Gillen still lived, though he probably wouldn’t for long. The sergeant lay sprawled on his back on the floor of the cave, breathing wetly, an expression of sick bewilderment on his face, blood bubbling on his lips. He’d managed to yank out Raisa’s dagger, and it lay next to him, caked with blood and dirt.
She recalled what Cuffs Alister had said a lifetime ago: Next time you go to stab someone, do it quick. Don’t study on it so long.
He’d be proud, she thought. She hadn’t hesitated with the blade, and she’d struck true. Was this progress—that a street killer would be proud of her?
And then she knelt on the floor of the cave and heaved out her midday meal. After, she cleaned out her mouth with a fistful of snow.
That’s all right, she thought. Killing should never come easy, not even for a warrior princess.
Gillen finally lay quiet, his eyes wide and fixed.
Retrieving her dagger, Raisa wiped it clean in the snow at the cave’s entrance. She restored it to its sheath and tucked it into her breeches. She forced herself to search Gillen, hoping for clues or proofs of who’d hired him, but found nothing of consequence. A purse with a few coppers and crowns, and a hip flask—that was it.
It was unlikely he’d be carrying that kind of evidence anyway. What did she expect, a death warrant from the queen her mother? A scribbled note from Gavan Bayar? These were the kinds of orders that were whispered in the dark corners of the world.
Her head pounded and her right eye would no longer open properly. She pressed a fistful of snow against the side of her face, hoping it would reduce the swelling. All the while she tried to ignore the small voice that whispered, What’s the use? You may as well surrender. You are totally alone now, and these hills are filled with your enemies. What was it Byrne had said? Well fed, well mounted, and well armed. And you have a dagger against them.
Recalling Gillen’s concern about being interrupted, she knew she had to go, and quickly. Their trail would be easy enough to follow. Gillen’s comrades might arrive at any moment.
Gillen’s horse waited outside, apparently a well-trained military mount. The gelding rolled his eyes at her approach, but did not protest when she searched through the saddlebags. He was even more cooperative when she fished out an apple and fed it to him, stroking his nose.
Gillen’s gear included a large heavy sword in a scabbard, a crossbow and a quiver of bolts. A bedroll and a canvas tent. One entire saddlebag was packed with trail food, which would prove useful, assuming she lived long enough to get hungry.
She fingered the crossbow. Unlike Byrne’s longbow, it required no great strength to draw it. A memory came back to her: her eight-year-old self trailing Amon to the archery field. She’d refused to leave the butts until he gave her a chance at the crossbow. At first, the quarrels had gone wide of the straw target, but her aim improved quickly. Amon had loaded the first few bolts for her, then shown her how to cock it herself, his patient hands over hers.
On her next name day, her father, Averill, had gifted her with a longbow, made to fit her size and strength. That was her preferred weapon, but her bow had been left in the pass.
Fitting her foot into the weapon’s stirrup, she spanned it, grateful for the muscles her year at Oden’s Ford had built. She clipped the bolt into its channel. She’d have one shot, at least.
Methodically, she adjusted the stirrups to her small frame, wanting to hurry, but making sure she did it right. Leading the gelding alongside a fallen tree, she used the trunk to vault aboard.
A glance at the sky told her that dawn was not far away. By then she needed to get a better fix on her location and find a hiding place. If she weren’t already dead or in the enemy’s hands.
C H A P T E R S I X
SIMON SAYS
The day after his meeting with Crow, Han rode in a kind of worried stupor. His head ached and his stomach churned, like he’d been drinking stingo and chasing it with blue ruin.
He would have made an easy target, had any of his enemies happened by. Fortunately, most of his fellow travelers were refugees simply intent on making it to a place of shelter for the night. If he nearly rode over a few, well, they managed to get out of the way.
Could it possibly be true, what Crow claimed—that the infamous Demon King of the Fells had lain fallow in the serpent jinxpiece that Han now carried? That the powerful evil he represented had never gone out of the world?
