C H A P T E R S I X Han and Dancer left Delphi early the morning after the card game, without seeing Cat Tyburn again. Han wondered what she would decide to do—stay in Delphi, travel on, or go back home.
The bluejacket at the border had been right about one thing—Arden south of Delphi was a dangerous place. Han and Dancer rode through a landscape scarred by war—burnt-out farmsteads and crops beaten down by the boots of soldiers. If Prince Geoff was meaning to declare victory, like the server had said, he’d have his work cut out for him.
Rough-looking mercenary types and armed soldiers jammed the roads, in and out of uniform, some bearing the unfamiliar signia of the various warring families: the Red Hawk, the Double Eagle, the Tower on the Water, and the Raven in the Tree.
Han and Dancer avoided them all. The last thing they wanted was to be impressed into some lordling’s army to die in a stranger’s war. They slept in the woods, often without the comfort of a fire, which might draw attention from unfriendly eyes. Their many detours were costing them precious time.
As they traveled south, the hills flattened into high plateaus, then declined into wide plains and stretches of wood where wind, water, and man contoured the land. Even in the woods, Han felt oddly exposed and vulnerable. He was used to the comforting frame of mountains and hills, walls and buildings, defining and shortening the horizon.
Han couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling they were being watched and followed. He set trip-wire charms around their campsites, but left off doing that when raccoons kept them up all night. Nothing more dangerous tried to approach them. He put his worries down to the unfamiliar terrain and lingering thoughts about pursuit from the Fells.
Han could see why Arden was called the breadbasket of the Seven Realms. The soil was deep and rich and black, less prone to growing rocks than the rough, bony skeleton of the Fells. Han had hoped they could supplement their waybread and sausage and dried fruit with fresh food from farms along the way. But they found little to forage and less to buy. It was as if some plague from the Breaking time had swept across the fields, taking with it every edible thing.
Although the autumn days grew shorter, and mist shrouded the fields in the mornings, the weather seemed stubbornly stuck in late summer. They traveled just fast enough to stay ahead of the change of seasons.
When they could no longer stand the stench of bodies too long on the road, or stomach another meal of bread and hard sausage, they stopped at inns, avoiding the common room save for their evening meal. They wore their amulets, but kept them hidden under their shirts, hoping to avoid trouble in a realm where magic was forbidden.
At the inns, Han and Dancer paid for candles, retired to their room, and pored over books of charms that Elena had procured for them. In camp, they practiced working with magic, taking advantage of Dancer’s limited experience. Through the long hours on horseback, they kept their hands on their amulets, storing up power for the days ahead.
Dancer studied another book on his own—thin and battered, with onionskin pages written in Clan and illustrated with line drawings of amulets and talismans. He drew magical objects and emblems of power in his journal.
He’s not given up on being a flash crafter, whatever Elena says, Han thought.
Though he was bone-weary every night, Han often slept restlessly, the serpent amulet cradled in his hands. Some nights he was plagued by bizarre nightmares, images of places he’d never seen, people he’d never met. He never quite remembered these dreams, but he awoke groggy, his head aching, as if he’d continued his studies long into the night.
After the episode at the border, Han was wary of magical accidents, but as he gained better control, there were no more spurts of power. He could plant a thorn hedge anywhere he wanted. Useless, most of the time, but it was the fanciest charm he knew.
Sometimes he was prickled by worry. If this amulet had once belonged to the Demon King, and he had used it as Han was now doing, it might be loaded up with dark, demon magic. Maybe it would drive Han lack-witted, just like its previous owner.
But these worries couldn’t compete with the seductive attraction of the flashpiece, with its ability to draw power and give it back transformed. The charms he and Dancer tried were simple and practical. These days, they never needed flint and steel to kindle a fire—they could conjure it out of the air. They studied charms to calm horses and entice fish out of the streams and into their hands. They used travelers’ charms to discourage mosquitoes, make knots fast, and keep rain from soaking their clothes.
At times, Han sizzled with impatience, frustrated by their travel delays and worried there’d be too much to learn and not enough time. How long would it take to learn everything he needed to know? And what would he do with the knowledge then? Serve as bravo for the clans, as he’d promised? Battle the Wizard Council on behalf of a queen who’d betrayed him and probably didn’t want his help anyway? Or could he find a way to use it for his own purposes?
