Cinda Chima - The Exiled Queen

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.