“Mellony, you’re fourteen,” Raisa snapped. “You don’t know anything about love.”
“And you do?” Mellony spat. She stood, drawing herself up to her full height. “I’m grown up, Raisa—old enough to marry. When are you going to notice that? Why did you have to be the older sister?”
She turned on her heel and walked out.
C H A P T E R F O R T Y - S E V E N
TRADER
Bird and Dancer were waiting for Han at Lucius Frowsley’s cabin. It was just past sunrise, the light still frail and slanting, the dew heavy on the grasses.
“Thank the Lady,” Bird said, when Han emerged from the trees, brushing aside shrubbery.
“What’s wrong?” Dancer said, studying him. “Didn’t you find it?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Han said. He hadn’t realized that his street face had slipped. He slapped the heavy carry bag. “I have it. See?”
Bird squeezed his shoulder. “Good work, Hunts Alone.”
“Did you organize a meeting?” Han asked, to change the subject.
Bird nodded. “It’s a few miles to the temporary camp,” she said. “They agreed to meet as soon as you arrive.” She squinted up at the brightening sky. “We’ll have to convene under the trees. None of the portable lodges will hold so many.”
A gauntlet of Demonai warriors lined their way into camp. They stood, tight-lipped, on either side of the trail, painted and braided for war, their longbows slack in their hands.
From the number of lodges and cooking hearths, it appeared that all of Marisa Pines was there—everyone who had survived the arrival of the southerners, anyway. More warriors were arriving from Demonai Camp every day. This would be the staging area for any recapture of the capital, now that Marisa Pines Camp had been destroyed.
Runners went ahead to announce their arrival. Bird and Dancer had brought Han clan garb to replace his rank, bloodstained clothing, and he’d washed off blood and filth in a stream along the way. Bird straightened his broken fingers and splinted them, and treated his other wounds as best she could. The ones she could see, anyway.
Han hid his serpent amulet beneath his buckskin shirt. The Lone Hunter flashpiece Dancer had made him was lost to the Bayars, along with his replacement rowan talisman.
He gimped along, still wearing the evidence of the Bayars’ torture and his underground battle with Gavan Bayar.
Han knew he should have visited Aediion to thank Crow for saving his life. But he wasn’t eager to explain to his vengeful ancestor why he might stand by and allow his enemy, Micah Bayar, to marry the queen—if that’s who she’d chosen. He hadn’t mentioned it to any of his living friends, either. Still keeping secrets, he thought.
Bird slung the heavy carry bag over her own shoulder. She’d been especially solicitous of Han, as if wanting to make up for past missteps.
Willo awaited them at the edge of camp. When she saw Han and Dancer, she ran forward. She reached Han first, embracing him, her touch soothing his damaged body and wounded spirit.
Taking a step back, she looked into his eyes, laying a hand along his cheek. “All will be well, Hunts Alone,” she whispered, as if he were wearing his broken heart on the outside.
She turned to Dancer, who gripped his mother’s shoulders. “He is dead, Willo Cennestre,” he said. “My father is dead.”
She stared at Dancer, nearly eye to eye. “Bayar is dead? I thought…Did you…?”
Dancer shook his head. “He found the death he deserved, but I did not kill him. Hunts Alone can tell you more about it.”
Willo and Dancer embraced, swaying a little, Willo stroking Dancer’s hair, smiling and crying at the same time.
At least there’s that, Han thought. Bayar is dead. The architect of so much pain and suffering. Maybe Willo can rest easier now.
Finally, Willo and Dancer pulled apart. She blotted her face with her sleeve and said, “They are waiting for you.” She paused, then added in a low voice, “Be careful.”
The other elders stood, hard-faced and wary, around a makeshift stone hearth in a small clearing. Several of the clan leadership were bandaged up—evidence of recent skirmishes.
Lord Averill stood a little apart from the others, wearing a Demonai battle tunic and leggings. His gray hair was braided, and his clothing was stained with blood, though Han didn’t know if it was Averill’s own or someone else’s.
Elena Cennestre, too, was in battle dress, multiple talismans strung onto a chain around her neck and woven into her braids.
