She’d surprised him by defying Reid Demonai. She’d always been strong-willed and opinionated, and he guessed that was likely to cause friction with Nightwalker. It would be interesting to see what would happen from here on.

Well. Not all that interesting. What happened between Bird and Nightwalker was not his business.

The Gray Wolf banner snapped in the breeze, high atop the tent where the Princess Mellony must be housed. And the Wizard Council had its own pavilion, bearing the flame-and-sword motif of the High Wizard.

They reminded Han of armed camps facing each other, like what he’d seen in war-torn Arden. He recalled what Crow had said about leverage. Apply a little pressure where it will do the most good, and a lot can be accomplished. There was opportunity in the thousand-year-old faults that split the peoples of the Fells. Han meant to take advantage. It was the only way to win this thing. The only way to get what he wanted—once he decided what that was.

The dais was a flower garden of color—packed with the nobility dressed in their best. It was, after all, a joyous occasion for somebody. Another queen would soon rule over the Vale.

Somebody had made that happen, and Han needed to find out who, and why.

The lower slopes of Marianna were layered with the muted tones commoners favored—colors that wouldn’t show dirt with repeated wearings. Five-day colors, Mam would have called them.

The very ground seemed to heave and ripple as thousands of people jockeyed for a better view. Latecomers had no hope of getting within miles of the ceremony. Cat would be down there somewhere, too, working her own kind of magic.

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.