She raised her head, twisting around so she could see. The courtyard was packed with blue-jacketed guards and rearing horses. To her relief, she saw Mellony, still astride her pony, led by Mick Bricker. She looked pale as parchment, but apparently unhurt.

Han and his friend Fire Dancer planted themselves in the arch leading to the drawbridge, gripping their amulets like they might have to fight off raging hordes of assassins.

“Call a healer!” Amon bellowed, right into Raisa’s ear. “The princess heir’s been shot.”

Raisa ran her fingers over the plate armor just below her collarbone. It was badly dented and pierced partway through, but had held against the assassin’s arrow, if that’s what it was. The missile must have fallen away in the street.

Raisa attempted to squirm free of Amon’s grip. “Really, Amon, I don’t think I’m—”

A familiar voice broke into her protest. “Captain Byrne! Give her to me!”

It was Magret Gray, who’d already dismounted and shed her rain-drenched cloak. Magret opened her arms and Amon lowered Raisa down into them. Raisa looked up into Magret’s familiar face, streaming with tears, etched with new lines of pain.

Were they new, or had she just never noticed?

Magret’s hair was grayer than before, caught into its customary thick braid that extended nearly to her waist. When Raisa was a toddler she used to cling to that braid and suck her thumb when she needed consoling.

Mellony’s face came into view at Raisa’s elbow, tear-stained and terror-stricken. “Raisa,” she whispered, “I’m so sorry. Please don’t die too.”

“I’m not planning on it, not any time soon,” Raisa said. “Magret. Please set me down. I’m fine, just bruised is all.”

But Magret’s grip was as difficult to break as Amon’s.

“Let’s get her into the keep,” Amon said. “Kiefer, I want a dozen guards on the door. Talia, get over to the Healer’s Hall and bring Lord Vega on the double. Mick and Hallie, take a triple and go out and see if you can track down the archers. But be careful.”

Guards took off in all directions, an explosion of blue uniforms.

“I’ll help,” Averill said, his eyes brilliant with anger. “I know the streets.”

“No.” Amon shook his head. “Depending on who’s behind this, you might be a target yourself. I’d like to keep you close for now.”

Averill opened his mouth to protest, but Nightwalker said, “I’ll go, Lightfoot. My warriors will be just outside the close and I know the streets as well as you do.”

“The archer who shot me was on the roof of Kendall House,” Raisa told him. “The arrow might be lying in the street near where I was hit. That might tell us something.”