“Hunts Alone,” she said, black eyes like obsidian. “Welcome to our hearth.” Her stance and body language belied the words.
“Who do you speak for, Alister?” Averill said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “For the Wizard Council—as High Wizard?”
“I speak for myself,” Han said. He sat down on the ground, and Bird and Dancer flanked him on either side. Willo took her place with Elena and Averill, the other clan royalty present, and Shilo Trailblazer sat with a handful of watchful warriors, their hands on their weapons.
“Lord Bayar and his daughter Fiona are dead,” Han said, without further preamble.
“How did this happen?” Elena demanded after a moment’s stunned silence. “Who deserves credit for this kill?”
Han hesitated, glancing at Bird and Dancer, unsure if they wanted to be named or not.
“Night Bird Demonai killed Fiona, to save Hunts Alone’s life,” Dancer said. “Hunts Alone killed Lord Bayar.”
This drew a mixed reaction—approval for the deaths of the Bayars, disapproval of the context.
Han held up his hand. “In truth, it’s too bad we are still killing wizards, because we will need every gifted hand to drive out the southerners.”
Approval turned to disapproval on nearly every face.
“What help has your kind offered so far?” Shilo said, eyebrows raised, her gaze resting pointedly on Han and Dancer. “Most are hiding in the countryside.”
“Fire Dancer, Bird, and I have a plan to break the siege on Fellsmarch Castle and drive the southerners back where they came from.”
“Let’s hear it, then,” Averill said, folding his arms.
“It will require you to work with the gifted,” Han said. “Can you manage that? Otherwise, this is a waste of time.”
“What do you mean when you say, ‘work with them’?” Elena asked.
Han sat forward. “The gifted need better weapons, and you’re the ones can provide them.”
“Weapons they will use on us,” Elena said.
“Let him speak, Elena Cennestre,” Willo said. “You’ll have your turn.”
Han plowed on. “You need to work with the Wizard Council—and not just when it comes to giving them powerful flashcraft. The clans are not skilled at flatland fighting, and we have only a handful of highlander soldiers. You are going to have to fight alongside the gifted to have any chance at all of breaking that siege.”
“We cannot join forces with jinxflingers, Hunts Alone, and you know it,” Elena said. “The Nǽming—”
“You had no problem sending Hunts Alone against the Bayars,” Willo said.
“The Nǽming has kept us in splinters for a thousand years,” Han said. “Either we set it aside, or we bend our knee to Arden.”
Averill scowled. “This sounds to me like a wizard scheme to gain access to flashcraft that we have denied them since they threatened the Gray Wolf line.”
“Look. I have one priority—rescuing the queen,” Han said. “And I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make that happen. If you’re not, well…”
Averill flinched, and Han knew he’d hit home.
“Do you think that we don’t want to drive out the southerners?” Elena came up on her knees. “Do you know how many of us have died in the mountains already?”
“You cannot seriously suggest that rescuing my own daughter is not important to me,” Averill said. “But we cannot do as you ask. We cannot arm our enemies.”
“If you
don’t, I will,” Han said. He motioned to Bird, who handed him the carry bag. “Have you heard of the Armory of the Gifted Kings?”
Elena’s face darkened. “Of course we have heard of it,” she said. “Fortunately, it no longer exists.”
Han reached into the bag with both hands, lifting out the Crimson Crown. “Actually, it does. I know where it is, and here is proof.”
Han could tell by their expressions that they recognized the crown he held in his hands.
“Where did you get that?” Averill demanded. “It should have been destroyed centuries ago.”
“Like I said—it came from the armory.”
“Give it here,” Elena said, imperiously extending her hand.
After a moment’s hesitation, Han handed it over. Elena fingered the metal, raised it up with both hands, turning it this way and that in the sunlight.
Finally, she nodded, her expression speaking before she did. “It’s authentic,” she said. With obvious reluctance, she handed it back.
“How do we know this came from the armory?” Shilo argued. “Maybe the Bayars had it hidden away all this time. Maybe he’s working with them.”