If only his gift had been freed soon enough to save his mother and sister. Now it seemed like the height of irony—a remedy delivered after the patient had died.
The clan elders didn’t care about that. Lord Averill and Elena Cennestre had cuffed and bound him, strangling off the magic that now torrented through him. They’d watched him struggle to feed his family on the streets of Ragmarket, and never opened that spigot of power until it suited their purpose. By then, Mam and Mari were dead.
Han would give his loyalty to certain people—like Dancer’s mother, Willo, Matriarch of Marisa Pines; Speaker Jemson of Southbridge Temple; the hermit Lucius Frowsley; plus Cat and Dancer. Otherwise, he’d serve himself, waiting and watching until he could take advantage. He wouldn’t play the fool anymore.
As they approached the city of Ardenscourt, traffic on the road thickened. Soldiers swarmed thick as thieves in Ragmarket. Han and Dancer took to traveling in daytime. It was better to be lost in a crowd in daylight than stand out in the dark.
Close to the capital, the farms were larger and seemed to be under some powerful lord’s protection—likely King Geoff. Peasants toiled in the fields, harvesting wheat and oats and beans and hay, with armed guards overseeing them. Han wondered if the guards were there to protect the farmers, or to keep them at their work.
Apple trees groaned under the burden of fruit—varieties that Han had never seen before, green and yellow and pink, as well as red. The Red Hawk of Arden flew from estate houses along the road, and soldiers wore the signia everywhere. The newly declared Montaigne king held the capital city and the estates surrounding it in an iron grip, but his influence didn’t seem to extend far into the countryside.
They encountered more flatland temples built in the austere style of the Church of Malthus. They passed groups of priests and holy sisters, like flocks of black crows to Han’s eyes.
“Their priests are all men, I hear,” Dancer said. “Strange.”
“What do the sisters do?” Han asked.
“Pray, mostly. Sing and teach. Do good works.”
Han and Dancer planned to circle around the city and intersect Tamron Road to the west, but they soon realized that the city was huge, spread out, and sloppy, and it would take them far out of their way to ride clear around it.
That night, they stopped at an inn on the outskirts. It drew a mixed crowd—soldiers and farmers and even a Malthus crow or two.
Dinner was chicken legs and brown bread, with cloyingly sweet southern cider. At home, a fire on the hearth would be welcome this time of year, but on this balmy evening the door stood open and the hearth lay cold.
A half dozen men occupied two tables, loudly demanding food and drink whenever they ran short. They had the look of soldiers, but wore no signia or uniform. One of them, a stocky man in his early twenties with a stubble of beard, had an incandescence about him that said he was gifted and leaking magic.
Han eyed him curiously. The soldier must have an amulet, perhaps hidden under his shirt, but he didn’t seem to know the trick of drawing magic off to dim his aura. A good thing for him that only other gifted could see it.
A veiled Malthusian sister sat alone at a table nearest the door. A half-empty plate sat before her, but she kept the barman coming and going, refilling her mug.
The maids of Malthus like their ale, Han thought, amused. He’d seen at least one in every tavern and common room since they’d reached the flatlands.
In contrast, the tall, skinny Malthusian priest huddling in the back corner picked at his supper, engrossed in a large, leather-bound book with onionskin pages. Several oversized golden keys hung from a cord around the priest’s waist, his only ornamentation save for elaborate jeweled spectacles dangling from a chain around his neck.
The priest looked up suddenly and caught Han staring at him. Scowling, he bent his head over the holy book on the table. Han guessed it was a holy book, anyway. It was hard to imagine this sour-faced pudding-sleeve reading a romance or an adventure story. Oddly, the priest didn’t use his spectacles for reading text.
Han finished his meal and sat back, relaxed and sociable.
“You ready to go up?” Dancer said, having finished long before Han. As usual, Dancer was eager to go upstairs to read and study charms, away from the crowd.
