, blinked, and rubbed his eyes.

The wolf stood, shook itself, and trotted into the mist, its brushlike tail the last thing to disappear.

Dimitri rose abruptly, his face pale and set. “Leili, Adoni, let us talk in private.” They walked a little distance away. There ensued an intense discussion.

“Just go,” Amon said to Raisa. “I’ll distract them so you can get away.”

“No,” Raisa said. “I’m staying. He needs the chance to make the right decision. If I run, it will look like a trick, and they’ll kill you and everyone else.”

“Gaah. We’re probably surrounded anyway,” Amon muttered, squinting into the mist. “You’re crazy, you know that, don’t you?” he added, without looking at her.

No, not crazy, Raisa thought. I’m angry. I’m sick and appalled by what’s been done in the name of the Gray Wolf line.

The three Waterwalkers returned to the fire. Adoni and Leili looked grievously unhappy, which gave Raisa hope.

“I have come to a decision,” Dimitri announced. “We will allow you and your cadets to live, Corporal, so you can take our grievance back to your father and he can use his influence with the queen. You both give your word that you will do that?” He looked from Amon to Raisa. “The witch- talker included?”

“I will do everything in my power to see your grievances addressed,” Raisa said, then bit her lip, realizing that she didn’t sound much like a soldier.

“Where do you find cadets like this, Corporal Byrne?” Dimitri raised an eyebrow. He turned to Adoni and Leili. “Go and bring the other soldiers,” he said. “I’ll wait with the up -landers.” When they hesitated, he added, “As I said. These are not our enemies.”

Dimitri’s counselors left the campsite, looking back over their shoulders.

Dimitri waited until they were well out of earshot, then said, “One of our raiding parties brought back news from the uplands. They said that the princess heir of the Fells has run off.” He looked directly at Raisa as he said it.

Amon shifted slightly forward, putting himself between Raisa and Dimitri.

“Why do you think she left?” Dimitri said, still looking at Raisa.

“Maybe she wanted to find out what was really going on in the world, so she could be a better ruler,” Raisa said, shrugging, feeling the heat of Amon’s disapproval.

“They say she already goes her own way,” Dimitri said. “They say she founded a program to educate and feed poor people in your capital, called the Briar Rose Ministry.”

“She does what she can, Lord Dimitri,” Raisa said. “Briar Rose is the princess heir’s clan name and emblem. Here, I’ll show you.” Crossing the campsite to where the ponies were tethered, she reached into her saddlebag, careful to move slowly and deliberately. She pulled out a length of silk embroidered with her rose-and- thorn motif. Returning to Dimitri, she handed it to him.

“This scarf bears the emblem of the princess heir. Once the princess returns to Fellsmarch, you can use it as a token. If you ever need her help, or need to get a message to her, send this scarf along with the messenger, and I guarantee you will be heard.”

Dimitri stood immobile for a long moment, the fabric draped over his hands. Then he carefully tucked the scarf away, inside his tunic, and inclined his head. “One day, my lady, the princess heir will be queen. And she will owe gylden to me.” He smiled.

Raisa smiled at Dimitri. “Aye, she will,” she said. “And one day, perhaps you’ll teach Princess Raisa sticking.”

“I’ll look forward to it. For now, I’ll send my own token to her as a reminder of me.” Dimitri picked up his staff, laid it across his two palms, and extended it toward Raisa. “For the future queen of the Fells. I’ve nearly outgrown it anyway,” he added, stretching himself as tall as he could.

Raisa accepted the staff gravely, feeling the balanced weight of it in her hands. “I’ll see she gets it. It looks to be just the right size.”

Lord Dimitri turned to Amon. “I’m going to give back your soldiers’ weapons. But I need your promise that they won’t use them on us.”

A dozen Waterwalkers emerged from the mist, led by Adoni and Leili, and shepherding Mick, Talia, Hallie, and the other missing Gray Wolves. The cadets collected into a group, looking from Amon and Raisa to their captors, saying nothing.

