Now Raisa faced the same dilemma. Would it be too much power, too soon, for her?
A slight noise broke into her thoughts. She looked up to find Nightwalker standing in front of her. “They’re bringing Queen Marianna’s body in procession up the mountain,” he said. “It’s time for us to go.”
Raisa stood, and Nightwalker put his hands on her shoulders, leaned in and kissed her forehead. “Be safe today, Briar Rose,” he said. He shifted his eyes to Han and Dancer, then back to her. “Be wary.”
“All will be well, you’ll see,” Raisa said, looking into Nightwalker’s eyes, willing him to believe her. Willing it to be true.
“I hope you are right,” Nightwalker said. “This is difficult for me.” He smiled faintly, bowed his head, then turned away. The remaining Demonai warriors mounted up, then clattered over the hill and out of sight, leaving Willo, Han, Dancer, and Raisa alone.
Raisa geared up for the war ahead, knowing that when it comes to politics, looking the part is often half the battle.
Willo had sorted several garments into piles. She gave Han a bundle of black-and-silver fabric. “It is not my best work, Hunts Alone, since it was done so quickly,” she said. “But I think it will serve.” Her dark eyes studied him as if trying to divine his purpose.
Han only nodded, clutching the garment in his arms. “Thank you.” He turned and strode away, toward his horse.
Raisa had little time to be curious. Willo handed her a thick quilted jacket—armor padding of a sort. Raisa removed the shadow cloak and put the jacket on over her clan garb.
Dancer unbuckled the breastplate, then held it open as Raisa slipped her arms through. He fastened it down the front, shifting it so it sat squarely on her shoulders. She poked her arms into the gauntlets, and he fastened those as well. He did good work—they were lightweight and well finished. The magic in them buzzed against her skin.
Willo draped a crimson cloak across Raisa’s shoulders. It carried an image of a snarling gray wolf in intricate stitches. “I hope you know what you are doing,” she said, shifting her gaze from Raisa to Han to Dancer. “This will mark you out like a banner.”
“So Lord Bayar won’t need his magic glasses to see me,” Raisa said. “Perfect.” She ran her fingers over the stitches. “This is beautiful,” she breathed. “How in the world did you…?”
“I had made it ahead to honor your coronation,” Willo said. She smiled sadly. “I had no idea I would be giving this gift so soon.”
“Thank you,” Raisa said, and embraced her, the armor a barrier between them. “What will you…?”
“I will stay here and wait for you,” Willo said quickly, as if she’d been anticipating the question. “I have already mourned Marianna according to the Old Ways. I’ve spoken to Averill. He understands, as I hope you do.”
“Of course,” Raisa said, confused. “But…”
“Your Highness?” Han’s voice broke into their conversation. Raisa looked up to see that Han and Dancer were already mounted.
Dancer waved his hand and galloped over the crest of the hill and disappeared. He would ride ahead, finding a vantage point where he could keep an eye on the Bayars and other wizards present and prevent any magical attacks.
Han sat on his horse with his back very straight, his face as cold, still, and pale as sculpted marble, his vivid blue eyes the only color. He wore the coat Willo had made for him. It was black and silver, decorated with paint and stitching. Metallic serpents squirmed up the sleeves from hem to shoulder. A gray wolf and a raven faced each other on the lapels of the coat, and the back was embroidered with a wizard staff coiled with serpents, thrust through the Gray Wolf crown.
What’s that about? Raisa wondered. He was of common birth, so would have no family crest. Then again, some commoners devised a signia when they rose in the world.
Han didn’t seem to be the sort to care about those sorts of things.
The gray wolf must signify that he was in her service. But why would he go to so much trouble to proclaim an obligation that he no doubt found onerous? Also, he must have discussed it with Willo long before their trailside conversation. The feeling returned that she was being played by a master.
“Your Highness?” Han repeated. It still sounded peculiar when he said it. He jerked his head toward the top of the hill. “Are you ready?”
Raisa managed to haul herself into Switcher’s saddle despite the added weight of the armor. The mare crow-hopped a little at the unexpected burden.
