“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 ear
ly 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.
C H A P T E R S E V E N
THE LADY SWORD
The crossing into the Fells was anticlimactic, compared to last time. Han kept hold of his amulet, his hand stuffed into his coat as if for warmth. A bundled-up bluejacket pried himself out of his warm guardhouse to give Han the once-over and wave him on. It seemed that Fellsian eyes were turned inward now, focusing on the drama surrounding the princesses. No one seemed to care if a lone rider crossed into the north.
Han was oddly disappointed. He’d almost hoped for a confrontation, like any sword-dangler wanting to try out his shiny new weapons.
Ragger was downright frisky as they began the gentle climb that led to the pass, crow-hopping and tossing his head, trying to wrench the reins out of Han’s hands.
“Better save your strength,” Han said. “You’ll be complaining before long.”
It was the same road he’d traveled with Dancer eight months before, transformed by the recent snowfall. It was hard to say how much had fallen. In some places the wind had piled it into drifts higher than Han’s mounted height. Other places were scoured clean, down to bare rock. Once the sun rose, light glittered on the peaks, setting every twig and icy rock face aflame.
Han hadn’t much experience traveling in early spring in the mountains. He’d spent his summers in the mountain camps, his winters running the streets of Fellsmarch. As they climbed, the temperature dropped, the clear sky seeming to suck up the heat of Han’s body, no matter how many clothes he layered on. He drew heat from his amulet, using bits of flash to warm his hands and frozen face.
Even in summer, the weather in the mountains was changeable and treacherous, but Han was surprised how much the deep snow slowed him down. The road became a trail, threading between great blocks of stone that blocked the wind and drifting snow, at least.
It wasn’t long before Ragger stopped his prancing and dancing and bore down for the long haul, laying his ears back along his head. Han rested him frequently, graining him at every stop from an already dwindling supply.
It was past midday when Han came on a clan way house, called Way Camp, which lay a few hundred yards off the main road. He and Dancer had stayed there on their way south back in autumn. Han turned off the road toward the camp, thinking he could rest Ragger under shelter this time.
Han was tempted to stay the night. The Demonai often stocked the way camps with food and other supplies, especially this time of year. Han had chosen to travel light since he’d assumed he’d reach Marisa Pines by nightfall.
But if they stayed, they might be overtaken by the next storm, and then there was no telling how long they’d be stranded there. He decided that if the camp were provisioned, they’d stay and weather the storm under shelter. Otherwise, they’d push on through the pass, hoping to beat the snow.
When they reached the clearing, Han recognized the small cabin and attached lean-to for horses, layered with snow. Ragger went balky at the edge of the trees. He skidded to a stop, tossing his head, nostrils flaring as if picking some dangersome scent out of the razor-sharp air.
That was when Han noticed the bodies.
There were eight or ten scattered in bunches, like they’d gone down fighting together. Snow shrouded them in a rumpled coverlet as if the Maker had tried to put them to rest.
Easing his bow from his saddle boot, Han fumbled with the bowstring with half-frozen fingers, drew an arrow from his quiver, and nocked it, all the while scanning the camp for signs of life.
Nothing—no disturbance in the pristine snow cover. The snow frosted the corpses, unmelted, so the bodies were cold. This killing had happened at least a day ago.
It reminded Han of the time he’d passed through a dark cemetery in Ragmarket after the resurrection men had been at work. He’d realized to his horror that he was surrounded by linen-wrapped corpses, spilled everywhere on the ground, shallow graves yawning beside them. He’d fled the burying ground, screaming. He’d been seven years old at the time, the same age as his sister Mari when she burned to death.
When Ragger finally settled, Han heeled him into a walk, circling the clearing, staying within the fringe of trees, alert for any movement in the surrounding forest. The cabin seemed deserted. The snow billowed up against the door undisturbed.
Han dismounted and led Ragger forward. Keeping hold of the reins, he knelt next to the first body, brushing away the snow.
It was a tall, sturdy girlie, a little older than Han. She had the look of a sword-dangler, though she wore no emblem of allegiance. Her coat was crusted with frozen blood, and a crossbow bolt centered her chest.
Could she be a mercenary come up from the south? Had she run into a Demonai scouting party? No, the Demonai used longbows as a rule, and black-fletched arrows.
