She reached up to adjust her blindfold, squared her shoulders, then moved forward with the mass of gold-robed faithful, just another pilgrim returning to the city where the faith was born. The soldiers, younger men mostly, some with onion-pale skin, others dark as charred wood, watched the throng approach. Adare waited for them to move aside, to allow the devout into the city, but they did not move. Instead, when the first wagons reached the height of the bridge, a broad-shouldered man with a neck like a dock piling stepped forward. He must have been well into his fifth decade, though the years had done nothing to chip away at the heavy muscle of his arms and chest.

“Stop,” he said, voice loud enough he didn’t bother to raise a hand.

The pilgrimage clattered to a halt in a welter of confused questions, those behind demanding answers from their friends nearer the top of the bridge. Adare’s hands were slippery with sweat. She forced herself to leave them at her side, not to wipe them on her robes. She felt light-headed, as though she might pass out. It would be a disaster, of course. If she fell, the pilgrims who came to her aid would remove the blindfold, and then she was dead.

Keep standing, she told herself silently. Stay on your ’Kent-kissing feet.

The Sons of Flame hadn’t moved, but their commander was running his gaze over the golden-robed men and women at the front of the line, his mouth twisted in a scowl.

“Where is the Malkeenian?” he asked finally.

Ice slid down Adare’s spine. She wanted to flee and fight all at the same time. The bridge balustrade was only a few paces off. She couldn’t see what lay beneath, but if she hurled herself off of it . . .

“Keep still, ya dumb wench,” Nira murmured, voice pitched for Adare’s ears alone. “And keep your mouth shut.”

Legs trembling beneath her, Adare stood still, heart slamming against her ribs. Suddenly, her blindfold and backstory seemed pathetic, a flimsy shield against so many ideas, so many curious minds. Of course someone recognized her, recognized or suspected that the tall young woman traveling alone, the one hiding her eyes, might be more than she seemed. Despite Nira’s admonition, Adare was ready to run, to leap into the lake below, when a strong hand took her by the elbow, the fingers like steel.

“What . . .” she cried, breaking off when she twisted to find Lehav holding her.

He smiled grimly. “Let’s go.”

“I’m not—”

“Of course you’re not,” he said, shoving her forward. “Let’s go.”

Adare glanced over at Nira, hoping, praying that the woman might do something, but Nira just watched, eyes like slits in her wizened face, then gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head.