Using the jeweler’s hammer and chisel, muttering under her breath, Elena tapped along a line of runes engraved in the silver. Fine cracks appeared all along the line, widening as she continued to work.
Han’s hand began to tingle, and he wasn’t sure if it was the vibration from the multiple blows or magic leaking through. Willo’s eyes widened, so maybe she felt it too.
Elena stopped abruptly, seized his other hand, and began working on that cuff.
“It’s important that they break together,” she said. “Otherwise the imbalance might kill you.”
Han thought of the times he’d asked clan silversmiths at the market to try removing them, and shuddered.
“Hold still,” Elena said grimly. Before long, the right cuff resembled the left one.
“Now,” Elena said, taking a deep breath, “we will break the cuffs. Are you ready, Hunts Alone?”
So it was as simple as that, removing the silver he’d worn all his life. Han nodded, suddenly apprehensive, his mouth dry, his palms sweating. What if it killed him? His heart accelerated, as if it were trying to get in as many beats as possible before it stopped.
“Wait.” Willo brought him the cup of rowan tea. “Here. Drink more of this. Just in case.”
Han drained the cup and set it aside. Willo refilled it, seeming determined to drown him in it, until Elena impatiently motioned her away.
Elena slid her thumbs under the two cuffs. With a quick twisting motion she ripped them away and dropped them on the ground. Han stared down at his arms. The skin on his wrists was fish-belly pale where the cuffs had blocked the sun.
Then heat ripped through him, welling up from within and penetrating all the way to his fingers and toes. If he’d had any doubts about the story he’d been told, it was blasted away in a heartbeat.
It reminded Han of the time he’d drunk a cup of Lucius’s product on a dare. Lurid images rolled through his brain, colliding behind his eyes. His hair stood on end and flame rippled over his skin. Sparks dripped from him, burned holes in his shirt, scorched his leggings. He stretched out his arms, thinking he must look like one of the flaming straw men the clan erected at the harvest. What if he set the lodge on fire? It was built of wood, after all.
Panicking, he pushed himself up onto his feet and blindly staggered to the door, out into the cool night air.
Han heard Elena shout, “Fire Dancer, go after him, help him.”
Han felt incandescent, illuminated, lighter than he’d ever felt before. He was a flame in a lamp of a body that threatened to dissolve at any moment. He extended his hands, and they glowed in the darkness, bone shining through flesh.
Then Dancer gripped his hands, power flowed between them, and that somehow stabilized him.
“Blood and bones,” Dancer said. “You can’t just turn it loose like that. Settle yourself, or you’ll burn down the whole camp.” He thrust something hard and cold into Han’s hands. “Here. Try this. Release it slowly, and this will take it up.”
It was the amulet Dancer had been given at his naming ceremony, the clan dancer surrounded by flames.
Han took a deep breath, let it out, and focused on the amulet. Magic seemed to flow into the carving through his hands, and the rivulets of flame under his skin died to a trickle. In a matter of minutes he felt drained and less incendiary.
“Thank you,” Han whispered, handing the amulet back to Dancer.
“I’ve learned a few things by trial and error,” Dancer said. “You can store magic in these things and save it for later.”
“Will that cause a problem?” Han asked. “My magic— your amulet?”
Dancer shrugged. “I have no idea. I’ve been working on controlling this for more than a year, but I haven’t had any real training.” Dancer’s mouth quirked into a smile, the first Han had seen on him since the naming ceremony. “I think the elders are right—you’re much more powerful than me. Either that or it’s been building up since you were a baby.”
Han was selfishly glad Dancer shared his predicament, glad he had someone to travel with to Oden’s Ford, glad he didn’t have to figure this out on his own.
“You’ll need to speak with Elena about your amulet,” Dancer said. “She’ll make something special for you.”
What would she make for him, Han wondered. Would he have any choice in the matter? He extended his hands, watching in fascination as tiny flames flickered over his skin.
Then some tiny sound, an intake of breath, made him look up into the shadows, under the trees. Bird stood there, frozen, a horrified look on her face. And beyond her, Reid Demonai, his handsome face hard and wary, as if he’d discovered a viper in the woodpile and was trying to decide how to kill it.
And then Han remembered: he’d told Bird to wait for him, that they’d go down to the river after the meeting. She must have seen him dripping flame, must have overheard the exchange between him and Dancer.
“Bird!” Han called, as she turned away. He took a step toward her. “Wait!”
But Bird faded silently into the trees. Reid stood staring at him a moment longer, then followed.
Later that night, Han lay on his sleeping bench in the Matriarch Lodge, unable to sleep. Elena had given him a small amulet, a carving of a badger, to use until she could make him one of his own. It rested on his chest, underneath his shirt, but Han paid it little attention.
He was acutely conscious of the Demon King’s amulet that lay hidden beneath him. It was like someone had built a fire underneath his bed, and it scorched his skin no matter what position he lay in. Finally he slid his hand underneath the ticking and closed it on the jinxpiece. Magic flowed out of him and into the carving, a blessed release. Was this how it was going to be? Was he going to constantly seep magic and have to find a place to put it?
