“Are you all right?” Dancer leaned toward him, his copper face etched with concern, his hair twisting in the wind like beaded snakes. “You look witch-fixed.”

“I’m all right,” Han said. “But I’d like to get out of this wind.” Even in fair weather the wind roared constantly through the pass. And now, at summer’s end, it carried the bite of winter.

“The border can’t be far,” Dancer said, his words snatched away as he spoke them. “Once we cross, we’ll be close to Delphi. Maybe we can sleep under a roof tonight.”

Han and Dancer traveled under the guise of clan traders, leading pack ponies loaded with goods. Their clan garb offered some protection. That and the longbows slung across their backs. Most thieves knew better than to confront members of the Spirit clans on their home ground. Travel would be riskier once they crossed into Arden.

As they descended toward the border, the season rolled back, from early winter to autumn again. Past the tree line, first scrubby pines and then the aspen forest closed in around them, providing some relief from the wind. The slope gentled and the skin of soil deepened. They began to see scattered crofts centered by snug cottages, and meadows studded by sturdy mountain sheep with long, curling horns.

A little farther, and here was evidence of the festering war to the south. Half hidden among the weeds to either side of the road were discards—empty saddlebags and parts of uniforms from fleeing soldiers, household treasures that had become too much of a burden on the uphill trail.

Han spotted a child’s homespun dolly in the ditch, pressed into the mud. He reined in, meaning to climb down and fetch it so he could clean it up for his little sister. Then he remembered that Mari was dead and had no need of dollies anymore.

Grief was like that. It gradually faded into a dull ache, until some simple sight or sound or scent hit him like a hammer blow.

They passed several torched homesteads, stone chimneys poking up like headstones on despoiled graves. And then an entire burnt village, complete with the skeletal remains of a temple and council house.

Han looked at Dancer. “Flatlanders did this?”

Dancer nodded. “Or stray mercenaries. There’s a keep at the border, but they don’t do a very good job patrolling this road. The Demonai warriors can’t be everywhere. The Wizard Council claims wizards could take up the slack, but they’re not allowed and they don’t have the proper tools, and that’s the fault of the clans.” He rolled his eyes. “As if you’d find wizards out here in the rough even if they were allowed to be.”

“Hey, now,” Han said. “Watch yourself. We’re wizards in the rough.”