“W—w—we don’t want trouble, Alister,” Mander squeaked, keeping a white-knuckled grip on his amulet and looking sideways at Micah for guidance.

“Then take your hand off your amulet,” Han said. “We are in enough trouble as is.”

“But…but…you are supposed to be dead!” Mander wailed, hastily letting go of his amulet and putting both hands on the table. He looked over at Micah accusingly. “You said he was dead!”

“My mistake,” Micah said, his body perfectly still, eyes glittering. “Alister, I am surprised you would show your face here, given the accusations against you.”

“For which you have no witness and no proof,” Han said. “Sit down, Bayar. We have some business to sort out between us, but right now I have an agenda of my own and I don’t want to waste everyone’s time.”

Micah stood for a long moment, his eyes locked with Han’s, his mouth twitching with unspoken words. Then he shrugged slightly and returned to his chair.

Han waited until Micah was down, then sat in the High Wizard chair at the head of the table. It was the first time he’d claimed his place as head of the Wizard Council.

“Why are you wearing copperhead clothes?” Mordra blurted.

“I ran into some trouble,” Han said, looking straight at Micah.

“Young Bayar here was just telling us that Queen Raisa has agreed to marry him if we can break the siege on Fellsmarch Castle,” Abelard said, her eyes fixed on Han as if hoping he’d pull a fix out of his back pocket.

“Really?” Han said, as if he didn’t care one way or another.

“We were waiting for Lord Bayar to arrive so that we could discuss a strategy to retake the city,” Abelard went on, shooting a querying glance at Micah.

“Where do you suppose he is?” Mander asked, clearly eager for someone else to take over.

“I don’t know,” Han lied. “But Hayden Fire Dancer will be here shortly, with a delegation of clan elders.”

“Copperheads?” Abelard shook her head. “Here?”

Han nodded. “We are going to join with them to drive the southerners back where they belong.”

“They have agreed to this?” Gryphon asked, looking incredulous.

“They didn’t really have a choice. Nor do we.” Han unfastened the flap of his carry bag, sliding free the Crimson Crown. He held it high. Looking around the table, he could tell that they all recognized it.

“The Crown of the Gifted Kings?” Abelard extended her hand, and Han handed it to her. She examined it, turning it to catch the light. “It’s not a reproduction,” she murmured. Finally looking up at Han, she drawled, “I always knew you were an ambitious boy, Alister, but—”