Han’s skin prickled. He squinted at the newcomers, fingering his amulet, wishing they’d turn around so he could see their faces.

“At least the help here is more attractive than at the Four Horses,” the tall one said, turning to ogle a server threading her way through the crowded room. He spoke with the precision of someone who knows he’s had too much to drink, and is accustomed to managing it. “I think the Four Horses was named for its barmaids.”

“Naw,” the more slender one said. “It’s named after what they put in the cooking pot.” His slurred speech suggested he was deep in his cups, too.

The pretty server swept past with a tray. The tall wizard seized her arm, nearly spilling the ale she carried. “You, there,” he said. “We need a table for three.”

She swung around to look at him, scowling. “Do you see a table for three anywhere?” she snapped.

“Clear someone off, then,” the wizard said. “We don’t mean to eat standing up.”

“You’ll have to wait your turn, like everybody else. Now let go my arm and keep your flaming wizard hands to yourself.” She struggled unsuccessfully to pull free.

The wizard half turned to Han, and the light from the lantern washed over his face, the hard planes and angles—familiar, graven into Han’s brain. Memory shuddered through him.

It was Micah Bayar and his cousins, the Mander brothers, Miphis and Arkeda. That was who’d set fire to the sacred mountain of Hanalea and launched a train of events that had ended with the deaths of Mari and Mam and the destruction of his old life.

Micah was the son of Gavan Bayar, the High Wizard of the Fells, who likely still hunted him. Micah was brother of Fiona Bayar, who’d chased him and Dancer across the border into Delphi. Han took hold of his amulet, gripping the intricately carved stone. It hissed against his damp palm.

“I’ll let you go when you find us a table,” Micah said, yanking the server toward him. The tray went down, ale splattering waist high and tankards rolling across the floor.

Magic flooded through Han, making his head spin. He shook his head, trying to clear it, then surged to his feet, his chair crashing to the floor behind him. Dancer said, “Hunts Alone! Wait!” in a low, urgent voice, but Han ignored him. Han pushed forward, and the crowd parted in front of him until he stood in front of Micah and the server.

“Let go of the girlie, Bayar,” he said.

Micah’s bleary black eyes swept over him with disinterest, then widened and focused. Startlement splashed over his face. He looked down at the knife Han clutched in his right hand. Then back up at Han.

“Alister,” he whispered. “But…it can’t be. You can’t…you’re not…”