Han, however, had no desire to leave the common room and hide out in their tiny, windowless room in the attic. It would be stuffy and hot, and they’d have to sit in the dark or pay for candles, since there was no natural light. Plus, one of the pretty servers had winked at him, and he was waiting to see what developed.
“Let’s stay a little while,” Han said, slathering butter on soft tavern bread, so different from their hard waybiscuits.
Dancer shrugged and nodded, yawning to make his position clear.
The priest had raised his peculiar spectacles to his eyes and scanned the room. When his gaze swept across Han and Dancer, he stiffened and fixed on them, his eyes unnaturally large and owl-like through the lenses.
The priest lowered the spectacles and glared at them. “Sinners!” he said. “Idolators!”
Han and Dancer sat frozen for a long moment. “Does he mean us, do you suppose?” Dancer asked without moving his lips.
“How can he tell we’re sinners?” Han whispered, aiming for a look of polite confusion. Was that what the spectacles were for? Identifying sinners?
The priest rose in a swish of fabric and stalked toward them, one arm extended, the other clutching his rising-sun pendant like a wizard might grip an amulet. “Repent, northerners!” he said. “Repent and accept the holy church and ye shall be saved.”
Han stood and nodded toward the stairs. Perhaps if they just retired upstairs, as Dancer had suggested, it would calm the man.
“Leave off, Father Fossnaught,” the gifted soldier said, grinning. “If you drove out the sinners, this place would lose all its patrons.”
Two other soldiers rose and gathered up Father Fossnaught’s books and papers, handing them to the priest. “You go on home and pray for them, all right?” one said.
The priest departed, flinging black looks over his shoulder.
“Thank you,” Han said to the gifted soldier. “Does he do this very often?”
“Father Fossnaught is harmless—just a bit overzealous in sharing the good news of the Church of Malthus,” the soldier said. “No harm done, I hope.” He stuck out his hand, and Han took it, wondering if the soldier would notice the sting of wizardry.
In addition to leaking power, the stranger’s hand was heavily calloused from weapons. “Name’s Marin Karn,” he said. “I’ll buy another round to make up for your trouble.” He gestured toward the bar. “Cider, was it?”
Han nodded, seeing no way out. He wanted to decline, and he knew Dancer did too. If they’d gone upstairs to begin with, the incident would never have happened. But it seemed smart not to offend those who had intervened on their behalf. Particularly since they were soldiers. Particularly since this Karn might know they were gifted.
Karn fetched two mugs of cider from the bar.
“So, seems you two are northerners, from your speech,” Karn said, pulling a chair over to their table. “What brings you to Arden?”
“We’re traders,” Han said, following their established story. He took a swig of cider, which tasted more bitter than sweet. Must be the dregs at the bottom of the barrel. “We’ve got the finest fabrics, beads, and trimwork you’ll see in all the Seven Realms. Do you have a special lady friend? We got fancies that would win any lady’s heart.”
Karn shook his head. “No, no lady friend.” He eyed Han speculatively, then leaned close and said, “You wouldn’t have any magical pieces, would you?”
Han shook his head. “That an’t allowed here in the flatlands.”
Karn laughed. “Just checking, my lad. Have to ask. No harm meant.”
“You and your comrades,” Dancer said. “Are you king’s men?” Likely, Dancer wondered if Karn was inquiring after magical pieces in any official capacity.
“Us?” Karn shrugged noncommittally. “We’re sell-swords, between assignments, I guess you’d say. We’re waiting to see how it all comes out.”
Dancer yawned again, resting his chin on his fist, looking even more droopy-eyed than before. He’d downed his cider quickly, probably hoping they could go on upstairs.
Han took another long swallow of cider, draining it nearly to the bottom. There it was again, that bitter taste against the cloying sweetness. His mind seemed fuzzy and unfocused.
He looked over at Dancer, who now lay sprawled over the table, head down, his breathing deep and even.
“Guess your friend’s had enough,” Karn said. “He drank it up kind of fast.”
Dancer had, but cider didn’t have the kick that…
Turtleweed. Han blinked at Karn, clubbed by the realization. It was turtleweed, and lots of it, mixed into the cider. Turtleweed would knock you out in no time.