Han had been overconfident—even smug about his ability to manage risk when it came to Crow. His theories had been true—as far as they went—but nothing had prepared him for this. How could it possibly be safe to partner up with the Demon King?
The mean streets of Ragmarket seemed friendly and welcoming, their dangers completely manageable, next to this.
All of Han’s life, the specter of the Demon King had been used as a cautionary tale to frighten misbehaving children and would-be sinners. He had been the club held over everyone’s head, the justification for a peculiar system of rules and boundaries restricting the queen, the Wizard Council, and the clans.
Alger Waterlow was the reason the clans kept wizards on such a tight leash; the reason their amulets and talismans were no longer permanent. He’d done more than anyone else to birth the Church of Malthus, with its interdiction of magic. He’d been the reason the Seven Realms had fractured into seven warring pieces.
He’d broken the world.
And there was that connection of blood. How diluted could that bloodline be if Han carried such a virulent strain of magic? What else had he inherited?
Demon-cursed, Han’s mother had called him. And it turned out she was right.
Would it be better or worse if Crow knew they were related? If he knew that Han Alister, a streetlord and thief, was his descendent? If he knew how far the family fortunes had fallen?
How could it be a good thing to forge a link to Waterlow that could never be broken? It was one thing to be related to a Demon King who had died a thousand years ago, and whose tainted blood had been diluted by centuries of intermarriage. It was quite another for him to be resurrected and entwined in Han’s life.
Then again, Han was beginning to question everything he’d always believed. Who was he to preach sermons, after all? If Alger Waterlow and the Bayars were enemies, who would he choose between them? And Lucius—Lucius Frowsley had been Waterlow’s best friend—a thousand years ago. He’d believed in him. Defended him to Han.
It had been difficult enough to go back to Aediion. Now Han was more confused than ever.
He arrived in Fetters Ford in early afternoon, on an unusually warm early spring day. He made his usual rounds of inns and taverns, asking after Rebecca. In one called the Purple Heron, the taproom was deserted, save a sturdy-looking boy wiping down tables.
The boy looked up at Han’s approach, his round face wary. “If you’re hungry, we got a ham we can slice down, and the bread’s fresh made,” he said, swiping sweat from his face with his sleeve. “If you’re looking for a hot supper, you’ll have to wait.”
“I’m looking for a girlie,” Han said.
“We don’t host that kind of trade,” the boy said. “You might try Dogbottom’s, down the high street.”
Han shook his head. “I’m looking for a particular girlie,” he said, wishing he had an image of Rebecca to show. “She’s small, with green eyes and black hair, maybe chin-length.” He stuck out his hand, indicating her height. “A mixed-blood. Pretty.”
The server’s head came up, and he glared at Han, his cheeks smudged pink. Then he turned away and resumed scrubbing like he meant to take the finish right off. “Don’t remember nobody like that,” he said.
Han stared at his broad back, made temporarily speechless by the server’s reaction. “Ah. Are you sure? She might have been with two charmcasters, tall ones, a girlie and a boy, about our age.”
“Nope.” The boy flung down his rag and moved to the hearth. Snatching up the iron poker, he thrust it into the flames. “If you’re not her
e for food and drink, you’d best move on.”
Han threaded his way between the tables, moving in closer. “Could have been a few weeks ago,” he persisted. “Are you sure you haven’t—?”
With a roar, the boy wheeled around and charged at Han, wielding the heated poker.
Han danced aside, hooking his foot around the boy’s ankle so he sprawled forward onto the stone floor, the poker pinwheeling across the room and clattering against the wall.
Han guessed this tavern boy hadn’t been in many street fights.
In a heartbeat, Han had planted his knee above the server’s tailbone and twisted his arm behind him until the boy cried out in pain.
“Twitch, and I’ll break your arm,” Han said through gritted teeth.
The boy said nothing, but he didn’t move, either.
“Now, then,” Han said softly. “Let’s have the truth. Start with your name.”
The server turned his head so Han could see one round eye. “S-Simon,” he said. “It’s Simon.”
