“Mellony is also, but she doesn’t look like a copperhead. She looks like her mother. So my father has set his sights on her. He would like to see a more malleable queen on the throne. He has been unsuccessful in persuading the queen to disinherit you, and needs to get you out of the way so his plans to marry me to Mellony can proceed.” Micah said all of this matter-of-factly, his black eyes fixed on her face.
Raisa stared at Micah, her stomach clenching into a miserable ball. It was a good thing she’d missed supper, because she would have lost it right then.
She felt impotent, utterly frustrated—and frightened. As the Montaignes had amply proven, nobody was more at risk than someone who competes for a throne—and loses. The Bayars would cut her throat or strangle her and leave her in some back alley—the apparent victim of a street thief. Too bad rebellious Raisa had left the protection of Fellsmarch and got herself killed.
“Mellony is thirteen,” Raisa said. “I hope you have experience babysitting, Micah, because you’re going to need it. Assuming the Demonai don’t assassinate you first. Married at thirteen, widowed at fourteen. Poor Mellony.”
Angry tears stung her eyes. “Even if you survive, you’ll be ruling over a country torn apart by civil war. The Fells will become the Arden of the north. You’ll never win against the clans in the mountains, I’ll tell you that right now.”
She extended her hand toward Micah and spat out a curse worthy of any of her clan ancestors. “By Hanalea’s blood and bones, if you marry Mellony ana’Marianna and mount the Gray Wolf throne, may you be fighting for the rest of your short and miserable life. And may Mellony’s babies be copperheads, every one.”
Micah blinked at her, stunned to silence. His gaze dropped to her extended hand, and his eyes widened. Seizing hold of her hand, he dragged her into the pool of light spilling from the sconce on the wall. He nudged Elena’s wolf ring with his forefinger, turning her hand so it caught the light.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
Raisa shrugged, pretending indifference, though her heart was pounding. “I think it was a suitor gift. For my name day.”
“It looks like clanwork,” he said, frowning.
“Most of my jewelry is clan made,” Raisa said, trying unsuccessfully to pull her hand free. “That’s no surprise. They are the best metalsmiths in the Seven Realms.”
Micah tugged at the wolf ring experimentally, then with more force. It did not budge.
“Take it off,” he said, thrusting her hand back toward her.
“Have you turned robber as well as murderer?” Raisa asked. “The Bayars aren’t rich enough as it is?”
“That ring looks like a talisman,” Micah said. “It might account for your resistance to wizardry.”
“It’s just a ring,” Raisa said, tugging at it herself. Even if she’d been trying hard, which she wasn’t, it wasn’t going anywhere. “And it seems to be stuck. So unless you want to chop my finger off, you’ll have to let it be.”
“All right,” Micah said, raising both hands. “We’ll let it be. For now.”
“Why are you here, anyway?” Raisa asked. “Did you want to dip your hands in my blood and curse me for the crime of refusing to marry you? Did you want to see if your assassin did the job right, or join in?”
Micah nudged the dead man on the floor with his foot. “To be precise, he’s my father’s assassin,” he said. “Not mine.”
Raisa stared at him, speechless.
“I came to offer you a choice,” Micah said, turning the ring on his own finger. “I can take you downstairs and deliver you to the assassins waiting outside,” he said. “Or you can return to the Fells and marry me.”
Raisa collapsed into an armchair. “What?”
Micah smiled thinly. “I think you are exactly right. The copperheads will have no doubt who is responsible for your murder. Even if you are dead, naming Mellony princess heir and marrying her to me will cause a firestorm of protest. The clans will rise in rebellion. It would cast a pall over our reign and any children we would have.”
Our reign, Raisa thought. Our children? Micah and Mellony? The notion made Raisa’s skin crawl.
“You are close to the copperheads,” Micah went on. “You fostered with them, and you carry their blood. My father sees that as a negative; I see it as an advantage. You’re the blooded heir, and you’re persuasive. If you came out in favor of our marriage, it might go a long way toward convincing the clans to go along with it.”
