“But there’s no way through,” Mick protested.

“There is for me,” Han said. “Didn’t anybody tell you? I’m a rum wizard.”

Talia dragged his face down and kissed him hard, on the lips. “For luck,” she said. When he blinked at her, she added, “I’m only looking out for Queen Raisa. She deserves a little happiness. If you get yourself killed, Her Majesty will turn into a bitter old woman, and I will plant rue and thistle on your grave.”

“I never believed you was a murderer,” Mick said, patting Han’s shoulder. “Just so you know.”

“What?” Han blinked at him, but Mick turned on his heel and disappeared into the dark temple, pulling the door shut behind him.

Han surveyed the situation. The temple was timber and stone. It might turn an ordinary fire, but not this. The timber was already smoldering, the lead framing the windows melting, running down, the pavers in the courtyard shimmering with radiant heat. If Han failed, everyone would perish.

He walked around the perimeter of the temple, batting sparks from his clothes, shaking cinders from his hair, his hand on his amulet. He sent arcs of magic spiraling over the roofs, weaving a barrier to turn the flames.

Han suddenly realized he was still wearing his council clothes—his finest coat, now charred in places, the Waterlow ravens draped over his shoulders like the scorched remains of his ambitious plans.

When the temple was enclosed in a veil of shimmering charms, Han finished his work with a lacing of magic over the door. It looked like a fairy-tale castle—if you could overlook the ravenous flames all around it.

The barrier seemed to be holding.

He worked until he couldn’t stand the stench of his hair burning, then began constructing his own shroud, weaving tendrils of magic over his back and shoulders, armoring up as Crow had taught him, nearly a year ago. Would it work against wizard flame? He’d find out.

He turned west, toward the river, zigzagging around flaming buildings where he could. Somebody’s home. Somebody’s business. Somebody’s livelihood. Anger choked him. Grimly, he forced it away. He had no time to be angry right now.

Ahead lay a solid wall of flame, topped by greasy black smoke. He’d come up on the slaughterhouses, where beef and pork fat and offal fed the flames. Brick walls rose on either side, blocking the way around. Taking a deep breath, knowing his lungs were not protected, Han squeezed his eyes shut and plunged into the inferno. It roared in his ears, sizzled away any drop of moisture on him. Orange and purple blazed behind his eyelids. His flame-tempered skin seemed likely to crack open.