The Gray Wolf Throne

  “You’re a fool, Alister,” Crow said. “And I was a fool to trust you.” He sizzled out like a dying spark.

  Han and Dancer both stared at the spot he’d vacated.

  “I’m sorry, Hunts Alone,” Dancer said, with a heavy sigh. “I hope I haven’t ruined it for you. I know you were counting on his help.”

  “What got into him?” Han said. “Maybe you were right—a thousand years trapped in an amulet has made him crazy.”

  Dancer shook his head. “Or maybe he’s good at spotting a Bayar, that’s all,” he said quietly. As Han watched, Dancer’s clothes changed from clan leggings and shirt to wizard robes, the stoles emblazoned with the Stooping Falcon. His hair, however, was still braided and tied in clan fashion.

  “My mother is clan, Hunts Alone,” Dancer said. “Have you ever wondered who my father was?”

  “Well, I heard the story, what Willo said at your naming,” Han said, his voice trailing away.

  “It was true, most of it,” Dancer said. “Except the part where she claimed she didn’t know who it was. Can you think of a wizard ruthless enough to come into the Spirits and attack a young woman in the forest like that?”

  Han studied Dancer’s features—the jarring blue eyes set into his bronzed face, the angular bone structure, the heavy dark brows. As understanding dawned, Han’s throat constricted painfully, as if there were a large rock he was trying to swallow.

  “The resemblance is rather striking once you know to look for it,” Dancer said matter-of-factly.

  “Hanalea’s blood and bones,” Han whispered, shaking his head. “Your father is Gavan Bayar.” No wonder Dancer had viewed his gift as a curse.

  “You don’t know how tempting it’s been to present myself to Micah and Fiona as their long-lost older brother,” Dancer said. “Almost worth getting myself killed. For a time, that seemed like an easy way out. I’d step forward as a Bayar, and they would murder me.”

  Memories came back to Han—Dancer’s furious reaction when they’d met Micah and his cousins on Hanalea. It had seemed so out of character at the time. Dancer’s knowledge of wizards and their ways—uncommon among the Spirit clans. Micah’s reaction to Dancer, each time they met…

  “Do the Bayars know?” Han said.

  Dancer shook his head, half smiling. “I think Micah sees his father in me. It’s like he knows on some instinctive level, but he just can’t bring himself to believe it. I’ve never met Lord Bayar. If he knew, I’d be dead already.”

  “What about the Demonai? Averill? Elena Cennestre? Do they know?”

  Dancer shook his head. “If they knew, they’d have drowned me at birth. Willo and I are the only ones that knew. Now you. And Crow, unfortunately.”

  Han recalled when Willo had brought Dancer to the city, to Speaker Jemson, hoping to cure him of his cursed gift. She’d kept the secret for a lifetime, trying to find a place for the son she loved in a world at war with itself.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Han asked, his mind reeling.

  “You’re one to talk,” Dancer arrowed back. “How many secrets have you kept from me?”

  “I’m not criticizing you,” Han said. “I’m just asking why.”

  “I didn’t know myself, until I began to manifest,” Dancer said. “After, I almost told you, several times. But I knew how you felt about the Bayars after what happened to your family. I didn’t know how you would react. And now there’s Cat. She hates the Bayars—they murdered all of her friends. And my mother—Willo—she made me swear never to tell.” Dancer spoke matter-of-factly, looking directly into Han’s eyes. “For a long time I didn’t want anyone to know. But now—I’m glad you found out. I’m tired of acting like it’s our fault. Like I’m ashamed of who I am. I can’t control what other people do. But I can decide how I’m going to handle it.”

  Anger sparked in Han. Why should Dancer and Willo bear that burden—keeping their secret, always worrying it would come out, worrying what the Bayars would do if they knew.

  “Does Willo have proof?” Han asked. “That it was Bayar, I mean.”

  “She still has the Bayar’s ring,” Dancer said. “When she found out she was with child, she hid the ring away and claimed she didn’t know who the father was.”

  When Han opened his mouth to speak, Dancer raised a hand to stop him. “She was trying to protect me—from the Bayars and the Demonai. But once it was clear I was gifted, it became too big a secret to keep. I knew it would come out sooner or later.”