“Yes,” Raisa said, steadying herself. “Let’s go.”
C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - F O U R
FAREWELLS
Han looked down the freshly named Marianna Peak to the preparations under way downslope. From this distance he could make out spots of color, like splashes of paint. Bright bluejacket blue splashed around what must be Captain Edon Byrne’s modest tomb.
Han wished he’d had a chance to discuss his plans with Corporal Byrne. That bluejacket was a good one to have at your back.
He wished he’d had a chance to pick Crow’s brain in preparation—to ask his advice. It had been a mistake to surprise Crow by introducing him to Dancer just when he needed his help the most. He wondered if he’d ever see him again.
If wishes were horses, beggars would ride, Mam used to say.
The Demonai pavilion flew the unlidded eye banner, and the Demonai themselves were clustered upslope from the dais, like the brown and pale green of the springtime forest. Bird was down there somewhere.
She’d surprised him by defying Reid Demonai. She’d always been strong-willed and opinionated, and he guessed that was likely to cause friction with Nightwalker. It would be interesting to see what would happen from here on.
Well. Not all that interesting. What happened between Bird and Nightwalker was not his business.
The Gray Wolf banner snapped in the breeze, high atop the tent where the Princess Mellony must be housed. And the Wizard Council had its own pavilion, bearing the flame-and-sword motif of the High Wizard.
They reminded Han of armed camps facing each other, like what he’d seen in war-torn Arden. He recalled what Crow had said about leverage. Apply a little pressure where it will do the most good, and a lot can be accomplished. There was opportunity in the thousand-year-old faults that split the peoples of the Fells. Han meant to take advantage. It was the only way to win this thing. The only way to get what he wanted—once he decided what that was.
The dais was a flower garden of color—packed with the nobility dressed in their best. It was, after all, a joyous occasion for somebody. Another queen would soon rule over the Vale.
Somebody had made that happen, and Han needed to find out who, and why.
The lower slopes of Marianna were layered with the muted tones commoners favored—colors that wouldn’t show dirt with repeated wearings. Five-day colors, Mam would have called them.
The very ground seemed to heave and ripple as thousands of people jockeyed for a better view. Latecomers had no hope of getting within miles of the ceremony. Cat would be down there somewhere, too, working her own kind of magic.
A long procession of mounted bluebloods snaked its way toward the pavilions at the center of the burial site. Even at a distance, Han could tell they had their rum togs on. That would be the dead queen’s body making its way to the site of the memorial. The crowds on the lower slopes parted grudgingly to let her through. Han was accustomed to a festival atmosphere at executions and blueblood funerals. It was something out of the ordinary, at least, for those with monotonous lives. But the mood of this crowd seemed grim and threatening.
A thin blue line of guards divided the crowds from their betters upslope.
The queen’s bier was followed by an honor guard of bluejackets. Amon Byrne rode in the lead, cradling the urn holding his father’s ashes. And immediately behind him, a riderless horse, standard military issue, with boots reversed in the stirrups.
Han looked sideways at Rebecca—Raisa—the queen. She
might have been an elven warrior from stories, with her magicked armor, her made-to-measure sword, and her windblown cap of hair. Her Gray Wolf cloak fluttered out behind her in the breeze.
A memory came to him—Rebecca in the alleyway at Oden’s Ford, stalking toward him, her blade in her hand, leaving a would-be attacker flat on his back on the cobblestones. Rebecca promising Han the same treatment if he didn’t get out of her way.
The images reverberated in his mind until he felt half sick. Were these really one and the same? The friend he knew and the heir to the throne of the Fells?
When he focused on Raisa, he saw that her nose had gone pink, and her eyes fixed on the queen’s bier glittered with unshed tears.
He looked away, beating back sympathy. The only words spoken over Mam’s and Mari’s bodies were his own awkward prayers—and they’d nearly died unspoken on his tongue. What use would it be to call on a Maker who would allow Mam and Mari to burn to death?