Unfamiliar images rolled through his mind: flames illuminating a battlefield, the clash of soldiers, blood pooling on the ground. A beautiful woman, hands outstretched, weeping, calling, “Alger.” And pain, blinding pain.
Han released his hold on the amulet and sat up. Those kinds of dreams he could do without.
Willo was still out, no doubt planning his future with Averill and Elena. Dancer was asleep—Han could hear his steady breathing from the far side of the lodge.
When he heard someone outside the lodge, he thought at first it was Willo returning. But the intruder moved furtively, in stops and starts, and by the time he saw a silhouette in the doorway, Han had his knife in his hand but hope in his heart.
“Bird?” he whispered. Maybe she’d come back. Maybe they could talk it over. Maybe . . .
“That you, boy?” a muffled voice came back. It was Lucius.
“It’s me,” Han said, slumping back and sliding his knife under his pillow.
“I thought you might still be awake.” Lucius shuffled forward, poking in front of him with his staff until he encountered the sleeping bench. He sat down on the edge of it next to Han.
“What do you want?” Han muttered. “It’s late.”
“Guess you got a lot to think about.”
“Guess so.”
There was a long pause. Then Lucius whispered, “You’re powerful, boy. I can feel it. You remind me of Alger.” He extended a hand cautiously, like he might get burned, and touched Han’s arm.
“I’m not Alger,” Han said, twisting away from Lucius’s hand. He’d thought Lucius was his friend. But everyone around him, including Lucius, had withheld the truth.
“You still got that amulet you took off the Bayar boy?”
Lucius asked. The old man tried to act casual, but his hands rattled around in his lap like they did when he was vexed. “You didn’t lose it in the fire, did you?”
“I still have it,” Han said. “What about it?”
“You should learn to use it, is all.”
“I should pitch it into a mud pot,” Han said. “I’ve had nothing but trouble since I picked the thing up.”
“Trouble’s gonna come your way regardless,” L
ucius said. “Might as well have some firepower to deal with it.”
“Elena’s going to make me an amulet,” Han said. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Elena wants to control you, just like ever’body else. Any amulet she gives you’s gonna put you on a leash. That amulet you took is yours by rights.”
“Right. And maybe it’ll turn me into a demon just like it did Alger Waterlow. Give me delusions.” Han was baiting Lucius on purpose. He just didn’t know why.
Lucius spat on the ground in answer.
“What’s your dog in this fight, anyway?” Han demanded. “I may not like Lord Demonai’s deal, but at least I get it. What’s in this for you?”
“Alger Waterlow was my friend,” Lucius said. “You’re his blood. The clans won’t tell nobody who you really are. You keep your mouth shut too, for now. I don’t want to see you betrayed and murdered like he was.”
With that, the old man rose and shuffled out.
A week later, Raisa ana’Marianna, Princess Heir of the Fells, rode out of Demonai Camp on her new mare, renamed Switcher to match the old. Raisa wore the drab brown-and-green scout colors of the Queen’s Guard, and her hair was gathered into a sober braid. With her rode Amon Byrne, his officer’s scarf knotted around his neck, and the other fourth-year cadets who called themselves the Gray Wolves. Altogether, they were a triple of nine. Plus one.
The Wolfpack swarmed about her like self-important bees, hands on their weapons, glaring into the underbrush as if that alone would ward off an ambush. They’d been told she was the daughter of a Fellsian duke traveling under their protection. They took their role quite seriously. Raisa hoped it would wear off before they reached the flatlands.
The palace was in a quiet uproar, if such a thing is possible. Once again, the news of Raisa’s disappearance was kept close, this time by the queen, her Guard, and her cabinet. Presumably, Queen Marianna was loath to announce that she’d tried to marry the princess heir off to a wizard, and the princess had left him at the altar.
The Guard came out in force, searching city and countryside for any trace of the wayward princess. In meeting with her small cabinet, Queen Marianna expressed concern that the same vicious brigands who had attacked Averill and Edon Byrne might have spirited away her daughter. Per reports from Averill, the queen was distraught and Mellony was inconsolable. Raisa was pricked by guilt, but the thought that she could already be married to Micah Bayar dampened it down considerably. She was pleased to hear that Gavan Bayar looked like he wanted to incinerate someone; he just didn’t have the right target.
Autumn came early in the Spirits. A snap in the air said winter wasn’t far off. The leaves on the aspens quivered in the northern breeze, glittering gold, raising her spirits. Since her arrival back in court, she’d felt like a sheep in a chute, relentlessly driven along a narrowing path to a place she’d never wanted to go.
Now she was leaving the Fells for the very first time, descending into the strange flatlands beyond the border. She was well aware of the gravity of the situation; she knew she was taking a risk, yet she couldn’t help looking forward to escaping the confines of court life. She might learn more at Oden’s Ford than she ever would in the shelter of home. She was adventuring with Amon again, only it was a new Amon, more intriguing than the old, representing risks of a different kind.
Anything could happen, she thought. It pleased her to think so.