  “She should have named him,” Han growled, “and brought him to justice.”

  “We may think so,” Dancer said, nodding, “but she has a bone-deep fear of Bayar that she cannot shake. Being attacked so close to home destroyed her confidence. She has never felt completely safe since.” He paused. “Bayar is going to pay for that.”

  Han put his hand on Dancer’s shoulder, squeezing it. “You’re my best friend,” he said. “I don’t care who your father was.”

  Dancer shrugged. “I hope Cat feels the same way. I’m going to tell her. I don’t want to keep secrets from her, either. Not anymore.” He fingered his amulet. “Let’s not say anything to Willo—not until after the queen’s funeral, anyway. She’s worried enough as it is that I’m going. She doesn’t want me anywhere near Bayar.”

  “That’s up to you,” Han said, still trying to get his head around this news. “It’s your secret. But I think you should talk to her soon.”

  C H A P T E R T W E N T Y-T W O

  MAKING A POINT

  You have to trust Han Alister, Raisa told herself over and over. Even though he hates you now. You don’t have a choice.

  Well, in fact, she did have a choice. Lots of choices. She could go with the well-insulated sneak-in-and-out plan her father favored. Or the abduction plan Reid Nightwalker was pushing.

  But she wanted to honor Han by trusting him, since she hadn’t trusted him before. She only hoped she was making the right decision.

  It didn’t help that Nightwalker had made it abundantly plain that he didn’t trust Han Alister, or his plan. Han had sketched it out the day before, in a brief businesslike meeting. Just the three of them, like he’d said. And Raisa had approved of it.

  Then they had shared it with the others. Who didn’t approve.

  Nightwalker could be relentless. And persuasive. The sun wasn’t even up, but he’d been distracting her for the last hour while she tried to get ready to travel to the memorial.

  The topic was Han Alister and his plan.

  “He’s a jinxflinger,” Nightwalker said. “How can you trust him to side with you against the Wizard Council?”

  “Isn’t that the idea?” Raisa said, rubbing her eyes. “Wasn’t that why Elena Cennestre recruited him? He’s supposed to be the secret weapon.”

  “I didn’t say we shouldn’t use him. I’m saying we shouldn’t trust him with your life.” Nightwalker leaned against the lodgepole in the Matriarch Lodge, lithe and deadly as a fellscat. He’d dressed for battle, in the sunlight-and-shadow coat and leggings, his Demonai amulet glittering at his neck.

  He didn’t look droopy-eyed at all, though no doubt he’d been up half the night reinforcing his rights to the clan name, Nightwalker. Raisa had seen him and Night Bird kissing good-bye outside the visitors’ lodge at dawn when Raisa went out to the privy. So they were still together, apparently.

  She forced her attention back to the present.

  “Han hates the High Wizard,” Raisa said. “I can’t imagine him throwing in with them.”

  “That’s what he’s told you. But he has more in common with them than he does with any of us.”

  Raisa sat back on her heels, resting her hands on her thighs. “You’re doing it again,” she said. “Treating me like I’m stupid. I spent time with Alister at Oden’s Ford. I know him better than you do. I know what I’m doing.”

  Nightwalker raised both hands. “Forgive me, Your Highness.” He stopped and cleared his throat self-consciously. “It seems that I a
m always apologizing to you. I think I spend too much time with people who agree with me.” He took a breath. “Despite my lack of diplomacy, it is not my intention to question your judgment. It is just that I’m concerned about your safety.”

  Raisa blinked at him, surprised. This was more introspection than she was used to from Nightwalker. But still—she wouldn’t let him off that easily. “I suppose that’s why you want to go to war against my sister. A princess of the blood. When you don’t even know her intentions.”

  Nightwalker shook his head. “I only wanted to take her out of play. It would be safer for you, and safer for her as well.”

  “There’s not going to be any fighting,” Raisa said. “That will keep us all safe.” She sorted through clothing, trying to figure out what she should wear that would send the right message to those assembled for her mother’s memorial service.

  No, she amended, pressing her fingertips against her brow. What can I wear that will honor my mother and her legacy?