Gripping the hilt of his knife, Han yanked it free. He tried to rise, but his body no longer responded to his commands. He was overpowered by fatigue, his eyes drooping, shut of their own accord.
“There, now,” Karn said, wresting his knife from him. “Guess that cider was stronger than you thought. We’d better help you two home.”
“Leave go. We’re staying here,” Han mumbled in protest. His lips felt numb.
Karn thrust his meaty hand under Han’s shirt and grasped the serpent amulet.
“Aaaaagh!” he shrieked, letting go of it and slapping his hand against his thigh.
Han curled protectively around the flashpiece. “Leave it be, you angling lully prigger, or I’ll…” He trailed off, unable to remember what he meant to do.
Karn made no further attempt on the amulet. Instead, he and one of the other soldiers hauled Han to his feet. Two other soldiers dragged Dancer out the door.
What is this? Han thought, clutching his amulet and ineffectually scuffing his feet against the floor. What do they want from us?
And then he didn’t think anything anymore.
Han awoke to a crashing turtleweed headache and a sick stomach. Sign of poor-quality product. He’d never dealt in that kind of stuff.
He lay on a straw pallet on a stone floor, covered with a filthy wool blanket. Once his head stopped spinning, he gingerly sat up. It wasn’t easy—his hands were bound tightly together behind his back, his ankles bound also. He tested the knots, trying to slide his hands free or rub the cords loose on the stone floor. He got nowhere, ending with bruised and skinned wrists. His wrists were wrapped so tightly his fingers felt like fat, clumsy sausages. He was all dressed up like a warm mark on Temple Day.
Dancer lay facedown a few feet away, similarly bound, still sound asleep. They lay in a dark room, faintly illuminated by the moonlight that sieved through the tightly shuttered windows and under the door. Cool night air leaked through imperfections in the wall and ran along the floor, chilling Han. There was no stink of the city in the air. The rattle of branches overhead and chirp of crickets said they were out in the country.
Han’s flashpiece was gone. Somehow they’d found a way to get it off him. He felt a profound sense of loss—as though someone had ripped out his heart. All the power he’d stored away was now in somebody else’s hands.
Dancer stirred, groaning feebly. Probably had the same head on him that Han did.
Han scooted up next to Dancer. “Dancer!” he said. “Wake up!”
Dancer’s eyes flew open, though it took a few moments for him to focus on Han’s face. Then, in that way he had, he settled into calm awareness. “What’s going on?” he whispered through cracked lips. “My amulet’s gone.”
“It was those soldiers in the common room. They wanted our flashpieces. I don’t know how they knew we had them.”
“One of them was gifted,” Dancer mumbled. “That Karn.” He closed his eyes again. “I feel awful.”
“They drugged us with turtleweed,” Han said.
“If all they wanted was our amulets, why are we here?” Dancer’s tongue seemed thick in his mouth, his speech still slurred from the drug.
Han shrugged, sending tingling pain through his arms. “Can you get free at all?”
Dancer tested his bonds, and shook his head. Whoever’d dressed them knew what he was doing.
Han scanned the room for anything sharp, anything he could use to fray at the rope. A stone hearth along one wall had possibilities. The hearth was cold, but there might be an iron grate or rough stones he could use to cut himself free.
Han had begun scooting toward the fireplace, when he heard footsteps and voices drawing nearer. A key rattled in the lock, the door slammed open, and three men entered.
One was Marin Karn, the gifted soldier that had drugged and kidnapped them. Karn carried a large lantern, which he set on the mantel, shedding a buttery light over everything. A leather saddlebag was slung over his shoulder, and Han knew immediately that their amulets were inside. He glanced over at Dancer, who nodded, his eyes also fixed on the bag.
The second man was slender, of medium height, with light brown hair and faded blue eyes, dressed for blueblood soldiering. The brooch pinned to his cape bore the device of a red hawk, and his clothing was tailored from the finest fabrics. The sword at his hip was made for business, though, and looked well used.
A few years older than they, he moved with the dangerous grace of a fellscat.
The third man was the Malthusian priest who’d confronted them in the common room. He came and stood, looking down at Han and Dancer as if they were evil and dangerous—fascinating but helpless predators. He reminded Han of some at the market that paid a copper to see a ratty old bear chained to a stump.
