“As some of you already know, last summer Alister was implicated in a series of brutal street murders in Southbridge, done by magical means,” Bayar said. “When I confronted him, he attempted to assassinate me. He fled the country when Queen Marianna put a price on his head. Now he’s returned, apparently meaning to take advantage of this time of transition to destroy us.” He gestured toward the line of bluejackets in front of the stage. “Corporal Fallon!” he said to a swarthy man with sharp features and a blue-black shadow of beard. “Seize him!”

Han wasn’t sure what the High Wizard hoped for. Perhaps he thought Han might respond with a magical attack, and in the confusion the Bayars would have the chance to kill both him and Raisa.

Understandably, Corporal Fallon did not rush forward. He looked from Bayar to Han, and took one reluctant step.

Raisa edged her pony in front of Han’s and extended her hand, palm out. “Hold, Corporal Fallon, if you are, as you claim to be, the sworn defender of the Gray Wolf line.”

Fearless, Han thought in grudging admiration.

Corporal Fallon held, his eyes shifting from Raisa to Han, his hand on the hilt of his sword. He licked his lips and swallowed hard.

“Han Alister saved my life, Lord Bayar,” Raisa said. “Like it or not, he is the reason I stand before you today. I owe him a debt of gratitude, not a berth in gaol. Therefore I have issued him an unconditional pardon. Anyone who lays hands on him will answer to me.”

Han looked Lord Bayar in the eyes, thinking, Here’s yet another reason for the High Wizard to howl after my blood.

Bayar gazed at Han and Raisa, his hand on his amulet, eyes narrowed as if judging the strength of the barrier Han had erected.

Han sat straight in his saddle, fingering his own amulet, chin cocked up, looking down his nose in a way that unmistakably said, Bring it on, Bayar. But you’d better kill me with your first shot.

Something primal inside Han craved that attack, lusted for the chance to finish it now, one way or the other.

Patience, Alister, he thought. Never attack unless you are in a position to win.

Han glanced at Fiona and Micah standing just behind their father. Micah’s eyes were still locked on Raisa. Fiona’s, on the other hand, were fixed on Han, her brows drawn together in appraisal, biting her lower lip.

Han’s attention was drawn to ground level as a score of bluejackets led by Amon Byrne pushed into the space between Han and Raisa and the guards that lined the stage. They faced the High Wizard, swords drawn. Some faces were familiar to Han from Oden’s Ford—Garret Fry and Mick Bricker, Talia Abbott and Pearlie Greenholt. The Demonai warriors moved up on either side of them, longbows at the ready, protecting their flanks.