Han was a little ahead of Dancer on the stairs, so he saw her first. He froze midway down the last staircase, gripping the banister for support, looking down into the common room.

It was Bird.

C H A P T E R  T H I R T Y - F I V E

OLD
FRIENDS

Bird stalked restlessly around the common room, hands clasped behind her back. She sorted through the books on the table and peered up at the paintings on the walls, mostly aged banners of wizard houses and portraits of Mystwerk masters from years past.

Han could tell from the way she carried herself that she was nervous but trying not to show it.

Dancer came up behind Han, looking over his shoulder. “Bird?” he whispered.

She turned and saw them. Her copper skin was bronzed a bit more by the sun, and her curls were cropped shorter than Han remembered. She was clad in Demonai traveling garb—deerskin leggings and tunic, and soft, well-worn boots, her bow and quiver of arrows slung over her shoulder. She was leaner and more muscular than before.

Han’s gaze was drawn to the glittering Demonai amulet around her neck.

“Hello, Digging Bird,” Han said. “This is a surprise.” He made no move to descend the rest of the way. He liked having the high ground.

Bird inclined her head stiffly. “Hunts Alone,” she said. “And Fire Dancer. My name is Night Bird now.”

Her Demonai name. Had she chosen it to match Reid Nightwalker? Han wondered, with a twinge of jealousy. Or had Reid chosen it for her?

“Cousin,” Dancer said, brushing past Han, “it’s good to see you. Please share our fire and all that we have.” The ritual greeting to the visitor.

Walking toward Bird, Dancer opened his arms, smiling. She looked torn between rushing forward and hanging back.

“It’s all right,” Dancer said. “The amulet drinks it in. You won’t even feel it.”

They embraced. Bird rested her head on Dancer’s shoulder, closing her eyes.

Well, guess Dancer’s forgiven her for the way she treated him, Han thought. And if I’m waiting for an apology, I’ll likely wait forever.

“You have had hard traveling to get here, cousin,” Dancer said. “I’ll put the kettle on for mountain tea. Are you hungry? Have you had breakfast?” This rush of words, so uncharacteristic of Dancer, said that he was nervous too.

“I would like tea,” Bird said, her eyes flicking to Han, still on the stairs.

Dancer pumped water from the cistern and filled the kettle, setting it on the hearth to heat and spooning tea into the ceramic pot. The flurry of hospitality suggested that Dancer knew that Han wouldn’t step in as host.