Up close, the priest stank of old sweat and fanaticism.
The blueblood pulled off his expensive gloves and slapped them against his palm as he looked down at Han and Dancer, his handsome face pinched with contempt.
“This is them?” The blueblood nudged Han with his booted foot. “These are the northern mages you told me about?”
“Mages!” Karn shouted at Han and Dancer in Common, like a barker hoping his menagerie would make a better show. “Bow before Gerard Montaigne, King of Arden.”
Han obediently bent his neck while his mind raced furiously. The king of Arden? Han didn’t know much about the nobility, but he had to think the king of Arden didn’t sleep in a falling-down farmhouse.
“Are you certain no one knows about this?” Montaigne said to Karn. He spoke the southern tongue, but it was close enough to Common that Han could make it out. “What about your men? Soldiers cannot keep their mouths shut.”
“They think these two are northern spies,” Karn said. “I said I wanted to question ’em in private. They’re out on patrol, so they won’t have seen you come in.”
“I still don’t like this,” Montaigne said, his voice brittle and cold. “I told you I wanted nothing to do with sorcery.” He shifted his gaze to the priest. “I’m surprised you would be involved in this, Father, given the church’s position on magic users.”
Father Fossnaught fingered the keys at his waist. “I have made a study of mages and their ways. They are evil, disgusting creatures, yes, but I believe that, properly restrained, they can be put to use.”
“We give ’em a choice,” Karn put in. “They can repent and use their sorcery for the greater glory of Saint Malthus. Or burn.”
Han’s skin prickled as if flames were already licking at his flesh.
“The principia doesn’t share that view,” Montaigne said.
Fossnaught twitched. “True, there is a diversity of opinion on whether sorcerers can be saved through any means but the flame. I happen to believe Father Broussard’s view is rather…shortsighted.” He paused, then rolled his eyes heavenward. “Then again, His Holiness also believes Prince Geoff should be crowned at Ardenscourt, as the eldest surviving son of our late king. The principia is committed to succession by birth order. I, however, happen to believe that the Maker’s hand is in this war. Should you win, and I believe you will, then it must be the Maker’s will that you be crowned king.”
Montaigne rubbed his chin, nodding. Han could tell the young prince liked this line of thinking. “If I’m going to take this kind of risk, I want to do it with some likelihood of success,” Montaigne said. “Yet you bring me a pair of scruffy-looking boys. If they had any magical skill, you’d never have taken them.”
Karn cleared his throat. “They don’t look like much, aye, but as you said, it’s unlikely we could capture a fully schooled mage. These ones’ll be more tractable. Don’t know how much training they’ve had, but their amulets are packed with power.”
“What do you know of such things?” Montaigne glared at Karn, and Karn shifted his eyes away.
This prince of Arden doesn’t know his captain is gifted, Han thought. Karn’s kept it from him. With good reason, it seemed.
“If we use a weapon we don’t understand, it’s likely to explode in our faces,” Montaigne went on. “Remember what happened with the fire powder?”
Karn said nothing. He likely knew when to speak and when not to. Han wondered how much the captain really knew about magic and mages, as he called them. Could he have received any training in a place like Arden, where magic was forbidden?
Montaigne chewed on his lower lip. “If the jinxpieces are so powerful, couldn’t we just use the amulets and dispose of these two?” he asked, as if Han and Dancer were merely magical wrappings to be thrown away. The prince of Arden either assumed they couldn’t understand the flatland speech, or didn’t care.
Fossnaught shook his head. “Mages and amulets work together, Your Grace. One’s no good without the other.”
“Anyway, these mages must have safeguarded their amulets against use by anyone else,” Karn added. “The fair-haired boy’s jinxpiece blistered my hand when I tried to pick it up.” Karn held up his hand. It was wrapped in bandages.
Han didn’t look at Dancer, but he knew they were both thinking the same thing—they had no clue how to safeguard their amulets from anyone. He didn’t know why Karn couldn’t touch his flash, unless Han’s stored power was incompatible with Karn’s.
Unless it was demon-cursed.