  She didn’t have much to choose from—only what the clans had provided since her arrival. Everything else had been left behind, in Fellsmarch and Oden’s Ford. She thought of the closets of elaborate dresses back in the capital and sighed.

  You are a beggar of a queen, Raisa thought. Always guesting in someone else’s house and wearing borrowed clothes.

  She chose a gored clan skirt in boiled white wool and a beaded overtunic in lightweight suede and draped them over her sleeping bench. Willo had given her a fine white deerskin jacket with painted and embroidered Gray Wolf symbols on the back and sleeves. Clan mourning dress didn’t mirror the dark weedy look of flatland funeral garb. It celebrated the lives of the dead and their connections with the living.

  “Wait outside for me, please,” Raisa said to Nightwalker, who seemed inclined to remain glued to her side until it was time to leave for Marianna Peak. Elena’s orders, maybe, with two wizards in camp. Or was it his own inclination?

  Nightwalker took hold of her elbows and drew her in for a lingering kiss. He smelled of leather and fresh air.

  Raisa drew back a little reluctantly. He seemed eager to resume where they’d left off. She knew from experience that Reid Nightwalker could be a welcome distraction from all of her troubles, if she would let him. He could help her forget that Han Alister was treating her like poison.

  “Nightwalker. Go. I need to dress. We’ll be leaving soon.”

  The warrior’s smoky-eyed smile made it plain that he’d gladly stay and supervise. But he ducked through the doorway into the outer room.

  Raisa sighed. Whenever she was with Nightwalker, she felt under siege—personally and in all other ways. She needed to find a channel for his relentless intensity. He wore her out.

  She missed Amon’s steadiness. He had ridden back to Fellsmarch so he could accompany his father’s ashes from the Cathedral Temple to their burying place. Averill was also back in the city and would travel to the memorial service with Marianna’s bier. Raisa would have the Demonai with her, and Han Alister and Fire Dancer. That was all, and that would have to be enough. She hoped she could keep them from each other’s throats.

  Raisa was just pulling on her boots when she heard raised voices outside, what sounded like an argument. She poked her head through the curtains to find Han Alister and Reid Nightwalker circling each other like alpha wolves, hackles raised and nearly snarling.

  Han was dressed more finely than she’d ever seen him, all in black with a pearl gray trim at the neck and on the sleeves. His shirt fit close to his body, showing off his distractingly lean, muscular frame. The Lone Hunter amulet glittered against the matte fabric, and the dark color set off his bright hair and blue eyes.

  “What is going on?” she demanded, looking from one to the other.

  “I told him he couldn’t go in, that you were dressing. He’s objecting,” Nightwalker said, his posture one of barely contained violence.

  “I just wanted to let you know that I was here,” Han said, shifting his eyes to Raisa, then quickly back to Nightwalker. “I have work to do and not much time, if you don’t want to be late for the ceremony.”

  “I’m ready,” Raisa said, taking a deep breath. “Let’s begin.”

  Han looked pointedly at Nightwalker and jerked his head toward the door. “Out.”

  “I’m staying,” Reid Demonai said, folding his arms and widening his stance as if he never intended to budge.

  “We should do this in private, Your Highness,” Han said. “If I’m going to protect you, the fewer who know what I’m up to, the better.”

  Han spoke to Raisa, ignoring Nightwalker. Well, Raisa thought, this is a welcome change. Ever since Raisa had confessed her true identity, Han hadn’t spoken to her more often or at greater length than he had to. It was as if he had to pay a dear price for every word he spoke.

  “I will not leave you alone with the princess heir,” Nightwalker said. “It’s too much of a risk, given the history of jinxflinger interference with our queens.”

  These two hate each other, Raisa thought, and it seems to go beyond the usual suspicion between wizard and clan. After all, Han should be comfortable with the Spirit clans. He’d fostered with them throughout his boyhood. He hadn’t even been a wizard all that long.

  A clearing of throats startled her. She looked up to find they were both looking at her, waiting for a decision.

  “I’ve known Nightwalker for years,” Raisa said to Han. “He’s serving as part of my guard today. If he can be trusted with that, then surely—”

  “I don’t want him here, distracting me,” Han said. “This is hard enough as is.”