“Fire Dancer and I were there when the Bayars died, remember,” Bird said, putting her hand on Dancer’s arm. “Unless you think we’re all working for them.”
Elena’s eyes were fixed on Han. “You demand that we set the Nǽming aside for what?” she said. “What is the trade?”
“You do as I say or I hand the armory to the Wizard Council to arm them against the southerners,” Han said. “Once that cat is out of the bag, there’s no stuffing it back in. And they won’t be beholden to you at all.”
Averill stood, his eyes alight with rage. “How dare you dictate to us, you demon-blooded jinxflinger?” His trader face was gone. He was a Demonai warrior, through and through.
“He is what you and Elena Cennestre created, Lightfoot,” Willo said, standing herself. “He’s offering you the same kind of choice you gave him.”
“There is another choice,” Elena said, every fiber in her body projecting threat, her hand on her Demonai talisman. “Arrows are faster than jinxes.”
The Demonai warriors nocked arrows, drawing their bowstrings taut. Somehow, everybody was standing now, Dancer and Bird flanking Han on either side.
Han forced himself not to take hold of his amulet. Instead, he shook his head, as if disappointed but not surprised. “If anything happens to me, a message will go to Gray Lady, giving the council the location of the armory. So think before you loose.”
He was bluffing, but he was a rum bluffer. The Demonai, keeping their bows drawn, looked at Averill and Elena. After a tense pause, Averill slowly brought his hand down, and they released tension on their bows.
“That’s the trade—take or leave,” Han said. “You collaborate with the gifted, providing them with flashcraft and fighting alongside them, or I give them access to the armory.”
“Hunts Alone did not have to come to us with this trade,” Bird said. “He could have given the armory to the Wizard Council and left us out of it.”
“We need time to consider this,” Averill said. “We will let you know our decision tomorrow.”
“The council is convened.” Han swept his hand around the circle. “Decide now. I’m going to Gray Lady next.”
Night Bird spoke first. “I am Night Bird Demonai,” she announced. “And I vote with Hunts Alone.”
“I am Willo Watersong, Matriarch of Marisa Pines Camp,” Willo said. “And I vote with Hunts Alone.”
Dancer said, “I am Hayden Fire Dancer, son of Willo Watersong. I vote with Hunts Alone.”
Averill and Elena looked at each other.
“I agree to this trade,” Elena said, her weathered face twisted with disgust.
“As patriarch of Demonai Camp, I agree also,” Averill said.
Shilo sighed. “I agree also,” she said. Affirmation rolled around the circle.
“Good.” Han nodded. “Fire Dancer will be in charge of the transfer of flashcraft.” That had been Dancer’s suggestion. He seemed wary of Demonai sabotage.
Averill and Elena looked at each other again, then nodded.
“One more thing,” Han said. “Just to be clear. When I say we’re doing away with the Nǽming, I don’t just mean handling of flashcraft. If we are successful, if we manage to free the queen, then she can marry whoever she chooses. Wizard, clan, Vale-dweller, pirate—whoever. I trust her to make a good choice, with the help of her family and her council. You should, too.”
Suspicion flared in Averill’s eyes. “Why? What’s that all about? What do you intend to do?”
Han lifted his chin, looking Averill in the eyes.
Averill took a step toward Han, leaning close, speaking in a low, fierce voice so only Han could hear. “She’s not for you, jinxflinger. That will never happen. I will see you dead first.”
Han looked back at him with his street face on.
“How do we know the jinxflingers are willing to work with us?” Shilo said.
“They won’t be any happier than you,” Han said, with a crooked smile. “But I’ll handle that part. How would you like to visit Gray Lady?”
C H A P T E R F O R T Y - E I G H T
WIZARD
PERSUASION
Hammersmith greeted Han in the reception area outside the council chamber as if he’d been resurrected from the dead.
“I am so glad to see you, Lord Alister,” he said, bowing very low. “I did not realize that Lord Bayar had invited you to this meeting. I was told you were…ah…deceased.”
“Not yet,” Han said. Actually, Han had convened this meeting—in Lord Bayar’s name. He tilted his head toward the door. “Are they all inside?” he asked.