“All right, Simon,” Han said. “Don’t waste my time. What do you know? When was she here, and who with?”
Simon shook his head carefully. “Do what you want, but I’m not telling you nothing,” he mumbled. “I’m not talking to any cutthroat, thieving highwayman.”
Han took a deep breath, his pulse accelerating. Keeping pressure on the arm, he put his free hand on Simon’s shoulder, allowing unchanneled flash to trickle into the tavern boy.
Simon twitched. “Hey! What do you think you—?”
“Simon,” Han said, lacing his speech with persuasion. “I don’t want to hurt her. I only want to find her and keep her safe.”
“You’re—you’re—you’re…” And then he seemed to forget what he was about to say. Simon’s visible eye was going droopy-lidded. “I don’t know anything about any girlie. I don’t trust you.”
“There isn’t much time,” Han said. “She’s in danger. You have to help me.”
Tears pooled in Simon’s eyes, spilling down his cheeks. “It’s too late anyway. She’s dead.” He sniffled wetly. “It’s your fault.”
“What do you mean—she’s dead?” Han demanded, louder than he’d intended.
“Ow!” Simon said, thrashing under Han’s weight. “You’re burning me.”
Han let go of Simon’s shoulder and gripped his amulet, channeling the power torrenting through him. He lowered his voice, but somehow it came out sounding deadlier than before. “I’m going to let you sit up,” he said. “And then you’re going to tell me what happened. Right now.”
Han sat back on his heels, one hand on his amulet. Simon sat up, facing him, his expression sullen and wary and frightened. Han reached out and gripped the boy’s wrist and opened the flow of power.
Simon’s eyes fastened on Han’s face like he was witch-fixed as he stumbled into speech. “She stayed here three or four weeks. I could tell she was running from somebody, but it was like she was waiting for somebody, too—somebody to help her. She always wanted to know about who else was in the taproom. Now I know. She was running from you,” Simon said bluntly, persuasion freeing his tongue.
Han said nothing, and Simon continued. “Two days ago, a group of rovers came in, and one of them—scruffy-looking, he was—he was bothering her, trying to buy her drinks and like that. Well, she’d have none of that. She told him off, then walked out in the stable yard, said she needed some air.” Simon gulped in some air himself. “An’ that’s the last I saw of her. I know she didn’t leave on her own. She left her things in her room, but her horse was gone, and them rovers that was bothering her, too.”
“What kind of rovers?” Han said. “Were they charmcasters? Soldiers?”
“I don’t know,” Simon said. “Could’ve been soldiers. Lots of sell-swords come and go these days, most not wearing colors. Not so many jinxfl—charmcasters. And the borderlands is full of thieves, murderers, and worse. These spoke Ardenine, but spent Fellsian coin.”
“Did she give a name?” Han persisted.
“Brianna. It was Lady Brianna. A trader.” Simon swiped at his nose.
Brianna. Well, Rebecca would have reason not to give her real name if she thought the Bayars were still after her.
“Describe her again,” Han said.
“She had copperhead blood,” Simon said, “but still you could tell she was a lady—not the kind that usually dines in taverns. She was gracious and kind—always a good word for…for anybody.”
Simon was smitten—any fool could tell. But Han knew there was something Simon wasn’t saying.
“What else?” Han said, trickling more power into Simon. “What happened? Why do you think she’s dead?”
“Th—there was two other Tamron ladies were going to travel with her. Bluebloods. They followed her outside. We found them in the yard—stabbed to death and robbed. I’m guessing ’twas the same bunch.”
Han’s hopes turned to lead inside him. Was it possible Rebecca had come all this way on her own, only to be murdered or kidnapped by bully ruffins?
“But you didn’t find Lady Brianna’s body?” Without meaning to, Han tightened his grip on the boy’s arm.
Simon shook his head, his lip quivering. “N-no, but—there was blood everywhere. And she wouldn’t just leave, would she? Not without a good-bye. Not without her belongings.”
“Where are they now? Her belongings, I mean.”
Simon pressed his lips together and hung his head.
