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.
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