Ragger’s head came up and he whinnied out a challenge. Han swiveled on his knees, aiming his arrow into the woods in the direction the horse was pointing.
A riderless bay horse stood at the edge of the trees, ears pricked forward, watching them.
Han lowered his bow. Once he’d assured himself the horse was on his own, he called out softly, “You there. Where’s your owner?”
The horse staggered toward them, nearly going down, and that was when Han noticed the bolts feathering the gelding’s shoulder and neck. He was sturdy, standard Fellsian military issue, with a shaggy winter coat. He was fully tacked—obviously a casualty of the recent battle, or ambush, or whatever it was.
When the horse came within reach, Han held out his hand and the gelding lipped at it. There was a carry bag slung over the saddle, and Han lifted it down, murmuring soothingly to the badly wounded animal.
Han poked through the contents of the bag—a soldier’s kit. In a side pocket was a pay voucher from the Queen’s Guard of the Fells, made out to one Ginny Foster, Private.
What were bluejackets doing out here in the middle of a storm, all out of uniform?
Han made a quick circuit of the killing field, clearing snow away from two or three more bodies. All were dressed in nondescript traveling garb, most young.
Whose side were they on? Who had killed them? Had any of them escaped? And where were the killers now?
It didn’t seem wise to linger here, even though the battle was long over. If the killers were still in the area, they might return to this shelter when the new storm hit.
Han came up alongside the injured horse. It stood, head down, breathing hard. It would probably go down for good after a day or two of suffering.
“Hey, now,” he said, reaching around under the bay’s neck, probing with his fingers, finding the hot vein, gripping his amulet with his other hand.
“It’s all right,” he whispered, following with one of the deadly charms Crow had taught him.
The bay went down easily, but Han still shivered. It was the second time he’d killed with magic, the first he’d killed intentionally. Maybe it would get easier with time.
Han took a quick look inside the cabin, finding nothing of value except a sack of frozen oats in the lean-to, which he took.
Mounting up again, Han pulled his serpent amulet free, letting it rest on the outside of his coat. He slid his bow into his saddle boot, within easy reach, though he hoped the raiders or invaders or whoever they were had moved on.
For the rest of the afternoon, Han climbed as the sun descended toward the West Wall. As he approached the pass, he saw that others had come this way since the storm. Though the trail was drifted over in spots, elsewhere the snow was beaten down, pockmarked with hoofprints.
Han pressed on cautiously, acutely aware that anyone ahead of him could look back down the mountain and see him crawling up the slope behind them. In fair weather, he’d have given the strangers plenty of time to put distance between them, but a scrim of cloud had appeared on the horizon. He had no choice. The next storm was closing in, and there was no other path through this s
ide of the West Wall.
As he passed through the narrowest part of the pass, his nerves screamed and his skin prickled. He knew it was a prime place for an ambush. Magic or not, a bolt between his shoulder blades would take him down quick.
Arrows were faster than jinxes—isn’t that what he’d told Micah Bayar a century ago?
He navigated the pass unmolested, pausing a moment at the highest point to scan the long descent in front of him. The snow was scuffed up and tumbled about, and it had happened recently. Something lay across the trail just ahead, black against the snow.
It was another body, bristling with arrows. A fresher kill, and clean of snow, so it must have happened since the storm.
Han sat motionless for a long moment, his eyes searching the downslope ahead of him. He scanned the masses of stone to either side of the trail, in case archers waited to ambush him there. The wind pitched fine snow into his face, stinging like glittery ground glass.
He was getting much too close to this action. He had no intention of dying here, within a day of his destination. But he couldn’t stay here either, not with bad weather coming.
He nudged Ragger forward at a slow walk, murmuring reassurances he didn’t believe himself. He rode up alongside the body and sat looking down at him.
The man lay on his face, arms stretched out ahead of him as if he hoped he could still go forward. Blood spattered the snow all around him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed like the dead soldiers back at Way House. Whoever had attacked him meant to make sure of him—Han counted eight arrows sticking out of him before he left off numbering them.
The snow surrounding the body was trampled down, bootprints and hoofprints of at least a dozen riders. Han examined the tracks descending toward Marisa Pines Camp. They’d left at a dead run. Afraid they’d be caught? Or still chasing someone?
Was this one last straggler from the attack at Way Camp? Why had they been so eager to finish him off? It was almost as if this man was such a dangerous person that they wanted to kill him extra dead.