No, Raisa thought. They’ll never accept a wizard consort, let alone a king. Never ever. But, given the circumstances, she saw no reason to say it aloud.
Micah kept his eyes fixed on Raisa, as if trying to read through her skin. “The whole matter of the wedding was badly handled. I begged my father for time to convince you to marry me willingly. He was in a hurry. He never saw your consent as being important. He doesn’t know you the way I do.”
No doubt Micah was recalling their back-corridor romance in the months leading up to her name day. No doubt he had been counting on his considerable charm to prevail.
We could be good together, he’d said.
You don’t know me as well as you think you do, Raisa thought. The queendom always comes first, before matters of the heart.
Raisa licked her lips and chose her words carefully while her mind raced. “Well, I must admit, I felt betrayed. The queen had never mentioned a match between us before that night. I hadn’t planned to marry so young. I couldn’t understand why I was expected to marry on my name day.”
Why are you doing this, Micah? Raisa thought. Why aren’t you just letting matters proceed as planned? Crossing your father is as dangerous as crossing the clans. Why take this kind of risk?
This goes beyond politics. Micah wants to marry me. Not Mellony.
That was amazing. Mellony was the beauty of the family—blond, tall, and willowy, she mirrored their mother. Raisa’s younger sister was a child now, but she wouldn’t always be. In the meantime, Micah would no doubt continue his back corridor prowling.
If Micah married Mellony, he couldn’t leave Raisa alive. Even if he had no stomach for her murder, there would be no way he’d want to leave a living, breathing competitor for the Gray Wolf throne—someone an opposition could rally around.
One thing Raisa knew—she was no Queen Regina, ready to throw herself over a cliff to avoid marrying a wizard. She’d return to the Fells and marry a butcher or a ragpicker or a cleaner of privies if that’s what it took to stay alive and hang on to the Gray Wolf throne.
If she could stay alive, she’d find a way to win.
“Death or marriage,” Raisa said, rolling her eyes. “You Bayars really know how to charm a girl.”
Micah shrugged. “Not the proposal I would have preferred, but it’s not up to me.”
“Do you think your father will accept this?” Raisa asked. “Or will he simply wait for a new opportunity to murder me?”
Micah’s face went hard, his lips whitening. “My father knows as well as I do that a marriage between us is the politically savvy thing to do. He will accept it.”
Are you trying to convince me or yourself? Raisa thought.
“All right,” she said. “You win. I will marry you if it assures that the succession remains unchanged.”
Micah stood looking at her for a long moment, as if to uncover the girl behind the mask. “Perhaps,” Micah said finally, with a crooked smile, “we should seal our bargain with a kiss.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her in, sliding his arms around her and bending his neck to press his lips to hers.
This is a test, Raisa thought, and she did her best to pass it. Micah put a lot into the kiss as well. It left her flushed and breathless and Micah looking reassured.
“We will leave in a few hours, then,” Micah said. “I need to pack my belongings and notify the stableman. Do you still ride that piebald mare?”
Raisa nodded, hope kindling. Was it possible that Micah was so con
fident, he would allow her to go collect her things?
“I’ll fetch your horse,” he said, as if he’d read her thoughts. “The clothes on your back will have to do. You can borrow anything else you need from Fiona. We’ll travel light and fast.”
As if Fiona’s clothes would fit me.
Micah fished under his cloak and brought out a small stoppered bottle filled with a purple liquid. A tiny copper cup was attached with a chain. He swirled the bottle to mix the contents, then pulled the stopper and poured.
“Here,” he said, handing the little cup to Raisa. “Drink up.”
She sniffed the brew unhappily. It had a sharp, sweet scent, like dessert wine. “What is this?”
“Something to keep you quiet until we leave, since my wizardly charms no longer seem to work on you.” When she scowled at him, he shrugged. “I’m not so foolish as to trust you, Raisa.”
“Why should I trust you? I don’t know what’s in that. Maybe you mean to poison me yourself.”
Micah rolled his eyes. “You’re not really in a position to dictate terms,” he said.
