A worrisome thought crowded to the front of Raisa’s mind. “Who else knows I’m alive?” she asked, looking around the circle. “You sent word to my father. Was the Guard notified, or the Council of Nobles, or…”

“I told no one in the capital about the attack,” Averill said. “So whoever was behind it is probably wondering what happened. And worrying that you might suddenly surface.”

“People in camp are talking,” Willo said, “even though I rushed you into Matriarch Lodge as soon as I recognized you. You arrived in the middle of the day, after all, and the Demonai nearly shot Hunts Alone when he brought you in.” She passed a weary hand over her forehead. “There are rumors going around, but only my apprentices know who you really are.”

“Well,” Raisa said, “I hope we can keep it within the camp until we—Bones!” She slammed her fist into her other palm as a thought struck her. “This won’t work if any of those who tried to kill me returned to Fellsmarch saying that I got away. If they did, they’ll be on the watch for me to return to the city.”

“Let’s hope that Hunts Alone is well enough to answer questions in a day or two,” Willo said.

Han. A wave of weariness and despair washed over Raisa, and she leaned back and closed her eyes.

“Your Highness,” Willo said. “You must rest. All of these problems will still be here tomorrow.”

Raisa nodded, wishing it were not so. Wishing she could go to sleep and wake up to a world with her mother still in it. A world where she would be safe and protected for a little while longer.

C H A P T E R  T H I R T E E N

WALKING
WOUNDED

The others dispersed to various lodges for the night. Willo slept on a cot in Han’s room, in case he needed anything. Amon would have bedded down in his clothes in front of the door to the common room where Raisa slept, but Willo had the apprentices set up a cot for him.

Weary as she was, Raisa couldn’t seem to get comfortable. Her back ached despite the willow bark tea she’d taken for pain. Every time she closed her eyes, scenes from the past intruded, actions she wished she could remake with the wisdom of hindsight. She lay on her stomach, tears dampening her pillow, a vast aching hollow in her middle.

She heard Amon tossing and turning on his cot by the door.

Guilt and grief thickened the air, smothering her, making it difficult to breathe. No. She could not—she would not allow Amon to torment himself.

She sat up, easing her back against the wall, wary of pressing on her wound. “Amon?” she whispered. “Are you awake?”

His answer came back through the darkness. “Yes. Do you need something?”

“Come sit with me? Please?”