“Are you sure you’re all right?” Micah asked, glancing at his father, then back at Raisa. “Why don’t I escort you back to your rooms?”

As if she needed help to find her way, but they’d often used that excuse to find time alone.

She stood. “No. You’re the guests of honor. Her Majesty will be disappointed if you leave. Thank you again for everything.”

Queen Marianna was looking at her, one eyebrow raised in inquiry. Raisa shrugged and again touched her forehead, the universal sign for headache. The queen nodded, blew her a kiss, and turned back to Miphis, who still looked thrilled and amazed to be sitting next to the queen.

Raisa walked the length of the dining room to the door. Hesitating, she looked back and saw the Demonais watching, a faint smile on Elena’s face.

As she passed between Amon and his fellow soldier, she did not look to the left or right, but muttered, “The usual place, soon as you’re able.”

C H A P T E R  F I V E

OLD STORIES

Han put off leaving Marisa Pines as long as possible. It was late morning the next day when he said his good-byes and descended Hanalea, following the Dyrnnewater toward the Vale.

He’d sold or traded everything but the worthless snagwort, which would have to wait for the Flatlander Market. Coins jingled in his purse, and his bag bulged with trade goods—fabric and leatherwork he could sell at a profit, pouches of clan remedies, plus enough smoked venison to make a meal. And the amulet, hidden at the bottom.

He still mourned the deer he might have taken, but all in all, he’d done well for this early in the season.

He hoped Mam would agree.

On the way down the mountain, he stopped off at several solitary cabins to see if there was mail to go or goods to be carried down to market or orders for supplies that he would carry up the next time. Many of the cabin dwellers were clan who preferred life away from the bustle of the camps. There were also former flatlanders who liked solitude or had reason to avoid the notice of the queen’s heavy-handed guard. Han earned a little money by carrying news and mail up and down the mountains and acting as agent for those highlanders who didn’t care to visit the Vale.

Lucius Frowsley was one of those. His cabin stood where Old Woman Creek poured into the Dyrnnewater. He’d lived on the mountain so long, he looked like a piece broken off of it, with his craggy face and the clothes that draped his skinny body like juniper on a hillside. His eyes were opaque and cloudy as a winter sky—he’d been blinded as a young man.

Despite his blindness, the old man owned the most productive still in the Spirit Mountains.