All he knew was that the loss of his amulet had left him with an empty, sick feeling. He felt hollowed out and hungry for the magic he’d lost. How could he have become so linked to it in such a short time? He desperately wanted it back.
“The magelings will turn on us at the first opportunity,” Montaigne argued. “We’ll never be able to trust them.”
Father Fossnaught fished in his carry bag and drew out two pairs of silver manacles and two sets of keys. “These are old magic pieces called magebinders. I bought them off a trader in magical devices. The copperheads made them during the mage wars to control mage prisoners. You put the binders on the mage and you hold the key. If they disobey orders, the key holder can inflict excruciating pain. In time, they’re conditioned to obey.”
The priest paused. His gaze slid over Han, cold as a butcher’s hands in winter, raising gooseflesh on him. “I can demonstrate if you like, Your Majesty.”
You can try, Han thought, hoping they’d have to untie him to put them on. He’d worn magical cuffs all his life until Elena Cennestre of the Demonai clan removed them. He didn’t mean to have any new darbies fastened around his wrists if he could help it.
Montaigne took one of the sets of manacles and examined them as if they were an attractive but dangerous new toy. Without looking up, he said, “That won’t be necessary. Leave us, Father. Go back to town. We will let you know what we decide.”
Father Fossnaught took a quick breath, as if to argue. Then sighed and bowed his head. “Very well, Your Majesty. I’ll be at my lodgings in the cathedral close, awaiting your decision. You can send word the usual way.” The priest stuffed the set of manacles into his carry bag and extended his hand toward the prince. “Your Grace, if you don’t need…”
“I’ll keep these,” the prince of Arden said.
The priest bowed and left, with many backward looks, unhappy to be leaving his torture toys behind. Clearly wanting a seat at the table.
Montaigne continued to stare down at the manacles. “How would you use these two mages against Geoff’s armies, Captain Karn?”
At this, Karn’s muddy brown eyes lit up with enthusiasm. “In the mage wars, wizards could flame dozens of soldiers at a time. They could call down fog so the enemy would wander off a cliff. They’d spread fear and weariness among the enemy soldiers until they’d turn tail and run. They’d talk to birds and use them to spy, and use magical force to interrogate prisoners. They’d break sieges by walking through walls.”
“That’s difficult to believe,” Montaigne said, handing the cuffs to Karn.
“There’s written accounts from reliable eyewitnesses in the church archives,” Karn said. “Father Fossnaught’s made a study of it.”
“If word gets out about this, it could turn some of the more pious thanes against us,” the prince said.
“But Father Fossnaught says—” Karn began.
“Cedric Fossnaught is ambitious,” Montaigne cut in. “And changeable as a woman. He hasn’t forgiven the church for passing him over when he stood for principia. He thinks that a new king in Ardenscourt might lead to his own advancement.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Karn said. “We need churchmen on our side.”
“It’s too great a risk,” Montaigne said.
“Begging your pardon, but everything’s a risk, Your Majesty,” Karn said, picking over the words like a fire walker over coals. “We’re losing. Duprais and Botetort are still with you, but Matelon’s wavering. Geoff controls the capital and the greater part of the kingdom.”
“Whose fault is that, Captain?” Montaigne fingered an elaborate ring on his left hand. “You are my strategist, you lead my armies, therefore you are responsible for the current situation.” The prince bit off each you like day-old bread.
Karn lifted his hands, palms up. “The thanes are tired. They’ve emptied their treasuries and neglected their crops for ten long years. They just want the war to be over.”
“The war will be over when I sit on the throne of Arden, and not before,” Montaigne said. “If the thanes want peace, they should swear to me.” He paused, fixing his icy gaze on the captain. “Perhaps you’re thinking of going with Geoff as well?”
“No, Your Majesty,” Karn said. “I’m a loyal soldier, you know that. Besides, Geoff would never take me on—not after what happened at Brightstone Keep.” His face twisted. “It offended his sensibilities when I ordered the sacking of the town and the killing of everyone in it. He has his principles. If Geoff has his way, I’ll swing for it.”
Karn’s already tried Geoff, Han thought. And that was the answer he got.