“What about the assassins downstairs?” she asked. “If this knocks me out, you’ll have your hands full, and I’ll be helpless.”
“I’ll handle them,” Micah said. “Now drink it before they come up looking for us.”
Seeing no way around it, Raisa drank the purple potion. It tasted like dessert wine too, with a bit of a bitter aftertaste. “Turtleweed?” she guessed.
Micah nodded. “Sorry. It does cause that nasty headache after.”
“Do you always carry turtleweed around with you?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t really needed it up till now.”
Turtleweed was fast-acting, and Raisa was a small person. It wasn’t long before her head began to swim. Wolves crowded in around her, as if trying to prop her up. She dug her fingers into their thick coats, trying to cling to consciousness.
Was Han waiting for her? Would he have gone to find her at the dorm?
No one knew where she was.
Would Amon be able to tell where she’d gone, and come after her?
“Don’t get any ideas while I’m asleep, Bayar,” she mumbled.
He sighed. “I can’t control what ideas I have,” he said. “But don’t worry, we’ll have a lifetime to carry them out.” He slid his arms under her, lifting her, covering her with his cloak. She felt woozy, loose-limbed, and floppy, and waves of sleepiness rolled over her. Micah’s heart thudded under her ear as they descended the stairs and pushed through the front doors.
Raisa tried to lift her head and look around, but couldn’t seem to find the strength. “Where are they? The assassins?”
“They’re already dead,” Micah whispered in her ear. “I killed them on my way up. Else I would have been there sooner.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
SHOULDER
TAPS
Han waited at The Turtle and Fish an hour past their usual meeting time. Maybe she’s having trouble getting away, he thought. Maybe Corporal Byrne is keeping her to quarters.
Or maybe Rebecca and her corporal had kissed and made up, and Han was on the outs again.
Han wasn’t a fool, but he would have said the kisses he and Rebecca shared had been honest. And Rebecca didn’t seem like the type to ditch him without an explanation.
And what about the Cadets’ Ball? Should he assume it was on until he heard otherwise?
Finally, he left a note on the table and clumped back down the stairs. Linc looked up sympathetically. “Trouble?”
Han shrugged. “I don’t know.”
He thought about walking over to Grindell but didn’t want to cause more trouble for Rebecca. Or show up where he wasn’t wanted.
So he walked back to Hampton, nodding to Blevins in the common room and mounting the stairs. He hoped Dancer was home. He’d stayed out all night the night before, which wasn’t unusual. Sometimes he slept at Firesmith’s forge when he was trying to finish a project. Han hadn’t even told him what had happened in Aediion.
When Han arrived on the fourth floor, precious stones and metal findings littered the tabletop, and the cup of tea next to them was still warm, but Dancer was nowhere in sight. Clearly he’d been there, working, not long ago.
In fact, there were two cups.
Dancer’s door was closed. “Hey! Dancer?” Han tried his door, and it was latched from the inside.
“Don’t come in,” Dancer said. Han heard shuffling and rustling on the other side of the door.
“Well, I can’t very well, since it’s latched,” Han said. “Are you in bed this early?”
He heard muffled whispering inside, and yanked his hand back from the door. “Sorry!” he said, backing away. “Ah — sorry.”
He hadn’t even known Dancer was walking out with anyone, but then he pretty much kept such matters to himself.
Han sat down at his work desk and halfheartedly leafed through his Faulk. He supposed he could study on his own, but it wouldn’t be the same. He put the book aside and pulled out his notes from Gryphon’s class. He had an exam the next day, but his thoughts kept turning to Rebecca.
After a few minutes, Dancer’s door opened and he poked his head out. “I thought this was your tutoring night,” he said. “You’re back early.”
“Rebecca didn’t show,” Han said, shrugging. “Maybe because of that incident at her dormitory on Tuesday with Commander Byrne.”
Dancer leaned on the door frame. “Hmmm.”
“You going to introduce me?” Han said, nodding toward the doorway.
