The clan had been generous to their new champion—the pony was a gift, as were the saddle and fittings and a clan-made dagger and sword and longbow. Han wore a fine new cloak to turn the rain, and money jingled in the pouch he wore at his waist.

Dancer was similarly well-arrayed. He was in rare good humor, laughing and joking, making up new names for Han that reflected his exalted status. Names like Wizard Hunter and Wizard’s Bane and Sir Hanson Jinxflinger, Savior of the Clan.

Dancer, for one, seemed glad to be leaving Marisa Pines and its whispers behind. Maybe, away from familiar ground, it would be easier to pretend that nothing had changed.

Elena’s amulet hung from a silver chain around Han’s neck—a bow hunter cunningly carved from jasper and jade. He prominently displayed it for everyone to see. But underneath his tunic, the ruby-eyed amulet sizzled against his skin, constantly drinking in magic and storing it away.

The pain of his losses was a blade in his heart, but it had dulled with time and use so that he scarcely noticed it. His guilt was another thing, but he’d learn to live with that too.

Behind him lay Fellsmarch—a city that had chewed him up and spit him out like a peach pit. He was also leaving behind the upland camps where he’d spent nearly every summer of his boyhood, and the betrayal of the clan who’d withheld the secret of his birthright.

Ahead lay the strange flatlands of the south, Oden’s Ford, and the teachers who held the keys to the power that had lain dormant inside him for so long.

One thing he knew: he was tired of being powerless, helpless to defend himself and those he cared about from the wizards and bluebloods who ruled the Vale. He meant to change that. That was his agenda, and for now it coincided with the clan’s.

For the first time in a long time, he had a goal, a way forward, and a focus for his restless energy.

“Come on, Dancer,” he said, feeling optimistic for the first time in days. “Let’s see if these ponies can get us to Wayfarer’s Camp by nightfall.”

A C K N O W L E D G M E N T S

I feel blessed to be surrounded by patient people—in particular, my family: Rod, Eric, and Keith, who are most tolerant when I go into crazy-author-woman mode:

Friend or relative: When does Cinda write?

Long-suffering spouse: All the time.

Thanks to my local writing workshops, Hudson Writers and Twinsburg YA Writers, and my online and sometimes in-person YAckers critique group, especially Kate Tuthill, Debby Garfinkle, Martha Peaslee Levine, Jody Feldman, and Mary Beth Miller. Goddesses, I’m totally up for another retreat.