“There isn’t much time,” Han said. “She’s in danger. You have to help me.”

Tears pooled in Simon’s eyes, spilling down his cheeks. “It’s too late anyway. She’s dead.” He sniffled wetly. “It’s your fault.”

“What do you mean—she’s dead?” Han demanded, louder than he’d intended.

“Ow!” Simon said, thrashing under Han’s weight. “You’re burning me.”

Han let go of Simon’s shoulder and gripped his amulet, channeling the power torrenting through him. He lowered his voice, but somehow it came out sounding deadlier than before. “I’m going to let you sit up,” he said. “And then you’re going to tell me what happened. Right now.”

Han sat back on his heels, one hand on his amulet. Simon sat up, facing him, his expression sullen and wary and frightened. Han reached out and gripped the boy’s wrist and opened the flow of power.

Simon’s eyes fastened on Han’s face like he was witch-fixed as he stumbled into speech. “She stayed here three or four weeks. I could tell she was running from somebody, but it was like she was waiting for somebody, too—somebody to help her. She always wanted to know about who else was in the taproom. Now I know. She was running from you,” Simon said bluntly, persuasion freeing his tongue.

Han said nothing, and Simon continued. “Two days ago, a group of rovers came in, and one of them—scruffy-looking, he was—he was bothering her, trying to buy her drinks and like that. Well, she’d have none of that. She told him off, then walked out in the stable yard, said she needed some air.” Simon gulped in some air himself. “An’ that’s the last I saw of her. I know she didn’t leave on her own. She left her things in her room, but her horse was gone, and them rovers that was bothering her, too.”

“What kind of rovers?” Han said. “Were they charmcasters? Soldiers?”

“I don’t know,” Simon said. “Could’ve been soldiers. Lots of sell-swords come and go these days, most not wearing colors. Not so many jinxfl—charmcasters. And the borderlands is full of thieves, murderers, and worse. These spoke Ardenine, but spent Fellsian coin.”

“Did she give a name?” Han persisted.

“Brianna. It was Lady Brianna. A trader.” Simon swiped at his nose.

Brianna. Well, Rebecca would have reason not to give her real name if she thought the Bayars were still after her.

“Describe her again,” Han said.

“She had copperhead blood,” Simon said, “but still you could tell she was a lady—not the kind that usually dines in taverns. She was gracious and kind—always a good word for…for anybody.”

Simon was smitten—any fool could tell. But Han knew there was something Simon wasn’t saying.

“What else?” Han said, trickling more power into Simon. “What happened? Why do you think she’s dead?”