Dancer looked over his shoulder into his room. “Do you want to be introduced?” he asked.
A moment later, the girlie poked her head out.
It was Cat.
“Oh,” Han said. “So. When were you going to tell me?”
“It’s pretty new,” Dancer said. “We wanted to wait and see if it was working out.”
Han struggled to keep from grinning. “And?”
“You shut up, Cuffs Alister,” Cat said. She stalked past him, nose in the air, fluffing out her curls.
“Hey, now, I want to know,” Han persisted. “I mean, last I heard, you hated him. And being as you’re both friends of mine, seems like —”
“If you must know, it’s fine,” Cat said, floppng into a chair, stretching out her legs, and curling her bare toes. Tilting her head back, she looked over at Dancer through slitted eyes. “He’ll do.”
“Glad to hear that’s settled,” Han said. Dancer was right: Han did need to pay more attention to his friends.
“What happened with Abelard and the Bayars?” Dancer asked.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I had the chance to try out the rowan talisman yesterday,” Han said, poking at an enameled bird with his forefinger.
Dancer tilted his head. “And?”
Han told him about what had happened in Aediion.
“So you don’t think Crow has any power of his own?” Dancer said.
Han shook his head. “He just parasites off me. Or any other charmcaster in range. He told me he knew how to drain magic from others. I should have known.”
Dancer drew his brows together. “What is he, then? How did he get there?”
“Well, he’s not just a ghostie out of my imagination, because he scared the devil out of everyone else.” Han chewed his lower lip. “I wonder if there’d be anything helpful in the Bayar Library.”
“I say leave it alone,” Dancer said, sitting sat back down at his worktable. “Tell me you’re never going back there.”
“I’m never going back there,” Han said.
Choosing a bar of silver, Dancer squeezed it in his fist until liquid silver ran out of his hand and into a mold.
“Better not let Blevins catch you doing that up here,” Han said. “If there’s not a rule against it, he’ll make one up.”
“You say that now, but wait until you see what I made for you.” Dancer unfolded a square
of chamois. Inside was a cunning replica of the Lone Hunter amulet Elena Cennestre had made for Han—the one he’d loaned to Dancer.
Dancer laid the two amulets side by side on the chamois. They were almost impossible to tell apart.
“That’s amazing,” Han said. “I had no idea you could do work like this. Or that you had the right materials.”
“It doesn’t work that well,” Dancer said, shrugging away the praise. “I’m good on the stonecutting and metalsmithing, but I haven’t mastered the flash part. I wanted to return your amulet, but I guess I need to keep it a while longer.”
“No rush. Keep it.” Han ran his finger over the replica jinxpiece. It flared up a little, but nothing like the original. But it would likely fool any wizard who didn’t touch it.
“Why didn’t you make a fire dancer?” Han asked. “Like the one you lost?”
Dancer shrugged. “I didn’t have it to copy. I thought maybe the design fueled the function. I’m hoping to get some answers from Master Firesmith this summer.”
Han and Dancer both planned to spend the summer working with faculty mentors—Dancer with Firesmith and Han with Abelard. He’d also planned to increase his time with Crow. Not anymore.
“You do beautiful work, Dancer,” Han said. He weighed the intricate carving on his palm, turning it to catch the light. Magic aside, the workmanship and materials made it valuable. He went to give it back, and Dancer shook his head.
“Keep it,” he said. “I made it for you. I thought there might be times you’d want to hide the Waterlow amulet.”
The next morning, Han awoke to the slow stomp-stomp-stomp that meant Blevins was toiling up the stairs to the fourth floor. Han rolled off his bed and yanked on his breeches. Cat had stayed over with Dancer, and Han wanted to make sure there were no telltale signs in their makeshift common room. He dropped a cloth over Dancer’s metalsmithing tools just as Blevins’s head appeared above the threshold.
“Don’t know why they put fourth floors on buildings, indeed I don’t,” he gasped. “They should build more buildings, if you ask me, which nobody does.”
“Is there something you need?” Han asked, as Dancer joined them, closing his door behind him.
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