Amon had been oddly standoffish and formal during their time at Demonai Camp. They’d spent endless time in meetings with Elena and Averill. When they weren’t in meetings, he was drilling her in swordplay, since those weapons weren’t used in the upland camps. He’d pull back her shoulders and press in at her waist to improve her stance; he’d slide arms around her and grip her at elbow and wrist to correct her swing, but he might have been attending a horse in dressage.
Some days he seemed as dour—as restrained—as tightly controlled as his father.
Raisa sweated through grueling practice matches with the Wolfpack, while Amon stood by, barking at her, “Bring it up! Bring the tip up! Don’t let him get inside! Move! Move your feet!” She couldn’t help it that everyone’s reach was longer than hers. She’d work out until she could no longer lift her arms, then fall exhausted into bed.
Exhaustion wasn’t the only barrier to romance. It almost seemed that Amon avoided being alone with her. Still, Raisa was a naturally hopeful person. There’d been no more kisses, but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be in the future.
As if called by her thoughts, Amon guided his horse up beside hers, the breeze ruffling his dark hair. “I mean to keep moving so we can be well on our way to North Branch Camp by dark. We’ll be eating our midday in the saddle. I don’t want to call attention to ourselves by arriving in the middle of the night.”
“Yes, sir,” Raisa said, trying to get used to addressing him as her commanding officer. For his part, Amon seemed to take a certain perverse pleasure in ordering her around.
Westgate would be the first test of her disguise. They’d be looking for her at the border of the Fens. The notion was thrilling and frightening at the same time.
Bending low over her horse’s neck, she kneed Switcher into a canter.
At almost the same moment, hundreds of miles to the east, Han Alister and Fire Dancer rode out of Marisa Pines Camp on the sturdy mountain ponies the clan favored. They left unannounced, almost furtively, at a time known only to Han’s handlers among the clan. They could go west into the Shivering Fens, and south through Tamron, but that would take them past Demonai Camp and the warriors who strenuously disapproved of their mission.
So they’d decided to go due south, preferring to take their chances with the roving bandits and festering war in Arden than with the Demonai warriors on their home ground. It was the prudent thing to do.
Still, Han felt a dull ache of regret, the burden of words unspoken. Bird had left for Demonai Camp the night of the intercamp meeting. There was no telling when he’d see her again.
The clan had been generous to their new champion—the pony was a gift, as were the saddle and fittings and a clan-made dagger and sword and longbow. Han wore a fine new cloak to turn the rain, and money jingled in the pouch he wore at his waist.
Dancer was similarly well-arrayed. He was in rare good humor, laughing and joking, making up new names for Han that reflected his exalted status. Names like Wizard Hunter and Wizard’s Bane and Sir Hanson Jinxflinger, Savior of the Clan.
Dancer, for one, seemed glad to be leaving Marisa Pines and its whispers behind. Maybe, away from familiar ground, it would be easier to pretend that nothing had changed.
Elena’s amulet hung from a silver chain around Han’s neck—a bow hunter cunningly carved from jasper and jade. He prominently displayed it for everyone to see. But underneath his tunic, the ruby-eyed amulet sizzled against his skin, constantly drinking in magic and storing it away.
The pain of his losses was a blade in his heart, but it had dulled with time and use so that he scarcely noticed it. His guilt was another thing, but he’d learn to live with that too.
Behind him lay Fellsmarch—a city that had chewed him up and spit him out like a peach pit. He was also leaving behind the upland camps where he’d spent nearly every summer of his boyhood, and the betrayal of the clan who’d withheld the secret of his birthright.
Ahead lay the strange flatlands of the south, Oden’s Ford, and the teachers who held the keys to the power that had lain dormant inside him for so long.
One thing he knew: he was tired of being powerless, helpless to defend himself and those he cared about from the wizards and bluebloods who ruled the Vale. He meant to change that. That was his agenda, and for now it coincided with the clan’s.
For the first time in a long time, he had a goal, a way forward, and a focus for his restless energy.
“Come on, Dancer,” he said, feeling optimistic for the first time in days. “Let’s see if these ponies can get us to Wayfarer’s Camp by nig
htfall.”
Acknowledgements
I feel blessed to be surrounded by patient people—in particular, my family: Rod, Eric, and Keith, who are most tolerant when I go into crazy-author-woman mode:
Friend or relative: When does Cinda write?
Long-suffering spouse: All the time.
Thanks to my local writing workshops, Hudson Writers and Twinsburg YA Writers, and my online and sometimes in-person YAckers critique group, especially Kate Tuthill, Debby Garfinkle, Martha Peaslee Levine, Jody Feldman, and Mary Beth Miller. Goddesses, I’m totally up for another retreat.
Thanks to my early full-manuscript readers, including Marsha McGregor, Jim Robinson, Eric, Rod, and Keith. Your feedback kept me going; your suggestions made the book better.
And, finally, of course, thanks to my editor, Arianne Lewin, and agent, Christopher Schelling. Nothing happens in this business until somebody believes in a book.
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