Hammersmith shook his head. “We don’t have a quorum, I’m afraid, my lord High Wizard. Dean Abelard, Lord Gryphon, Lord Mander, and the Lady deVilliers are here. The copp—Lord Hayden…ah…Dancer is not here,” he said. “The young Bayar is here, but Lord Bayar is not. Young Bayar asked after his father. Apparently, he has not seen him since he returned to Gray Lady. So peculiar.”
And he won’t be seeing him, either, Han thought. It seemed like a decade ago, the first time he’d come to the council, when Lord Bayar had arranged to have him assassinated along the way. Bayar had informed Hammersmith, incorrectly, that Han wouldn’t be coming.
So Han frowned as if vexed. “If Lord Bayar calls a meeting, you’d think he would be on time. We’ll go ahead and get started. Fire Dancer is coming, but he will be late. He will be bringing some companions with him. When he arrives, interrupt us and let me know they are here. Depending on where we are in the agenda, I will admit them. Or not.”
“Yes, sir,” Hammersmith said, looking confused. “Shall I announce you?”
Han shook his head. “I’ll announce myself, thank you.” He paused in front of the door, putting his thoughts in order. Abelard would be the one to persuade. Abelard and Gryphon and deVilliers. Micah wouldn’t like anything he said. What Micah didn’t like, Mander wouldn’t, either.
It’s best to have a crowd between me and Micah, Han thought. To prevent either one of us from acting in haste. As he gripped the latch, he could hear voices through the door. One particular voice.
“Her Majesty hoped to return with me to Gray Lady, but we decided not to take that risk,” Micah Bayar was saying. “We will marry as soon as the siege is broken. Needless to say, that information must not leave this room.”
Somebody else spoke, something Han couldn’t make out.
“We don’t need to wait for my father,” Micah said. “Let’s discuss strategy—ways we can break the siege on the capital.”
Street face, Han thought, taking a deep breath. Disabling the magical locks on the door, he pushed it open. As he entered, heads turned all along the table.
The High Wizard chair at the head of the table was empty. Micah stood at that end, silenced in midsentence. Behind him, pinned to a board, was a large m
ap of the Fells.
Micah looked haggard, as if he hadn’t slept, the pale skin drawn tightly over his bones. His eyes fixed on Han, then on the bag slung over Han’s shoulder. He shook his head slightly, as if he could deny Han’s presence. As he reached for his amulet, something glittered on the little finger of his left hand. Raisa’s wolf ring.
Tension and magic crackled between them. Han sucked down air, his heart pounding, preparing for battle. But he raised both hands and said, “I didn’t come here to kill you, Micah, even though you deserve it. And you don’t want to kill me, either, until you hear what I have to say.”
Mina Abelard had frozen in midgesture, as if words were crowding up in her mouth. She looked from Micah to Han with an expression of sharp interest.
“My, my, Alister,” she said dryly. “You are…resilient. Though you look like you’ve been the guest of honor at a major brawl.”
Adam Gryphon sat next to Mordra deVilliers. He’d been sprawled back in his wheeled chair, massaging his forehead as if he had a raging headache. When Han entered, he’d quickly come upright, regarding Han with an expression of mild astonishment. Mordra looked delighted. She fingered her blue-black spiky hair, her tongue flickering out to touch the ring in her lip.
As usual, Lord Mander came late to the party. He groped for his amulet, extending a shaking hand toward Han. “You…you…you are not Gavan!” he exclaimed, his face the color of a ripe tomato.
Han shook his head. “No. I am not.”
“W—w—we don’t want trouble, Alister,” Mander squeaked, keeping a white-knuckled grip on his amulet and looking sideways at Micah for guidance.
“Then take your hand off your amulet,” Han said. “We are in enough trouble as is.”
“But…but…you are supposed to be dead!” Mander wailed, hastily letting go of his amulet and putting both hands on the table. He looked over at Micah accusingly. “You said he was dead!”
“My mistake,” Micah said, his body perfectly still, eyes glittering. “Alister, I am surprised you would show your face here, given the accusations against you.”