The Exiled Queen. Cinda Williams Chima

of the clans.

      “Are you all right?” Dancer leaned toward him, his copper face etched with concern, his hair twisting in the wind like beaded snakes. “You look witch- fixed.”

      “I’m all right,” Han said. “But I’d like to get out of this wind.” Even in fair weather the wind roared constantly through the pass. And now, at summer’s end, it carried the bite of winter.

      “The border can’t be far,” Dancer said, his words snatched away as he spoke them. “Once we cross, we’ll be close to Delphi. Maybe we can sleep under a roof tonight.”

      Han and Dancer traveled under the guise of clan traders, leading pack ponies loaded with goods. Their clan garb offered some protection. That and the longbows slung across their backs. Most thieves knew better than to confront members of the Spirit clans on their home ground. Travel would be riskier once they crossed into Arden.

      As they descended toward the border, the season rolled back, from early winter to autumn again. Past the tree line, first scrubby pines and then the aspen forest closed in around them, providing some relief from the wind. The slope gentled and the skin of soil deepened. They began to see scattered crofts centered by snug cottages, and meadows studded by sturdy mountain sheep with long, curling horns.

      A little farther, and here was evidence of the festering war to the south. Half hidden among the weeds to either side of the road were discards— empty saddlebags and parts of uniforms from fleeing soldiers, household treasures that had become too much of a burden on the uphill trail.

      Han spotted a child’s homespun dolly in the ditch, pressed into the mud. He reined in, meaning to climb down and fetch it so he could clean it up for his little sister. Then he remembered that Mari was dead and had no need of dollies anymore.

      Grief was like that. It gradually faded into a dull ache, until some simple sight or sound or scent hit him like a hammer blow.

      They passed several torched homesteads, stone chimneys poking up like headstones on despoiled graves. And then an entire burnt village, complete with the skeletal remains of a temple and council house.

      Han looked at Dancer. “Flatlanders did this?”

      Dancer nodded. “Or stray mercenaries. There’s a keep at the border, but they don’t do a very good job patrolling this road. The Demonai warriors can’t be everywhere. The Wizard Council claims wizards could take up the slack, but they’re not allowed and they don’t have the proper tools, and that’s the fault of the clans.” He rolled his eyes. “As if you’d find wizards out here in the rough even if they were allowed to be.”

      “Hey, now,” Han said. “Watch yourself. We’re wizards in the rough.”

      They both laughed at the double joke. They’d come to share a kind of graveyard humor about their predicament. It was hard to let go of the habit of making fun of the arrogance of wizards— the kinds of jokes the powerless make about the powerful.

      They reached a joining of trails from the east and west, all funneling into the pass. Traffic thickened and slowed like clotted cream. Travelers trickled past, heading the other way, toward Marisa Pines and likely on to Fellsmarch. Men, women, children, families, and single travelers, groups thrown together by chance, or joined together for protection.

      Loaded down with bundles and bags, the refugees were silent, hollow- eyed, even the children, as if it took everything they had to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Adults and younglings alike carried clubs, sticks, and other makeshift weapons. Some were wounded, with bloodstained rags tied around their heads or arms or legs. Many wore lightweight flat-lander clothing, and some had no shoes.

      They must have left Delphi at daybreak. If it had taken them this long to get this distance, they were never going to make it through the pass by nightfall. Then it was two more days to Marisa Pines.

      “They’re going to freeze up there,” Han said. “Their feet will be cut to ribbons on the rocks. How are the lytlings going to manage the climb? What are they thinking?”

      One little boy, maybe four years old, stood crying in the middle of the trail, fists clenched, face squinched up in misery. “Mama!” he cried in the flatlander tongue. “Mama! I’m hungry!” There was no mama in sight.

      Pricked by guilt, Han dug into his carry bag and pulled out an apple. He leaned down from his saddle, extending it toward the boy. “Here,” he said, smiling. “Try this.”

      The boy stumbled backward, raising his arms in defense. “No!” he screamed in a panic. “Get away!” He fell down on his backside, still screaming bloody murder.

      A thin- faced girl of indeterminate age snatched the apple out of Han’s hand and raced away as if chased by demons. Han stared helplessly after her.

      “Let it go, Hunts Alone,” Dancer said, using Han’s clan name. “Guess they’ve had a bad experience with horsemen. You can’t save everyone, you know.”

      I can’t save anyone, Han thought.

      They rounded a turn, and the border fortifications came into view below— a tumbledown keep and a ragged stone wall, the gaps quilled with iron spikes and razor wire in lieu of better repair. The wall stretched across the pass, smashing up against the peaks on either side, centered on a massive stone gatehouse that arched over the road. A short line of southbound trader’s wagons, pack lines, and walkers inched through the gate, while the northbound traffic passed unimpeded.

      A village of sorts had sprouted around the keep like mushrooms after a summer rain, consisting of rough lean- tos, scruffy huts, tents, and canvas- topped wagons. A rudimentary corral enclosed a few spavined horses and knobble- ribbed cows.

      Spots of brilliant blue clustered around the gate like a fistful of autumn asters. Bluejackets. The Queen’s Guard. Apprehension slid down Han’s spine like an icy finger.

      Why would they be on duty at the border?

      “Checking the refugees coming in, I can understand,” he said, scowling. “They’d want to keep out spies and renegades. But why should they care who’s leaving the queendom?”

      Dancer looked Han up and down, biting his lower lip. “Well, obviously they’re looking for someone.” He paused. “Would the Queen’s Guard be going to all this trouble to catch you?”

      Han shrugged, wanting to deny the possibility. If he was so dangerous, wouldn’t they prefer he was out of the queendom rather than in?

      “Seems unlikely Her Powerfulness the queen would get this worked up over a few dead Southies,” he said. “Especially since the killings have stopped.”

      “You did stick a knife in her High Wizard,” Dancer pointed out. “Maybe he’s dead.”

      Right. There was that. Though Han couldn’t really believe that Lord Bayar was dead. In his experience, the evil lived on while the innocent died. Still, the Bayars might have convinced the queen it was worth the extra sweat to put him in darbies.

      But the Bayars want their amulet back, Han thought. Would they risk his taking by the Queen’s Guard? Under torture, the history of the piece might just slip out.

      Anyway, wasn’t he supposed to be on the queen’s side? He recalled Elena Cennestre’s words the day she’d dumped the truth on him.

      When you complete your training, you will come back here and use your skills on behalf of the clans and the true line of blooded queens.

      Likely nobody’d told Queen Marianna. They’d be trying to keep it on the hush.

      “We know they’re not looking for you,” Han said, shifting his eyes away from Dancer. “Let’s split up, just to be on the safe side. You go ahead. I’ll follow.” That would prevent any heroics on Dancer’s part if Han got taken.

      Dancer greeted this suggestion with a derisive snort. “Right. Even with your hair covered, there is no way you could pass for clan once you open your mouth. Let me do the talking. Lots