Like anything forbidden, wizards fascinated Han, but this was one rule he’d never had a chance to break. Charmcasters weren’t allowed in the Spirit Mountains, except to their council house on Gray Lady, overlooking the Vale. Nor would they venture into Ragmarket, the gritty Fellsmarch neighborhood Han called home. If they needed something from the markets, they sent servants to purchase it.

In this way, the three peoples of the Fells achieved a tenuous peace: the wizards of the Northern Isles, the Valefolk of the valley, and upland clan.

As the riders drew closer to their hiding place, Han studied them avidly. The charmcaster in the lead had straight black hair that swept back from a widow’s peak and hung to his shoulders. He wore multiple rings on his long fingers, and an intricately carved pendant hung from a heavy chain around his neck. No doubt it was some kind of powerful amulet.

His stoles were emblazoned with silver falcons, claws extended in attack. Silver falcons, Han thought. That must be the emblem of his wizard house.

The other two were ginger-haired, with identical broad flat noses and snarling fellscats on their stoles. Han assumed they were brothers or cousins. They rode a little behind the black-haired wizard, and seemed to defer to him. They wore no amulets that Han could see.

Han would have been content to remain hidden and watch them ride by, but Dancer had other ideas. He erupted from the shadow of the rocks, practically under the hooves of the horses, spooking them so the three riders had to fight to keep their seats.

“I am Fire Dancer,” Dancer proclaimed loudly in the Common speech, “of Marisa Pines Camp.” He skipped right over the ritual welcome of the traveler and cut into the meat. “This camp demands to know who you are and what wizards are doing on Hanalea, as is forbidden by the Nǽming.” Dancer stood tall, his hands fisted at his sides, but he seemed small next to the three strangers on their horses.

What’s come over Dancer? Han wondered, reluctantly emerging from his hiding place to stand beside his friend. He didn’t like that the charmcasters were trespassing on their hunting ground either, but he was savvy enough not to go up against hex magic.

The black-haired boy glared down at Dancer, then flinched, his black eyes widening in surprise before he resumed his cool disdainful expression.

Does he know Dancer? Han looked from one to the other. Dancer didn’t seem to know him.

Even though Han was taller than Dancer, the wizards’ gazes seemed to flow over him like water over a rock, and then back to his friend. Han looked down at his mud-stained deerskin leggings and Ragmarket shirt, envying the strangers’ finery. He felt invisible. Insignificant.

Dancer wasn’t cowed by charmcasters. “I asked your names,” he said. He gestured toward the retreating flames. “That looks like wizard flame to me.”