“Tell me,” Han said, beginning to lose patience.
“They’re in my room, but I didn’t steal them, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Simon added defensively. “I put them away for safekeeping. In case she came back.”
Only, Simon didn’t expect her to come back. Han could see it in his eyes.
“Show me,” Han growled, knowing Simon wasn’t at fault, but somehow unable to apologize.
Simon led Han back to a cubbyhole-size room behind the fireplace that might once have been the woodbin. The furnishings consisted of a pallet on the floor, a wooden trunk, and a small, sad shrine in the corner consisting of candles, flowers, and the missing girl’s belongings.
Simon pointed to the shrine. “There. That’s them.”
Han knelt next to it and sorted through the muddle. There wasn’t much—a few articles of clothing that seemed too big for Rebecca, and fancier than anything he’d ever seen her wear. Nothing looked familiar. But then, she’d left her belongings behind when she disappeared from Oden’s Ford.
Her horse was gone, Simon had said. So maybe she was still alive. It was the best clue he’d had so far. The only clue. If it was really her.
“What kind of horse did she ride?” Han asked.
“A flatland stallion,” Simon said. “A gray.”
A stallion. Traders rode ponies, as a rule. Someone else had seen a girlie matching Rebecca’s description riding a gray. But Rebecca had kept an upland pony cross in Oden’s Ford. A mare that had disappeared along with her.
If she’d been carried off alive by someone other than the Bayars, there was no telling where they’d gone.
Nothing fit together. Frustration boiled inside him, but there was nothing to do but press on.
Han finally arrived in Delphi in early afternoon. The city was, if anything, more crowded than he remembered. Now there were refugees from Tamron as well as Arden.
At least these were problems he didn’t have to solve. There was little news from the Fells, save the old story that the princess heir was still missing and that her younger sister might be made heir in her place. Of greatest interest to Delphi were the threats from the “copperhead savages” that they would close the border and interrupt trade between Delphi and Fellsmarch if the princess were set aside.
Han bypassed the Mug and Mutton, where he’d met up with Cat and outsharped the needle point. Had it been less than a year ago? He hoped Cat and Dancer were still walking out, immersed in their summer studies, far from the turmoil of his life.
/> He paid top-shelf prices for room and board at another inn, and replenished his supplies, enough to get him to Marisa Pines Camp, anyway. He wondered if the matriarch Willo Watersong would be there.
He regretted their strained parting when he left for Oden’s Ford. Yes, she had lied to him, she’d conspired with those who meant to use him. In a way it was a relief to learn that she wasn’t perfect. Maybe the hardest lesson Han had learned was that nobody is purely bad or good. Everybody seemed to be a mixture of both.
Han meant to set out for Marisa Pines Pass the next morning, but a spring storm came howling down from the north. A foot of snow fell in Delphi, and the livery man said that meant three or four feet would have fallen in the pass, and only an idiot would try to make it through before the weather settled.
Han knew about spring storms in the mountains, so he delayed a day. He spent that time walking from inn to inn to stable, asking if anyone had seen a green-eyed girlie traveling with two charmcasters. Or a pack of rovers. Or a girlie on her own. One tavern maid recalled a pair of charmcasters resembling Micah and Fiona passing through some weeks before. Nobody recalled anyone resembling Rebecca, with or without rovers.
She’s not dead, Han repeated to himself over and over. Delphi is a madhouse. It’s not surprising she wouldn’t be remembered.
When had she become so important to him?
He paid the stableman for extra grain rations for Ragger, and the pony stuffed himself.
“Don’t get used to the soft life,” Han murmured, more to himself than to the rugged pony. He bought himself a pair of snowshoes at the market in Delphi, gritting his teeth at the price.
He left Delphi before dawn the day after the storm, a day that promised to be brilliantly clear. He’d debated waiting another day, letting other travelers break trail for him through the pass. But more bad weather was closing in, another early spring storm, and he decided he’d better travel while he could. By the time that weather hit, he hoped to be snug in Marisa Pines.
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