  “So you admit it,” Nightwalker said. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “That’s exactly the kind of flap-jawed, ignorant remark that I don’t need while I’m working,” Han said, looking at Raisa and raising his eyebrows as if to say, See?

  “He stays,” Raisa said, feeling like she was refereeing in the school yard. “But be quiet, Nightwalker, and allow Alister to do his work, or you’re out.”

  Han jerked his chin at Nightwalker. “You. Sit in the corner and out of the way if you don’t want to get splashed with magic.”

  Nightwalker scowled suspiciously but did as he was told.

  Han circled around Raisa, appraising her. “Stand still,” he warned her. “I’m going to have to touch you.”

  He sounded resigned to it, more than anything else.

  Han slid his hand inside his coat, and Raisa knew he was gripping the serpent amulet. Maybe that was why he didn’t want Nightwalker there. He didn’t seem to want to display that amulet to anyone in the camps.

  Raisa tensed up, her skin tingling in anticipation of the contact. His fingers hissed and fizzed as they brushed lightly against her head, her shoulders, the back of her neck, her waist. It reminded Raisa of the sculptor who’d struck her portrait for the crown coin, getting the feel of the clay before he shaped it.

  Han stepped back and rubbed his chin, frowning. Then his expression cleared as he stared down at her hand. “Oh,” he said. “You need to take off the talisman ring, or it won’t work.”

  Raisa looked down at the wolf ring on her right hand.

  “Your Highness, Elena Demonai gave you that ring for protection against jinxflinger charms,” Nightwalker said. “Now would not be a good time to take it off. Not when you’re going to be facing the most powerful jinxflingers in the Vale.”

  “Now would be a very good time to take it off,” Han said. “If you want this plan to work.”

  “Forgetting about Alister and what he might be up to, that ring protects you if one of the wizards at the memorial decides to flame you,” Nightwalker argued. “Without it, you’ll be vulnerable.” He paused, then murmured, not quite under his breath, “Unless that’s the idea.”

  “She won’t be vulnerable if you shut up and let me do my job,” Han said, his hand still inside his neckline, his chin cocked up aggressively.

  “Stop it,” Raisa
said. She slid the ring from her finger and tucked it into a pouch at her belt. “There. I’ll have it right here in case I need it. You’d better hurry. It must be nearly time to leave.”

  This time was different. Han murmured charms as he circled around her, his face hard with concentration, his eyes fixed and focused internally. His fingers kindled little fires wherever he touched her. Raisa gasped as the magic slid under her skin, bringing the blood to the surface. She felt glowing and dizzy-headed, like she’d just stepped out of the sweat lodge at Demonai Camp.

  Or like a lover after an episode of kissing.

  Nightwalker watched from his corner, taut as a bowstring.

  Then the wolves came. Singly and in pairs, they slid under the canvas dividers and through the walls, eye bright, tongues lolling, until a dozen were assembled, sitting on their haunches in a circle around them.

  It reminded Raisa of the dream she’d had after Byrne was killed in Marisa Pines Pass—the visitation of the wolf queens on the night her mother died. There was gray-eyed Hanalea and green-eyed Althea. Sometimes, for a split second, she thought she saw the queens themselves.

  Han glanced at the wolves, then back at Raisa. “Friends of yours?”

  Raisa blinked at him. “You can see them?”

  “I’ve been seeing them, off and on, since we—since I healed you,” Han said. “I hoped they would come today. I don’t know if this will work, but…” He extended his hands toward the wolf queens. Flame danced on his fingertips. Light arced from his hands to the wolves and back to him.

  Hanalea tilted her head, gazing at Han with a wolfish grin.

  Why would Han Alister see wolves? Raisa wondered. That was a trait of the Gray Wolf line, linked to the gift of prophesy. It didn’t make sense.

  Must be some quirk of the healing process, she thought. Of their joining together.

  The wolves closed their eyes and laid back their ears. Lifting their muzzles toward the sky, they began to howl, a mournful cry that raised the hair on Raisa’s neck.

  “Oh!” she said, shivering.