“I didn’t say we shouldn’t use him. I’m saying we shouldn’t trust him with your life.” Nightwalker leaned against the lodgepole in the Matriarch Lodge, lithe and deadly as a fellscat. He’d dressed for battle, in the sunlight-and-shadow coat and leggings, his Demonai amulet glittering at his neck.

He didn’t look droopy-eyed at all, though no doubt he’d been up half the night reinforcing his rights to the clan name, Nightwalker. Raisa had seen him and Night Bird kissing good-bye outside the visitors’ lodge at dawn when Raisa went out to the privy. So they were still together, apparently.

She forced her attention back to the present.

“Han hates the High Wizard,” Raisa said. “I can’t imagine him throwing in with them.”

“That’s what he’s told you. But he has more in common with them than he does with any of us.”

Raisa sat back on her heels, resting her hands on her thighs. “You’re doing it again,” she said. “Treating me like I’m stupid. I spent time with Alister at Oden’s Ford. I know him better than you do. I know what I’m doing.”

Nightwalker raised both hands. “Forgive me, Your Highness.” He stopped and cleared his throat self-consciously. “It seems that I am always apologizing to you. I think I spend too much time with people who agree with me.” He took a breath. “Despite my lack of diplomacy, it is not my intention to question your judgment. It is just that I’m concerned about your safety.”

Raisa blinked at him, surprised. This was more introspection than she was used to from Nightwalker. But still—she wouldn’t let him off that easily. “I suppose that’s why you want to go to war against my sister. A princess of the blood. When you don’t even know her intentions.”

Nightwalker shook his head. “I only wanted to take her out of play. It would be safer for you, and safer for her as well.”

“There’s not going to be any fighting,” Raisa said. “That will keep us all safe.” She sorted through clothing, trying to figure out what she should wear that would send the right message to those assembled for her mother’s memorial service.

No, she amended, pressing her fingertips against her brow. What can I wear that will honor my mother and her legacy?

She didn’t have much to choose from—only what the clans had provided since her arrival. Everything else had been left behind, in Fellsmarch and Oden’s Ford. She thought of the closets of elaborate dresses back in the capital and sighed.

You are a beggar of a queen, Raisa thought. Always guesting in someone else’s house and wearing borrowed clothes.