Montaigne gazed at Han and Dancer for a long minute, then shook his head. “No. It’s bad enough I can’t trust the thanes. I’m not going into battle with mages at my back,” he said.
“But, Your Majesty,” Karn protested, “what should I do with these two?”
“Kill them,” Montaigne said, turning away.
“Would you kill us without knowing what we can do?” Han protested in Common. “Don’t you even want to see a show? Give us back our amulets and we’ll give you sorcery like you never saw before.”
Montaigne paused in the doorway and looked back at Han, his face as hard and expressionless as the cliffs along the escarpment. “No doubt,” he said. Then he was gone.
Karn stared after his prince for a long moment. Then swore forcefully and flung the magic darbies against the wall.
Han found himself feeling almost sorry for the captain. Karn was trying to win a war for his prince, and his prince wasn’t cooperating.
But his sympathy for Karn didn’t last long. After glaring down at Han and Dancer as if it were their fault, Karn crossed the room and fetched back his saddlebag.
Kneeling next to them, Karn untied the flap and pulled out three large, leather-wrapped packages. He folded back the leather, exposing their three amulets—the serpent flash, Dancer’s Fire Dancer, and the Lone Hunter piece Elena had made for Han.
The Demon King amulet flared up, casting a sick, greenish light over Karn’s face, as if it knew it was in enemy hands.
Karn drew an assassin’s dagger and, leaning toward them, pressed the tip of it to Dancer’s throat.
“All right, magelings,” he growled. “Take the hexes off these jinx-pieces and tell me how to use ’em.”
“There’s no way you can use them,” Dancer said, canting his upper body backward to relieve the pressure of the blade. “You need us alive.”
“Really?” Karn breathed, pressing harder on the blade so blood trickled down. “Are you sure about that?”
“Why should we tell you anything?” Han demanded. “You’ll kill us anyway.”
“Aye,” Karn said. “That’s so. But there’s different ways to die. Slow ways and fast ways. Hard ways and easy ways. Maybe I’ll let you watch while I cut up the savage, bit by bit. Then it’ll be your turn.”
Karn’s mud-colored eyes had gained a feverish glint. The young captain would bring a certain enthusiasm to the task. Han’s drug-clouded mind scrabbled for ideas. He had no idea how to make his amulet accessible to Karn, even if he wanted to.
It would do no good to scream or shout for help. Han had been listening hard, ever since he’d awakened. He’d heard nothing but the sound of night insects and the rattle of branches in the wind.
Montaigne and Karn meant to keep their flirtation with magic a secret. They’d carried them out to the middle of nowhere, far from the capital city controlled by Gerard’s older brother.
“All right,” Han said. “I’ll undo the hex. But you got to free my hands.” When Karn frowned, he added, “I’ll need my amulet, too. I need to hold it. Only the mage that places the charm of protection can take it away.”
Karn stared into Han’s eyes for a long moment, then nodded grudgingly. “Fair enough. But try anything and your friend’s a dead man.”
Like that was a threat. They’d both be dead within the hour if Karn had his way. And if he killed Dancer quickly, it would be a blessing of sorts.
Han didn’t know if Dancer would see it that way.
Karn dumped Han over onto his stomach and sliced through the ropes binding his hands with his knife, leaving Han’s feet bound.
Han flexed his fingers, his breath hissing out in pain as the blood returned. He rolled over and sat up, stretching his shoulders, taking his time, wanting to get functional again before he made his move. Karn gripped one corner of the amulet’s leather wrapping and slid it closer to Han. Then he took a fistful of Dancer’s hair and pulled his head back, sliding his blade under his chin.
Han gripped the flash with both hands. Power thrilled through him, driving his pain away, replacing it with a savage anger that wanted nothing more than to destroy the man before him. An anger that cared nothing for the knife at Dancer’s throat. His heart thudded in his chest. A charm bubbled to his lips, and he opened his mouth to speak it.
The door banged open again. Han turned, extending his hand toward the intruders.
It was Gerard Montaigne, his eyes bulging out, lips purplish in the sallow light from the lantern. And behind him, propelling him forward, was Cat Tyburn, her garrotte wrapped around the prince of Arden’s throat, her blade pressed into his rib cage.