“The Demonai sentries brought word that there’s a flatland army coming through the pass,” Bright Hand said. “They’ll be on top of us within the hour.”

“Flatlanders? Who?” Dancer asked. With all his other worries, this seemed like a cruel trick.

“We don’t know,” Bright Hand said. “And there’s no time to find out. Willo Watersong has ordered the camp to evacuate.”

“Evacuate! They cannot be stopped?”

“Not before we’re overrun,” Bright Hand said. “There’s too many, and we were caught by surprise.”

Dancer looked for his mother, and saw her tall, slender form next to the paddocks, directing the distribution of ponies to those who had none. He hurried over, circling around bands of children carrying practice bows.

“What can I do?” he said, when Willo’s gaze lit on him.

“Match up people and ponies,” she said. “Make them understand that they cannot take everything with them. Where we’re going, the ponies cannot manage with too much baggage. Goods can be replaced.”

“Is help on the way?” Dancer asked.

“We’ve sent riders to Fellsmarch and to Demonai Camp, but it won’t save us.” Willo turned away from Dancer. “Silverthread!” she called. “You will have to leave your loom behind. You cannot use it in the high country anyway.” She strode purposefully toward a young weaver who was trying to strap the breast beam of a loom onto a mournful-looking pony.

Already, early risers streamed out of the camp, every person, even small children, carrying something.

It was chancy, using magic on Hanalea under the eyes of the Demonai, but Dancer used bits of it to calm ponies, coax fussy babies into sleep, make knots fast, and direct muddle-headed sheep onto the upland trails. While he worked, his mind strayed to Cat, wondering where she was and if she knew what was happening. At least she was likely safer in the city than here.

And where was Hunts Alone? Was he with the queen in Fellsmarch? Chained up in a dungeon somewhere? Or on his way between one place and another?

Dancer kept his finger lightly on the pulse of magic that permeated rock and dirt and every living thing. As the last of the camp dwellers departed, he felt the rip in the natural fabric that said large numbers of men were approaching. He smelled the blood that would soon be spilled, and tasted unchanneled high magic.

Wizards? From the flatlands?

Opening his eyes, he looked into Night Bird’s face.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her brows drawn together.

“They’re here,” Dancer said, pointing south toward the pass. Untying his pony’s reins, he vaulted aboard.

They camped that night high in the mountains, where the snows dwindled in the summers but never entirely disappeared, and none but the clans knew the ways. Far below, they could see the smoke that meant Marisa Pines was burning.