Bird squeezed his shoulder. “Good work, Hunts Alone.”

“Did you organize a meeting?” Han asked, to change the subject.

Bird nodded. “It’s a few miles to the temporary camp,” she said. “They agreed to meet as soon as you arrive.” She squinted up at the brightening sky. “We’ll have to convene under the trees. None of the portable lodges will hold so many.”

A gauntlet of Demonai warriors lined their way into camp. They stood, tight-lipped, on either side of the trail, painted and braided for war, their longbows slack in their hands.

From the number of lodges and cooking hearths, it appeared that all of Marisa Pines was there—everyone who had survived the arrival of the southerners, anyway. More warriors were arriving from Demonai Camp every day. This would be the staging area for any recapture of the capital, now that Marisa Pines Camp had been destroyed.

Runners went ahead to announce their arrival. Bird and Dancer had brought Han clan garb to replace his rank, bloodstained clothing, and he’d washed off blood and filth in a stream along the way. Bird straightened his broken fingers and splinted them, and treated his other wounds as best she could. The ones she could see, anyway.

Han hid his serpent amulet beneath his buckskin shirt. The Lone Hunter flashpiece Dancer had made him was lost to the Bayars, along with his replacement rowan talisman.

He gimped along, still wearing the evidence of the Bayars’ torture and his underground battle with Gavan Bayar.

Han knew he should have visited Aediion to thank Crow for saving his life. But he wasn’t eager to explain to his vengeful ancestor why he might stand by and allow his enemy, Micah Bayar, to marry the queen—if that’s who she’d chosen. He hadn’t mentioned it to any of his living friends, either. Still keeping secrets, he thought.

Bird slung the heavy carry bag over her own shoulder. She’d been especially solicitous of Han, as if wanting to make up for past missteps.

Willo awaited them at the edge of camp. When she saw Han and Dancer, she ran forward. She reached Han first, embracing him, her touch soothing his damaged body and wounded spirit.

Taking a step back, she looked into his eyes, laying a hand along his cheek. “All will be well, Hunts Alone,” she whispered, as if he were wearing his broken heart on the outside.

She turned to Dancer, who gripped his mother’s shoulders. “He is dead, Willo Cennestre,” he said. “My father is dead.”

She stared at Dancer, nearly eye to eye. “Bayar is dead? I thought…Did you…?”

Dancer shook his head. “He found the death he deserved, but I did not kill him. Hunts Alone can tell you more about it.”

Willo and Dancer embraced, swaying a little, Willo stroking Dancer’s hair, smiling and crying at the same time.