Raisa was learning the lessons he’d been taught a long time ago—what could happen when you crossed a powerful blueblood.
Those bearing the casket had reached the pavilion where the memorial was to be held. The linen-wrapped body was lifted into place on the flower-decked bier that had been prepared for it. Corporal Byrne handed down the urn, which was placed in a position of honor below the queen’s casket. Then he dismounted and stood at attention with the rest of the honor guard. The bluebloods flowed into the high-priced seats close to the stage.
It was time.
Han looked up at the sky. Storm clouds piled up behind Hanalea, streaming over the lower peaks like long arms reaching out for the crowd. The sky to the west was a peculiar green, and lightning flickered over the West Wall. The wind picked up, sweeping down over Marianna, reminding any who had forgotten that spring was a fickle season in the mountain home.
Han’s neck prickled. Say what you wanted about the Gray Wolf queens, they had a magical connection to the Spirit Mountains. He hoped it would make his job easier.
He glanced at Raisa, and she nodded, lifting her chin, green eyes wide and unblinking. Fearless.
“Careful you keep your seat,” Han cautioned her, wishing he could issue a clearer warning. “I don’t know how the ponies will react to all this.”
She nodded again, gripping her reins, lips pressed tightly together.
All right, then. Han extended his free hand toward her, igniting the linkages he’d already established. They both began to glow, kindling brighter and brighter until they shone like two stars fallen to earth. Raisa extended her hands, and they trailed flame in a wide arc, like wings. Their ponies, too, flickered with brilliant flame, resembling the horses the sun god was said to drive across the sky.
The phantasm surrounding them grew, expanding so that they appeared to be twice their actual size. At the very least, Han thought, it would make them tricky targets if the magical barriers failed.
Then the wolves came—terrible and wonderful, with flaming eyes and razor-sharp teeth and great ruffs of hair about their massive shoulders. They were wolves the size of horses, with teeth the size of belt daggers.
The wolves were real—to Han’s eyes, at least. They’d been appearing to him ever since he’d joined himself to Raisa in his desperate attempt to heal her. Han had only wrapped glamours about them—increasing their size, enhancing their appearance, and making them visible to everyone.
Now they resembled the monstrous beasts from Mam’s scare-stories—the hellhounds that the Breaker would ride at the end of days.
Thirty-two wolves preceded them over the hill, descending toward the crowd on the mountainside. Nearly two score Gray Wolf queens since Hanalea.
When Han and Raisa crested the hill, light spilled down the mountainside ahead of them, dispelling the cloud shadow.
We must look like a sunrise, Han thought. A new day. He smiled to himself. He’d given himself a visible role in this drama on purpose. Though it would make him a target, it was time people started seeing him differently.
He was making show, along with Raisa.
Heads turned as they walked their horses down the mountain, side by side. The Demonai warriors were farthest upslope, and they were watching for them. The clanfolk turned and faced up the mountain, shading their eyes against the glare.
The sound of their voices washed over Han. “The wolf queens come to greet their sister Marianna!” they cried, as planned. “Here come the Gray Wolf queens!”
The Demonai drew off to either side, leaving a wide path down through the middle. They dropped to their knees as the wolves passed through.
By now Han was close enough to see the reaction among the bluebloods. Atop the dais he was pleased to see Speaker Jemson in his fancy Temple Day robes. Jemson squinted up at them, his forehead crinkled, his expression faintly perplexed.
The platform was thick with wizards—Han recognized the High Wizard, Gavan Bayar, and Micah and Fiona, too, along with a half dozen others.
Lord Bayar squinted at them, his free arm slung over his eyes. It seemed he couldn’t tell who they were, blinded as he was by Han’s brilliant sending.
All three Bayars positioned themselves between Han’s fetch and the dignitaries on the stage. They kept their hands on their amulets as if they wanted to use them but couldn’t figure out what spell to cast.
A bulky sword-dangler in an elaborate Highlander uniform laden with military glitterbits leaned over to speak to Lord Bayar. Bayar shook his head, scowling, without taking his eyes off Han and Raisa.