Garret and Hallie appeared bruised and battered, as if they’d put up a stiff fight. The rest seemed shaken, but otherwise not the worse for wear.

“Return their weapons,” Dimitri said. The Waterwalkers passed back swords, daggers, belt knives, bows, and quivers. The marsh dwellers handled the metal pieces with obvious distaste. Raisa slid her new staff into her baldric alongside her sword.

Dimitri drew a rough map in the dirt to show them the way. “The mist should clear as you head south. You’ll find the head-waters of the Tamron two days’ walk away.” He offered them waybread for the journey, but Amon politely declined, no doubt thinking of the Waterwalkers starving at Hallowmere.

They mounted up and turned their ponies south once again, relying on Amon’s clan- made pointer stone and Dimitri’s directions. None of the Wolves looked back, as if by doing so they might break whatever spell had overcome their captors.

Hallie waited until they were well away before she heeled her horse up alongside Amon’s. “What happened back there? I thought you were both dead and we were soon to be, when all of a sudden they untie us and lead us back to camp and treat us like it was all some kind of mistake.”

“Morley here explained to Lord Dimitri all about the responsibilities of a ruler,” Amon said. His gray eyes studied Raisa with a fierce curiosity, as if he might somehow figure out what kind of magic she’d done.

“Huh?” Hallie looked from Raisa to Amon. “I don’t get it.”

“It seems Morley’s a witch- talker,” Amon said, and despite Hallie’s questions, wouldn’t explain further.

Chapter Six Flatland Demons

Han and Dancer left Delphi early the morning after the card game, without seeing Cat Tyburn again. Han wondered what she would decide to do— stay in Delphi, travel on, or go back home.

The bluejacket at the border had been right about one thing—Arden south of Delphi was a dangerous place. Han and Dancer rode through a landscape scarred by war— burnt- out farmsteads and crops beaten down by the boots of soldiers. If Prince Geoff was meaning to declare victory, like the server had said, he’d have his work cut out for him.

Rough- looking mercenary types and armed soldiers jammed the roads, in and out of uniform, some bearing the unfamiliar signia of the various warring families: the Red Hawk, the Double Eagle, the Tower on the Water, and the Raven in the Tree.

Han and Dancer avoided them all. The last thing they wanted was to be impressed into some lordling’s army to die in a stranger’s war. They slept in the woods, often without the comfort of a fire, which might draw attention from unfriendly eyes. Their many detours were costing them precious time.

As they traveled south, the hills flattened into high plateaus, then declined into wide plains and stretches of wood where wind, water, and man contoured the land. Even in the woods, Han felt oddly exposed and vulnerable. He was used to the comforting frame of mountains and hills, walls and buildings, defining and shortening the horizon.

Han couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling they were being watched and followed. He set trip- wire charms around their campsites, but left off doing that when raccoons kept them up all night. Nothing more dangerous tried to approach them. He put his worries down to the unfamiliar terrain and lingering thoughts about pursuit from the Fells.

Han could see why Arden was called the breadbasket of the Seven Realms. The soil was deep and rich and black, less prone to growing rocks than the rough, bony skeleton of the Fells. Han had hoped they could supplement their waybread and sausage and dried fruit with fresh food from farms along the way. But they found little to forage and less to buy. It was as if some plague from the Breaking time had swept across the fields, taking with it every edible thing.

Although the autumn days grew shorter, and mist shrouded the fields in the mornings, the weather seemed stubbornly stuck in late summer. They traveled just fast enough to stay ahead of the change of seasons.

When they could no longer stand the stench of bodies too long on the road, or stomach another meal of bread and hard sausage, they stopped at inns, avoiding the common room save for their evening meal. They wore their amulets, but kept them hidden under their shirts, hoping to avoid trouble in a realm where magic was forbidden.

At the inns, Han and Dancer paid for candles, retired to their room, and pored over books of charms that Elena had procured for them. In camp, they practiced working with magic, taking advantage of Dancer’s limited experience. Through the long hours on horseback, they kept their hands on their amulets, storing up power for the days ahead.

