A long procession of mounted bluebloods snaked its way toward the pavilions at the center of the burial site. Even at a distance, Han could tell they had their rum togs on. That would be the dead queen’s body making its way to the site of the memorial. The crowds on the lower slopes parted grudgingly to let her through. Han was accustomed to a festival atmosphere at executions and blueblood funerals. It was something out of the ordinary, at least, for those with monotonous lives. But the mood of this crowd seemed grim and threatening.

A thin blue line of guards divided the crowds from their betters upslope.

The queen’s bier was followed by an honor guard of bluejackets. Amon Byrne rode in the lead, cradling the urn holding his father’s ashes. And immediately behind him, a riderless horse, standard military issue, with boots reversed in the stirrups.

Han looked sideways at Rebecca—Raisa—the queen. She might have been an elven warrior from stories, with her magicked armor, her made-to-measure sword, and her windblown cap of hair. Her Gray Wolf cloak fluttered out behind her in the breeze.

A memory came to him—Rebecca in the alleyway at Oden’s Ford, stalking toward him, her blade in her hand, leaving a would-be attacker flat on his back on the cobblestones. Rebecca promising Han the same treatment if he didn’t get out of her way.

The images reverberated in his mind until he felt half sick. Were these really one and the same? The friend he knew and the heir to the throne of the Fells?

When he focused on Raisa, he saw that her nose had gone pink, and her eyes fixed on the queen’s bier glittered with unshed tears.

He looked away, beating back sympathy. The only words spoken over Mam’s and Mari’s bodies were his own awkward prayers—and they’d nearly died unspoken on his tongue. What use would it be to call on a Maker who would allow Mam and Mari to burn to death?

Raisa was learning the lessons he’d been taught a long time ago—what could happen when you crossed a powerful blueblood.

Those bearing the casket had reached the pavilion where the memorial was to be held. The linen-wrapped body was lifted into place on the flower-decked bier that had been prepared for it. Corporal Byrne handed down the urn, which was placed in a position of honor below the queen’s casket. Then he dismounted and stood at attention with the rest of the honor guard. The bluebloods flowed into the high-priced seats close to the stage.

It was time.

Han looked up at the sky. Storm clouds piled up behind Hanalea, streaming over the lower peaks like long arms reaching out for the crowd. The sky to the west was a peculiar green, and lightning flickered over the West Wall. The wind picked up, sweeping down over Marianna, reminding any who had forgotten that spring was a fickle season in the mountain home.