“Don’t let anyone in,” Raisa shot over her shoulder. “No matter who it is.”

Slamming the door behind her, Raisa flung herself onto her bed, burying her face in her pillow and gripping the coverlet to either side in her fists.

Images collided in her mind—Han Alister at Southbridge Temple, bruised and bloodied by street life, debating surrender with Speaker Jemson. I been in gaol, he’d said, the steel of his blade grazing her throat. Not going back.

Han at Oden’s Ford during their tutoring sessions, debating some fine point of politics or manners, asking questions, always digging deeper than Raisa wanted to go. The almost physical pressure of those blue eyes.

The day he’d spoken of the deaths of his mother and sister, his voice hoarse with rage.

Han’s long lean body sprawled in a tavern chair on Bridge Street, the heels of his clan-made boots resting on the battered wooden floor, hands laced across his middle. How he’d sent Hallie and Talia into gales of laughter with his observations of class and campus life.

The way he always sat facing the door.

The way he put words together—easily shifting from street slang to court speech at will.

Kisses and caresses—lovemaking more intoxicating than blue ruin.

His smile—crooked and cynical and too familiar with the world—and at the same time full of hope.

Finally, Han in the rooftop garden, promising that he would find a way to return and marry her, saying, Haven’t you heard about me? I’m really a very dangerous person.

Was that his solution—killing the Bayars? Had he seen that as his only choice? Or was it one more lie about Han Alister, conjured up by Han’s enemies to cover over murders of their own?

It didn’t matter. Either way, he was gone. And all the hope drained out of Raisa, as if someone had opened a spigot in her soul.

Sobs shuddered through her, massive waves of sorrow that threatened to wash her out to sea. For a while, she resisted, but finally she surrendered to grief and despair.

Two days later, Gerard Montaigne’s army, under the command of Marin Karn, marched into the city of Fellsmarch, to join in uneasy alliance with General Klemath’s mercenaries.

There weren’t many places in the city of Fellsmarch to put so many soldiers. Its narrow, twisting, nearly vertical streets wouldn’t accommodate ranks of pitched tents. The only available space was in a burnt-over slum down the hill from the castle close, up against the cursed river.

Klemath’s army surrendered the city to Karn’s fresh troops, taking up positions outside of the city walls. The striper mercenaries seemed more than happy to depart the inner city.