Dancer studied another book on his own— thin and battered, with onionskin pages written in Clan and illustrated with line drawings of amulets and talismans. He drew magical objects and emblems of power in his journal.

He’s not given up on being a flash crafter, whatever Elena says, Han thought.

Though he was bone- weary every night, Han often slept restlessly, the serpent amulet cradled in his hands. Some nights he was plagued by bizarre nightmares, images of places he’d never seen, people he’d never met. He never quite remembered these dreams, but he awoke groggy, his head aching, as if he’d continued his studies long into the night.

After the episode at the border, Han was wary of magical accidents, but as he gained better control, there were no more spurts of power. He could plant a thorn hedge anywhere he wanted. Useless, most of the time, but it was the fanciest charm he knew.

Sometimes he was prickled by worry. If this amulet had once belonged to the Demon King, and he had used it as Han was now doing, it might be loaded up with dark, demon magic. Maybe it would drive Han lack- witted, just like its previous owner.

But these worries couldn’t compete with the seductive attraction of the flashpiece, with its ability to draw power and give it back transformed. The charms he and Dancer tried were simple and practical. These days, they never needed flint and steel to kindle a fire—they could conjure it out of the air. They studied charms to calm horses and entice fish out of the streams and into their hands. They used travelers’ charms to discourage mosquitoes, make knots fast, and keep rain from soaking their clothes.

At times, Han sizzled with impatience, frustrated by their travel delays and worried there’d be too much to learn and not enough time. How long would it take to learn everything he needed to know? And what would he do with the knowledge then? Serve as bravo for the clans, as he’d promised? Battle the Wizard Council on behalf of a queen who’d betrayed him and probably didn’t want his help anyway? Or could he find a way to use it for his own purposes?

If only his gift had been freed soon enough to save his mother and sister. Now it seemed like the height of irony— a remedy delivered after the patient had died.

The clan elders didn’t care about that. Lord Averill and Elena Cennestre had cuffed and bound him, strangling off the magic that now torrented through him. They’d watched him struggle to feed his family on the streets of Ragmarket, and never opened that spigot of power until it suited their purpose. By then, Mam and Mari were dead.

Han would give his loyalty to certain people— like Dancer’s mother, Willo, Matriarch of Marisa Pines; Speaker Jemson of Southbridge Temple; the hermit Lucius Frowsley; plus Cat and Dancer. Otherwise, he’d serve himself, waiting and watching until he could take advantage. He wouldn’t play the fool anymore.

As they approached the city of Ardenscourt, traffic on the road thickened. Soldiers swarmed thick as thieves in Ragmarket. Han and Dancer took to traveling in daytime. It was better to be lost in a crowd in daylight than stand out in the dark.

Close to the capital, the farms were larger and seemed to be under some powerful lord’s protection— likely King Geoff. Peasants toiled in the fields, harvesting wheat and oats and beans and hay, with armed guards overseeing them. Han wondered if the guards were there to protect the farmers, or to keep them at their work.

Apple trees groaned under the burden of fruit— varieties that Han had never seen before, green and yellow and pink, as well as red. The Red Hawk of Arden flew from estate houses along the road, and soldiers wore the signia everywhere. The newly declared Montaigne king held the capital city and the estates surrounding it in an iron grip, but his influence didn’t seem to extend far into the countryside.

They encountered more flatland temples built in the austere style of the Church of Malthus. They passed groups of priests and holy sisters, like flocks of black crows to Han’s eyes.

“Their priests are all men, I hear,” Dancer said. “Strange.”

“What do the sisters do?” Han asked.

“Pray, mostly. Sing and teach. Do good works.”

Han and Dancer planned to circle around the city and intersect Tamron Road to the west, but they soon realized that the city was huge, spread out, and sloppy, and it would take them far out of their way to ride clear around it.

