to color it dark again, so he’d be less recognizable. Survival hadn’t seemed especially important until now. Han slid his hand inside his shirt, touching his amulet. He wished for the thousandth time he knew more about how to use it. A little charmcasting might do them some good in a tight spot.
No, maybe not. Better if nobody knew that Cuffs Alister, street thief and accused murderer, was suddenly a wizard.
Excruciatingly slowly, they worked their way toward the border. It seemed the guard was doing a thorough job.
When they reached the front of the line, two guards stepped out and gripped the bridles of their horses, halting them. A mounted guard with a sergeant’s scarf angled his mount in front of them. He studied their faces, scowling. “Names?”
“Fire Dancer and Hunts Alone,” Dancer said in Common. “We’re clan traders from Marisa Pines, traveling to Ardenscourt.”
“Traders? Or spies?” the guardsman spat.
“Not spies,” Dancer said. He steadied his pony, who tossed its head and rolled its eyes at the guardsman’s tone. “Traders don’t get into politics. It’s bad for business.”
“You’ve been profiting from the war, an’ everybody knows it,” the bluejacket growled, displaying the usual Vale attitude toward the clan. “What’re you carrying?”
“Soap, scents, silks, leatherwork, and medicines,” Dancer said, resting a proprietary hand on his saddlebags.
That much was true. They planned to deliver those goods to a buyer in Ardenscourt to help pay for their schooling and keep.
“Lessee.” The guardsman unstrapped the panniers on the first pony and pawed through the goods inside. The scent of sandal-wood and pine wafted up.
“What about weapons or amulets?” he demanded. “Any magical pieces?”
Dancer lifted an eyebrow. “There’s no market for magical goods in Arden,” he said. “The Church of Malthus forbids it. And we don’t deal in weapons. Too risky.”
The sergeant gazed at their faces, his brow puckered with puzzlement. Han kept his eyes fixed on the ground. “I dunno,” the guardsman said. “You both got blue eyes. You don’t look much like clan to me.”
“We’re of mixed blood,” Dancer said. “Adopted into the camps as babies.”
“You was stole, more like,” the sergeant said. “Just like the princess heir. The Maker have mercy on her.”
“What about the princess heir?” Dancer said. “We haven’t heard.”
“She’s disappeared,” the sergeant said. He seemed to be one of those people who loved sharing bad news. “Some say she run off. Me, I say there’s no way she would’ve left on her own.”
So that’s it, Han thought, happying up a little. This extra care at the border had nothing at all to do with them.
But the bluejacket wasn’t done with them. He looked around as if to make sure he had backup, then said, “Some say she was took by your people. By the copperheads.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Dancer said. “The Princess Raisa’s of clan blood herself by her father, and she fostered at Demonai Camp for three years.”
The bluejacket snorted. “Well, she’s not in the capital, they know that,” he said. “She might come this way; that’s why we’re checking everybody who comes through. The queen is offering a big reward for anyone that finds her.”
“What does she look like?” Dancer asked, like he was sniffing at that big reward.
“She’s a mix- blood too,” the bluejacket said, “but I hear she’s pretty, just the same. She’s small, with long dark hair and green eyes.”
Han was ambushed by a memory of green- eyed Rebecca Morley, who’d walked into Southbridge Guardhouse and wrested three members of the Ragger street gang from Mac Gillen’s hands. That description would fit Rebecca. And a thousand other girlies.
Since his life had fallen apart, Han hadn’t thought of Rebecca. Much.
The sergeant finally decided he’d held them up long enough. “All right, then, go on. Better watch yourselves south of Delphi. The fighting’s fierce down there.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Dancer was saying, when a new voice cut into the conversation, sharp and cold as a knife blade.
“What’s this all about, Sergeant? What’s the delay?”
Han looked up to see a girlie about his own age, bulling her horse through the crowd of foot travelers around the gate like she didn’t care if she trampled a few.
He couldn’t help staring. She looked like no girlie he’d ever seen before. Her mane of platinum hair was caught into a single long braid that extended to her waist, accented by a streak of red that ran the entire length. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were the color of cottonwood fluff, and her eyes a pale, porcelain blue, like a rain- washed sky. She was surrounded by a nimbus of light— evidence of unchanneled power.
She rode a gray flatlander stallion as blueblooded as she was, sitting tall in the saddle as if to extend her already considerable height. Her angular features looked familiar. It wasn’t a beautiful face, but you wouldn’t soon forget it. Especially when she had a scowl planted on it. Like now.
Her short jacket and divided riding skirts were made of fine goods, trimmed in leather. The wizard stoles draped over her shoulders bore the stooping falcon insignia, a falcon with a song-bird in its talons, and a glowing amulet hung from a heavy gold chain around her neck.
Han shuddered, his body reacting before his slow- cranking mind. The stooping falcon. But that signia belonged to . . .
“I— I’m sorry, Lady Bayar,” the sergeant stuttered, his forehead pebbled with sweat despite the cool air. “I was just questioning these traders. Making sure, my lady.”
Bayar. That’s who the girl reminded Han of— Micah Bayar. He’d only seen the High Wizard’s son once, the day Han had taken the amulet that had changed his life forever. Who was she to Micah? She looked about the same age. Sister? Cousin?
“Take hold of your amulet,” Dancer murmured to Han, sliding his hand under his deerskin jacket. “It’ll draw off the power so maybe they won’t notice your aura.”
Han nodded, gripping the serpent flashpiece under his jacket.
“We’re looking for a girl, you idiot,” Lady Bayar was saying, her pale eyes flicking over Han and Dancer. “A dark, dwarfish sort of girl. Why are you wasting time on these two copperheads?” she added, using the Vale name for clanfolk.
The two guards gripping Han’s and Dancer’s horses hastily let go.
“Fiona. Mind what you say.” Another wizard reined in behind Lady Bayar, an older boy with straw- colored hair and a body already fleshy with excess. His twin wizard stoles carried a thistle signia.
“What?” Fiona glared at him, and he squirmed like a puppy under her gaze.
He’s either sweet on her or afraid of her, Han thought. Maybe both.
“Fiona, please.” The young wizard cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t describe the Princess Raisa as dwarfish. In fact, the princess is rather—”
“If not dwarfish, then what?” Fiona broke in. “Stumpy? Stunted? Scrubby?”
“Well, I—”
“And she is dark, is she not? Rather swarthy, in fact, due to her mixed blood. Admit it, Wil, she is.” Fiona did not seem to take well to being corrected.
Han fought to keep the surprise off his face. He was no fan of the queen and her line, either, but he’d never expect to hear such talk from one of the Bayars.
Fiona rolled her