“It wouldn’t have remained a secret forever,” Dancer said. “The resemblance is too strong. Anyone who had the least suspicion would guess on his own.”

“I realize that now. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since the queen was murdered. It was a mistake to conceal what he did, all these years. Wounds like this fester if they are not opened and drained. If I had spoken up, perhaps Marianna’s death could have been averted.”

Willo finished a row of beaded stitches and bit off the thread. Then looked up at them. “Let me tell you about the day I met Bayar on Hanalea.”

C H A P T E R  S I X

WHAT
HAPPENED
ON HANALEA

The girl known as Watersong lingered by the healer’s spring long after her friends had returned to camp, their berry buckets full. For a while she worked on her sketches, trying to capture the glint of light on the water before the sun descended behind Hanalea’s western shoulder.

Growing sleepy, she set her sketch board aside and leaned back against a tree, lulled by the music of the Dyrnnewater, basking in the sun. Occasionally, she would pop a red raspberry into her mouth, and the warm juice would explode onto her tongue.

A voice broke into her daydreams, speaking in Common.

“Who are you?”

She looked up, shading her eyes. It was a boy, somewhat older than her. He looked very tall, especially to someone on the ground, and his outline was oddly blurry. A flatlander, obviously, but there was something—alien—about him.…

She stood, dusting off her leggings. “My name is Watersong,” she said, also in Common.

“You’re a copperhead,” the boy said, looking a little dazed. “But…you’re beautiful.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Watersong said, rolling her eyes. “And don’t use that word if you want to get along with me.”

“What kind of magic is this?” the boy growled, as if he hadn’t heard. “You’re bewitching.”

Watersong was growing tired of this awkward conversation. “Who are you, and what are you doing on Hanalea?”

“I—ah—I’m a trader,” he said. “My name is Gavan.” He stepped sideways, out of the direct line of the sun, so she could see his face. He was pale, as if he didn’t spend much time outdoors, and his eyes were a glacial blue under heavy dark brows. Handsome, some would say.

Most traders Watersong knew were sunburnt and weathered by the wind. “Really?” she said skeptically. “You don’t look like one. Where is your gear?”

He flushed. “I’m new,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my way. I left my pack horses about a mile back.”

This is the most inept trader I’ve ever met, Watersong thought. Maybe there was some sort of error at his Renaming.

“I’m looking for Marisa Pines market,” the boy Gavan said. “Am I close?”