“You’re a filthy Bayar!” Crow cried, rolling to his feet, his image rippling and fraying like a flag in the wind. “Did you think I wouldn’t know you after all these years? Do you think I wouldn’t recognize that Aerie House stench?” His voice trembled, his face twisting in revulsion.

Dancer just stood there as if frozen, saying nothing.

“I told you how important it was to keep my existence a secret, especially from the Bayars,” Crow said to Han, his voice low and furious. “Now you’ve gambled away what little chance you had in the first place.”

“You’re mistaken,” Han said, since Dancer still said nothing. “Use your eyes. Dancer’s no Bayar. He’s clan, raised at Marisa Pines. I’ve known him since we were lytlings.”

“Kill him,” Crow said through clenched teeth. “Kill him now or we’ll all suffer the consequences.”

“Why is it you’re always trying to goad me into killing somebody?” Han demanded.

“You’re a fool, Alister,” Crow said. “And I was a fool to trust you.” He sizzled out like a dying spark.

Han and Dancer both stared at the spot he’d vacated.

“I’m sorry, Hunts Alone,” Dancer said, with a heavy sigh. “I hope I haven’t ruined it for you. I know you were counting on his help.”

“What got into him?” Han said. “Maybe you were right—a thousand years trapped in an amulet has made him crazy.”

Dancer shook his head. “Or maybe he’s good at spotting a Bayar, that’s all,” he said quietly. As Han watched, Dancer’s clothes changed from clan leggings and shirt to wizard robes, the stoles emblazoned with the Stooping Falcon. His hair, however, was still braided and tied in clan fashion.

“My mother is clan, Hunts Alone,” Dancer said. “Have you ever wondered who my father was?”

“Well, I heard the story, what Willo said at your naming,” Han said, his voice trailing away.

“It was true, most of it,” Dancer said. “Except the part where she claimed she didn’t know who it was. Can you think of a wizard ruthless enough to come into the Spirits and attack a young woman in the forest like that?”

Han studied Dancer’s features—the jarring blue eyes set into his bronzed face, the angular bone structure, the heavy dark brows. As understanding dawned, Han’s throat constricted painfully, as if there were a large rock he was trying to swallow.

“The resemblance is rather striking once you know to look for it,” Dancer said matter-of-factly.

“Hanalea’s blood and bones,” Han whispered, shaking his head. “Your father is Gavan Bayar.” No wonder Dancer had viewed his gift as a curse.