Bloody bones, Raisa thought. So I am unlikely to get help from the camps. With Montaigne’s army marching through Marisa Pines Pass, the clans will have their hands full. If they even survive.

She fought to focus on the present mess, pushing thoughts of vulnerable friends and family to the back of her mind.

“I might have known the Ardenines had a hand in this,” Raisa said icily, releasing her hold on Fossnaught and swiveling to confront Klemath. “How long have you been plotting against your blooded queen? How long have you been in bed with Montaigne?” She paused, twisting the wolf ring on her hand, and lifted her chin. “Better you than me.”

Klemath’s face darkened from strawberry to rhubarb.

“The answer is no, to both of you,” Raisa said. “I will not surrender, and I seek no alliance, least of all a marriage to Gerard Montaigne. And as to protection, I will rely on the Maker and the Lady to keep me safe from despicable paste-faced liars like you.”

Fossnaught made the sign of Malthus, protection from the witch of the Fells.

“Hanalea will not ride to your aid, Your Majesty,” Klemath said. “Nor will anyone else. I urge you to be realistic and accept what has happened with good grace.”

“I am a Gray Wolf queen,” Raisa said. “We have never been graceful losers. And so”—she looked each of them in the eyes—“I do not intend to lose. I will fight you until the last breath leaves my body. You will not take me alive.”

C H A P T E R  T H I R T Y - F I V E

BACK GAMON

Han couldn’t say how long it had been since the Bayars had abandoned them. He’d lost track of days in the dark deeps. There were no windows, the torches had burned out, and he navigated by touch. The emptiness in his stomach and the rankness of the chamber pot told him that considerable time had passed. Eventually, the water ran out, and nobody came to refill it. He grew weak with hunger and thirst. Still, the Bayars did not return.

When he was awake, he moved around to keep from going totally stiff. He had to be careful, though. The darbies themselves were magicked torture devices—his wrists were layered in blisters where they’d burned him during previous attempts to slip them off or pick the lock.

He slept more and more, despite his filthy condition and his many injuries. But dreamless sleep went by too quickly, and then he’d be awake again. He liked dreams—dreams that took him away from his current situation. Mostly he dreamed of Raisa—of kisses and embraces under the stars, of her gold-flecked green eyes, her lithe, muscular body against his.

Sometimes he dreamed of childhood summers in the Spirits, walking green-shadowed trails with Dancer and Bird, splashing in the Dyrnnewater, hunting mushrooms after a rain.