The Gray Wolf Throne. Cinda Williams Chima

very best friend.”

      “Then trust him,” Byrne said. “If anyone can get out of the city, he will.”

      Raisa rubbed away her tears with the heels of her hands. “Captain Byrne, if anything happens to Amon, I will never, ever forgive you.”

      Byrne took hold of her shoulders, gripping them hard, the light from the lanterns gilding his face. “What you can do for Amon now is survive,” he said, his voice husky and strange. “Don’t let them win, Your Highness.”

      Raisa strode back across the stable yard toward the inn, her mind churning with worry about Amon and the Gray Wolves, still trying to devise some kind of rescue plan.

      It was after closing time, and with any luck, the taproom would have cleared. She’d pack her few belongings and they’d be on their way.

      When she looked ahead, she saw Esmerell and Tatina hustling toward her through the rain, lifting their skirts above the mucky ground.

      Great, she thought, rolling her eyes. Just what I need.

      Then two of the card players Raisa had noticed earlier burst out the back door, charging after the ladies at a dead run.

      Raisa’s mind grappled with what she was seeing, and came to a quick conclusion. The men were thieves after all, and likely had seen the purse the wealthy Ardenine ladies had been waving around.

      “Look out behind you!” Raisa yelled, sprinting forward.

      The women didn’t look back, but increased their speed, running faster than Raisa would have expected. The card players were yelling something as they ran. Something Raisa couldn’t make out. She heard the stable door bang open, then shouts and pounding feet behind her.

      “Get behind me!” she shouted as the ladies closed the distance between them. But then something slammed into her, throwing her sideways to the ground. She rolled to her feet in time to see the Ardenine ladies go down under the card players.

      Edon Byrne seized Raisa’s shoulders in a viselike grip and held her fast.

      It took a moment for Raisa to gather breath enough to speak.

      “What are you doing?” she spluttered, struggling to free herself. She was soaked through, muddy and shivering, her teeth chattering.

      Slowly, the guards disentangled themselves and stood. The ladies lay flat on their backs, unmoving, blood and rain soaking their fancy dresses.

      Run through by the card players.

      “Good work,” Edon Byrne said gruffly, nodding at them. “But next time don’t let them get so close to the princess heir.”

      The card players yanked their blades free, wiping them on the ladies’ voluminous skirts. One of them knelt and efficiently searched the women. He came up with three knives and a small framed picture. He scanned the picture, then mutely extended it toward Raisa.

      It was a portrait of Raisa, done for her name day.

      Byrne kicked something away from the two bodies, stooped and picked it up with two fingers.

      It was a dagger, delicate and feminine and deadly sharp.

      CHAPTER TWO

      PICKING OVER OLD BONES

      Han Alister encountered more traffic than he had anticipated on the road to Fetters Ford. Hollow-eyed refugees streamed north as Gerard Montaigne’s army scorched the countryside to the south. They looked witch-fixed, some of them, stunned by calamity, still dressed in the ruined finery that said they were bluebloods.

      It seemed to Han that all of Tamron was on the move—country folk seeking refuge in the cities, and city dwellers fleeing to the countryside. How likely was it that he could find one girlie amid this chaos—traveling alone or with two wizards?

      The road traced the Tamron River north from Oden’s Ford. To the east lay Arden and the dense broadleaf trees of Tamron Forest. To the west lay the fertile fields of Tamron, now overrun by fighting. Smoke spiraled up from charred farm buildings and manor houses.

      Sword-danglers seemed to like to burn things up.

      Tamron might be the breadbasket of the Seven Realms, but these days food was hard to come by even for those with money to spend. Small villages lined the road, a day’s ride apart, like knots on a frayed string. Each was guarded by a motley local militia armed with pitchforks, staffs, and longbows, ready to drive off the ravenous hordes—soldiers or citizens—that threatened to overrun them.

      Fortunately, Han was used to going hungry.

      In every village there was at least one inn. And in every inn, Han would ask the same questions. “Have you seen a girlie, a mixed-blood with green eyes and dark hair? She’s small, she’d be this tall.” Here he’d hold out his hand below shoulder height. “Her name is Rebecca Morley, and she might be traveling with two charmcasters, a brother and sister. You’d remember them—both tall, and the sister has white-blond hair and blue eyes, the brother has dark hair and eyes.”

      Some of those he asked tried to make a joke of it. “What’s the matter, your girlie run off?” But most seemed to take a cue from Han’s expression, or the amulet that hung around his neck, or his travel-weary appearance in these desperate times.

      Missing girlies in wartime were no laughing matter.

      The dead were everywhere. Bodies hung from trees like grisly fruit, spinning slowly in the southern breezes. Here were battlegrounds littered with the bodies of dead soldiers, lorded over by carrion birds. Clouds of flies rose from the carcasses of animals along the roadside, and bodies fouled many of the waterways.

      Han traveled most days with the stench of decay in his nose. It reminded him of Arden, when he and Dancer had traveled through on their way to Oden’s Ford. Had it really been nearly a year ago?

      This was the poison that had spread into Tamron and threatened to sicken the Fells.

      Stay out of it, Alister, Han said to himself. You have enough battles to fight as it is.

      One innkeeper thought he remembered a girlie matching Rebecca’s description traveling alone, riding a gray flatland stallion far too big for her. It seemed a thin lead at best.

      Han could hope that Rebecca’s party had passed through unmolested; that the reports that put Rebecca in the way of Gerard’s invading army were wrong.

      It was possible she’d turned aside and taken refuge in the capital of Tamron Court, now under siege by Gerard Montaigne’s army. Han considered detouring west, toward the capital, but there was no way to tell if she was there or not. And nothing to be done if she were.

      Han took a deep breath, released it, forcing himself to relax his neck and shoulders, to unclench his fists.

      Anyway, Corporal Byrne and his Gray Wolves were headed that way. Han had his own path to follow.

      If not for his worries about Rebecca, Han would have been in no hurry to reach the Fells. Why should he be eager to take his place as the magical sell-sword of the upland clans who’d misled and betrayed him? Why should he rush to confront the Wizard Council? Did he really want to play champion to Marianna—the queen responsible for so many of his losses? The queen who likely still had a price on his head.

      Even when he reached the Fells, Han couldn’t trust the clans to have his back. The Demonai warriors despised him because he was gifted. He was their throwaway piece, intended to buy them a little time.

      If not for Rebecca, he could have run the other way. As long as he stayed out of the mountains, he might avoid those he’d pledged to for months or years. He could always find a flatland hidey-hole and lose himself.

      He snorted. As if that would ever happen. Han had loved Oden’s Ford, but he didn’t like the flatlands. Though a city boy, he’d been raised in a mountain town, and it made him uneasy to have vacancy all around him. He wanted to wrap himself in the mountains