That night, they stopped at an inn on the outskirts. It drew a mixed crowd— soldiers and farmers and even a Malthus crow or two.

Dinner was chicken legs and brown bread, with cloyingly sweet southern cider. At home, a fire on the hearth would be welcome this time of year, but on this balmy evening the door stood open and the hearth lay cold.

A half dozen men occupied two tables, loudly demanding food and drink whenever they ran short. They had the look of soldiers, but wore no signia or uniform. One of them, a stocky man in his early twenties with a stubble of beard, had an incandescence about him that said he was gifted and leaking magic.

Han eyed him curiously. The soldier must have an amulet, perhaps hidden under his shirt, but he didn’t seem to know the trick of drawing magic off to dim his aura. A good thing for him that only other gifted could see it.

A veiled Malthusian sister sat alone at a table nearest the door. A half- empty plate sat before her, but she kept the barman coming and going, refilling her mug.

The maids of Malthus like their ale, Han thought, amused. He’d seen at least one in every tavern and common room since they’d reached the flatlands.

In contrast, the tall, skinny Malthusian priest huddling in the back corner picked at his supper, engrossed in a large, leather-bound book with onionskin pages. Several oversized golden keys hung from a cord around the priest’s waist, his only ornamentation save for elaborate jeweled spectacles dangling from a chain around his neck.

The priest looked up suddenly and caught Han staring at him. Scowling, he bent his head over the holy book on the table. Han guessed it was a holy book, anyway. It was hard to imagine this sour- faced pudding- sleeve reading a romance or an adventure story. Oddly, the priest didn’t use his spectacles for reading text.

Han finished his meal and sat back, relaxed and sociable.

“You ready to go up?” Dancer said, having finished long before Han. As usual, Dancer was eager to go upstairs to read and study charms, away from the crowd.

Han, however, had no desire to leave the common room and hide out in their tiny, windowless room in the attic. It would be stuffy and hot, and they’d have to sit in the dark or pay for candles, since there was no natural light. Plus, one of the pretty servers had winked at him, and he was waiting to see what developed.

“Let’s stay a little while,” Han said, slathering butter on soft tavern bread, so different from their hard waybiscuits.

Dancer shrugged and nodded, yawning to make his position clear.

The priest had raised his peculiar spectacles to his eyes and scanned the room. When his gaze swept across Han and Dancer, he stiffened and fixed on them, his eyes unnaturally large and owl- like through the lenses.

The priest lowered the spectacles and glared at them. “Sinners!” he said. “Idolators!”

Han and Dancer sat frozen for a long moment. “Does he mean us, do you suppose?” Dancer asked without moving his lips.

“How can he tell we’re sinners?” Han whispered, aiming for a look of polite confusion. Was that what the spectacles were for? Identifying sinners?

The priest rose in a swish of fabric and stalked toward them, one arm extended, the other clutching his rising- sun pendant like a wizard might grip an amulet. “Repent, northerners!” he said. “Repent and accept the holy church and ye shall be saved.”

Han stood and nodded toward the stairs. Perhaps if they just retired upstairs, as Dancer had suggested, it would calm the man.

“Leave off, Father Fossnaught,” the gifted soldier said, grinning. “If you drove out the sinners, this place would lose all its patrons.”

Two other soldiers rose and gathered up Father Fossnaught’s books and papers, handing them to the priest. “You go on home and pray for them, all right?” one said.

The priest departed, flinging black looks over his shoulder.

“Thank you,” Han said to the gifted soldier. “Does he do this very often?”

“Father Fossnaught is harmless— just a bit overzealous in sharing the good news of the Church of Malthus,” the soldier said. “No harm done, I hope.” He stuck out his hand, and Han took it, wondering if the soldier would notice the sting of wizardry.

In addition to leaking power, the stranger’s hand was heavily calloused from weapons. “Name’s Marin Karn,” he said. “I’ll buy another round to make up for your trouble.” He gestured toward the bar. “Cider, was it?”