Behind them, Averill Lightfoot Demonai, the queen’s consort and Raisa’s father, stood next to a pretty blond girlie with wide blue eyes. Lightfoot rested a reassuring hand on her shoulder, or maybe it was to keep her in her seat. Tall and slender, she wore diamonds at her throat and wrists and a kind of baby crown on her head.
She didn’t look at all like Raisa, but Han guessed she must be the younger sister, Princess Mellony.
She was impressed by his sending, at least. She looked scared to death.
The bluejackets had formed up, swords drawn, making a fragile barrier in front of the dais. They had starch, Han thought, confronting wolves that looked like they could swallow them whole, two at a time.
The wolves did not attack, however. They lined up in front of the bluejackets, then sat on their haunches, exposing their great teeth.
All was silent for a long moment, save the snap of the banners in the wind. Even the crowd on the lower slopes had gone absolutely quiet, as if holding its breath.
“Who are you?” Lord Bayar demanded. “How dare you disrupt our memorial for Queen Marianna with a conjure-piece?”
Raisa replied in a high, clear voice, “Do you not know me, Lord Bayar?”
Han’s eyes were on the Princess Mellony as Raisa spoke. Mellony flinched and went ashen at the sound of Raisa’s voice. Averill leaned down and spoke into her ear.
A tall, sturdy woman with a long gray braid pushed forward to stand behind the Princess Mellony, resting her hands on her shoulders. Tears streamed down the woman’s face. “Sweet Sainted Lady!” she called in a carrying voice, almost as if she’d been coached. “It’s the Princess Raisa home again! Long live the Gray Wolf line.”
“While some may be fooled by a wizard’s fetch, I am not,” Lord Bayar said, raising his voice as if to drown out the woman. “Though it is a pretty piece of conjury, it is in poor taste. It has only frightened those who would honor our late queen. Please identify yourself, or leave us in peace. If you do not comply, I don’t care who you are, I will have you before the council.”
“Lord Bayar,” Raisa said. “I am Raisa ana’Marianna, the heir to the Gray Wolf throne, here to mourn my mother. Not even a wizard with a heart of stone would deny me that.”
With that, Han allowed the brilliance that surrounded them to die to a faint glow. At the same time, he directed more power into his magical shields, glad he’d overloaded his amulet in the past few days.
A murmur ran through the crowd
like wind through aspens.
Han saw a flicker of movement on his right side. It was Dancer moving up along the side of the dais, eyes riveted on the High Wizard, reinforcing the barriers from the other direction, ready to act if needed. No one but Han seemed to notice him; Dancer was wrapped in a glamour, and they were all fixed on the apparition before them.
Micah stood rigid, his eyes fixed on Raisa as if he’d seen a ghost. He closed his eyes, then opened them again, as if she might disappear in the interval.
Fiona’s pale eyes fastened on Han, raking over him like a steel-toothed comb.
Lord Bayar had a rum street face, Han had to admit. When his black eyes lit on Han, they tightened a bit, the only sign that the High Wizard recognized him. Otherwise his expression displayed only disdain and impatience.
“Do you really expect us to believe that this is the princess heir?” The High Wizard shook his head as if he couldn’t fathom that Han would make such a low play. He turned back toward Mellony, inclining his head. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. It is a cruel trick, to arouse your hopes like this. With sorcery, it is easy to make one thing look like another. This woman is probably just a glamoured-up street doxy.”
With that, the blood left Raisa’s face, leaving two spots of furious color on her cheeks.
“Lord Bayar!” she said, her voice as clear and frozen as lake ice in January, as carrying as temple bells. “Perhaps you would like me to tell everyone why I had to leave the Fells against my will.”
Micah twitched, his complexion turning from marble to porcelain. The crowd on the slopes below murmured and shifted.
Bayar seemed to prefer to focus on Han. The High Wizard extended his hand toward Han, who forced himself not to flinch away. “Madam, you are judged by the company you keep. This boy is Cuffs Alister, a common thief.”
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