The Exiled Queen. Cinda Williams Chima

locate the princess, you will discharge her into our custody,” Bayar went on, ignoring Gillen’s protest. “My cousins and I will escort her back to the queen.”

      Gillen studied the boy suspiciously. Was he being set up somehow? Why would he give the princess over to these wizardlings? Why wouldn’t he take her back to Fellsmarch and collect the glory (and possible reward money) himself ?

      Sometimes when he did work for the High Wizard he wasn’t sure who he was working for— the wizard or the queen. But this was big. He meant to get more out of this venture than the Bayars’ undying gratitude.

      As if reading Gillen’s thoughts, the boy spoke. “Should you find the princess and deliver her to us, we will pay a bounty of five thousand crowns and arrange your return to a post in Fellsmarch.”

      Gillen struggled to keep his mouth from falling open. Five thousand girlies? That was a fortune. More than he’d expect the Bayars to pay to take credit for returning the princess to court. Something else was going on. Something he didn’t need to know about, in case he was ever questioned.

      It made risking Sloat and Magot in the Spirits a lot more appealing. And all the more reason for Gillen to keep a close watch at the border.

      “I’d be proud to do whatever I can to help return the princess to her mother the queen,” Gillen said. “You can count on me.”

      “No doubt,” Bayar said dryly. “Employ people who know how to keep their mouths shut, and tell them no more than necessary to get the job done. There is no need for any of them to know about our private arrangement.” Fishing in a pouch at his waist, he produced a small, framed portrait and extended it toward Gillen.

      It was the Princess Raisa, head and shoulders only, wearing a low- cut dress that exposed plenty of honey- colored skin. Her dark hair billowed around her face, and she wore a small crown, glittering with jewels. Her head was tilted, and she had a half smile on her face, lips parted, as though she were just about to say something he wanted to hear. She’d even written something on it. To Micah, All my love, R.

      There was something about her, though, something familiar, that he . . .

      Bayar’s hand fastened around Gillen’s arm, stinging him through the wool of his officer’s tunic, and he nearly dropped the painting.

      “Don’t drool on it, Lieutenant Gillen,” Bayar said, as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. “Please make sure your men are familiar with the princess’s appearance. Bear in mind, she will likely be in disguise.”

      “I’ll get right on it, my lord,” Gillen said. He backed away, bowing himself out before young Bayar could change his mind. Or take hold of his arm again. “You and your friends make yourselves to home,” he said. Five thousand girlies would buy a lot of hospitality from Mac Gillen. “I’ll tell Cook to prepare whatever you like.”

      “What are you going to do about the musicians?” Bayar asked abruptly.

      Gillen blinked at him. “What about them?” he asked. “Do you want them to stay on here? They might help pass the time, and the girl’s a pretty one.”

      Young Bayar shook his head. “They’ve heard too much. As I said, no one must connect you with my father or know that you are working for him.” When Gillen frowned, still confused, Bayar added, “This is your fault, Lieutenant, not mine. I’ll handle my cousins, but you are the one who will have to deal with the players.”

      “So,” Gillen said, “are you saying I should send them away?”

      “No,” Bayar said, straightening his wizard stoles, not meeting Gillen’s eyes. “I’m saying you should kill them.”

       Chapter Two In The Borderlands

      Han Alister reined in his pony at the highest point in Marisa Pines Pass. He looked out over the jagged southernmost Queens toward the hidden flatlands of Arden beyond. These were unfamiliar mountains, homes to long- dead queens with names he’d never heard. The highest peaks poked into the clouds, cold stone unclothed by vegetation. The lower slopes glittered with aspens haloed by autumn foliage.

      The temperature had dropped as they climbed, and Han had added layers of clothing as necessary. Now his upland wool hat was pulled low over his ears, and his nose stung in the chilly air.

      Hayden Fire Dancer nudged his pony up beside Han to share the view.

      They’d left Marisa Pines Camp two days before. The clan camp sat strategically at the northern end of the pass, the major passage through the southern Spirit Mountains to the city of Delphi and the flatlands of Arden beyond. The road that began as the Way of the Queens in the capital city of Fellsmarch dwindled into little more than a wide game trail in the highest part of the pass.

      Though it was prime traveling season, they’d met little trade traffic along the trail— only a few hollow- eyed refugees from Arden’s civil war.

      Dancer pointed ahead, toward the southern slope. “Lord Demonai says that before the war, the wagon lines ran from morning to night in season, carrying trade goods up from the flatlands. Food, mostly— grain, livestock, fruits, and vegetables.”

      Dancer had traveled through Marisa Pines Pass before, on trading expeditions with Averill Lightfoot, trademaster and patriarch of Demonai Camp.

      “Now the armies swallow it up,” Dancer went on. “Plus, a lot of the cropland has been burned and spoiled, so it’s out of production.”

      It will be another hungry winter in the Fells, Han thought. The civil war in Arden had been going on for as long as Han could remember. His father had died there, serving as sell- sword to one of the five bloody Montaigne princes— all brothers, and all laying claim to the throne of Arden.

      Han’s pony wheezed and blew, after the long climb from Marisa Pines Camp. The air was thin at this altitude. Han combed his fingers through the shaggy pony’s tangled mane, and scratched behind his ears. “Hey, now, Ragger,” he murmured. “Take your time.” Ragger bared his teeth in answer, and Han laughed.

      Han took a proprietary pride in his ill- tempered pony— the first he’d ever owned. He was a skilled rider of borrowed horses. He’d spent every summer fostered in the upland lodges— sent there from the city by a mother convinced he carried a curse.

      Now everything was different. The clans had staked him his horse, clothing, supplies, food for the journey, and paid his tuition for the academy at Oden’s Ford. Not out of charity, but because they hoped the demon- cursed Han Alister would prove to be a potent weapon against the growing power of the Wizard Council.

      Han had accepted their offer. Accused of murder, orphaned by his enemies, hunted by the Queen’s Guard and the powerful High Wizard, Gavan Bayar, he’d had no choice. The pressure of past tragedies drove him forward— the need to escape reminders of his losses, and the desire to be somewhere other than where he’d been.

      That, and a smoldering desire for revenge.

      Han slid his fingers inside his shirt and absently touched the serpent amulet that sizzled against the skin of his chest. Power flowed out of him and into the jinxpiece, relieving the magical pressure that had been building all day.

      It had become a habit, this drawing off of power that might otherwise pinwheel out of control. He needed to constantly reassure himself the amulet was still there. Han had become strangely attached to it since he’d stolen it from Micah Bayar.

      The flashpiece had once belonged to his ancestor, Alger Waterlow, known by most people as the Demon King. Mean -while, the Lone Hunter amulet made for him by the clan matriarch, Elena Demonai, languished unused in his saddlebag.

      He should hate the Waterlow flashpiece. He’d paid for it with Mam’s and Mari’s lives. Some said the amulet was a black magic piece— capable of naught but evil. But it was all he had to show for his nearly seventeen years, save Mari’s charred storybook and Mam’s gold locket. They were all that remained