Han nodded, seeing no way out. He wanted to decline, and he knew Dancer did too. If they’d gone upstairs to begin with, the incident would never have happened. But it seemed smart not to offend those who had intervened on their behalf. Particularly since they were soldiers. Particularly since this Karn might know they were gifted.

Karn fetched two mugs of cider from the bar.

“So, seems you two are northerners, from your speech,” Karn said, pulling a chair over to their table. “What brings you to Arden?”

“We’re traders,” Han said, following their established story. He took a swig of cider, which tasted more bitter than sweet. Must be the dregs at the bottom of the barrel. “We’ve got the finest fabrics, beads, and trimwork you’ll see in all the Seven Realms. Do you have a special lady friend? We got fancies that would win any lady’s heart.”

Karn shook his head. “No, no lady friend.” He eyed Han speculatively, then leaned close and said, “You wouldn’t have any magical pieces, would you?”

Han shook his head. “That an’t allowed here in the flatlands.”

Karn laughed. “Just checking, my lad. Have to ask. No harm meant.”

“You and your comrades,” Dancer said. “Are you king’s men?” Likely, Dancer wondered if Karn was inquiring after magical pieces in any official capacity.

“Us?” Karn shrugged noncommittally. “We’re sell- swords, between assignments, I guess you’d say. We’re waiting to see how it all comes out.”

Dancer yawned again, resting his chin on his fist, looking even more droopy- eyed than before. He’d downed his cider quickly, probably hoping they could go on upstairs.

Han took another long swallow of cider, draining it nearly to the bottom. There it was again, that bitter taste against the cloying sweetness. His mind seemed fuzzy and unfocused.

He looked over at Dancer, who now lay sprawled over the table, head down, his breathing deep and even.

“Guess your friend’s had enough,” Karn said. “He drank it up kind of fast.”

Dancer had, but cider didn’t have the kick that . . .

Turtleweed. Han blinked at Karn, clubbed by the realization. It was turtleweed, and lots of it, mixed into the cider. Turtleweed would knock you out in no time.

Gripping the hilt of his knife, Han yanked it free. He tried to rise, but his body no longer responded to his commands. He was overpowered by fatigue, his eyes drooping, shut of their own accord.

“There, now,” Karn said, wresting his knife from him. “Guess that cider was stronger than you thought. We’d better help you two home.”

“Leave go. We’re staying here,” Han mumbled in protest. His lips felt numb.

Karn thrust his meaty hand under Han’s shirt and grasped the serpent amulet.

“Aaaaagh!” he shrieked, letting go of it and slapping his hand against his thigh.

Han curled protectively around the flashpiece. “Leave it be, you angling lully prigger, or I’ll . . .” He trailed off, unable to remember what he meant to do.

Karn made no further attempt on the amulet. Instead, he and one of the other soldiers hauled Han to his feet. Two other soldiers dragged Dancer out the door.

What is this? Han thought, clutching his amulet and ineffectually scuffing his feet against the floor. What do they want from us?

And then he didn’t think anything anymore.

* * *

Han awoke to a crashing turtleweed headache and a sick stomach. Sign of poor- quality product. He’d never dealt in that kind of stuff.

He lay on a straw pallet on a stone floor, covered with a filthy wool blanket. Once his head stopped spinning, he gingerly sat up. It wasn’t easy— his hands were bound tightly together behind his back, his ankles bound also. He tested the knots, trying to slide his hands free or rub the cords loose on the stone floor. He got nowhere, ending with bruised and skinned wrists. His wrists were wrapped so tightly his fingers felt like fat, clumsy sausages. He was all dressed up like a warm mark on Temple Day.

Dancer lay facedown a few feet away, similarly bound, still sound asleep. They lay in a dark room, faintly illuminated by the moonlight that sieved through the tightly shuttered windows and under the door. Cool night air leaked through imperfections in the wall and ran along the floor, chilling Han. There was no stink of the city in the air. The rattle of branches overhead and chirp of crickets said they were out in the country.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.