Cinda Chima - The Exiled Queen

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Dancer was saying, when a new voice cut into the conversation, sharp and cold as a knife blade.

“What’s this all about, Sergeant? What’s the delay?”

Han looked up to see a girlie about his own age, bulling her horse through the crowd of foot travelers around the gate like she didn’t care if she trampled a few.

He couldn’t help staring. She looked like no girlie he’d ever seen before. Her mane of platinum hair was caught into a single long braid that extended to her waist, accented by a streak of red that ran the entire length. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were the color of cottonwood fluff, and her eyes a pale, porcelain blue, like a rain- washed sky. She was surrounded by a nimbus of light— evidence of unchanneled power.

She rode a gray flatlander stallion as blueblooded as she was, sitting tall in the saddle as if to extend her already considerable height. Her angular features looked familiar. It wasn’t a beautiful face, but you wouldn’t soon forget it. Especially when she had a scowl planted on it. Like now.

Her short jacket and divided riding skirts were made of fine goods, trimmed in leather. The wizard stoles draped over her shoulders bore the stooping falcon insignia, a falcon with a song-bird in its talons, and a glowing amulet hung from a heavy gold chain around her neck.

Han shuddered, his body reacting before his slow- cranking mind. The stooping falcon. But that signia belonged to . . .

“I— I’m sorry, Lady Bayar,” the sergeant stuttered, his forehead pebbled with sweat despite the cool air. “I was just questioning these traders. Making sure, my lady.”

Bayar. That’s who the girl reminded Han of— Micah Bayar. He’d only seen the High Wizard’s son once, the day Han had taken the amulet that had changed his life forever. Who was she to Micah? She looked about the same age. Sister? Cousin?

“Take hold of your amulet,” Dancer murmured to Han, sliding his hand under his deerskin jacket. “It’ll draw off the power so maybe they won’t notice your aura.”

Han nodded, gripping the serpent flashpiece under his jacket.

“We’re looking for a girl, you idiot,” Lady Bayar was saying, her pale eyes flicking over Han and Dancer. “A dark, dwarfish sort of girl. Why are you wasting time on these two copperheads?” she added, using the Vale name for clanfolk.

The two guards gripping Han’s and Dancer’s horses hastily let go.

“Fiona. Mind what you say.” Another wizard reined in behind Lady Bayar, an older boy with straw- colored hair and a body already fleshy with excess. His twin wizard stoles carried a thistle signia.

“What?” Fiona glared at him, and he squirmed like a puppy under her gaze.

He’s either sweet on her or afraid of her, Han thought. Maybe both.

“Fiona, please.” The young wizard cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t describe the Princess Raisa as dwarfish. In fact, the princess is rather—”

“If not dwarfish, then what?” Fiona broke in. “Stumpy? Stunted? Scrubby?”

“Well, I—”

“And she is dark, is she not? Rather swarthy, in fact, due to her mixed blood. Admit it, Wil, she is.” Fiona did not seem to take well to being corrected.

Han fought to keep the surprise off his face. He was no fan of the queen and her line, either, but he’d never expect to hear such talk from one of the Bayars.

Fiona rolled her eyes. “I don’t know what my brother sees in her. Surely you’re a more discerning judge of women.” She smiled at Wil, turning on the charm, and Han could see why the wizardling was taken with her.

Wil flushed deep pink. “I just think we should show some respect,” he whispered, leaning close so the sergeant couldn’t hear. “She is the heir to the Gray Wolf throne.”

Dancer edged his pony forward, hoping to pass on by while the jinxflingers were embroiled in their debate. Han pressed his knees against Ragger’s sides and followed after, keeping his head down, his face turned away. They were past the wizards, entering the gate, almost clean away, when . . .

“You there! Hold on.”

It was Fiona Bayar. Han swore silently, then put on his street face and turned in his saddle to find her staring at him.

“Look at me, boy!” she commanded.

Han looked up, directly into her porcelain blue eyes. The amulet sizzled in his fingers, and some devil spirit made him lift his chin and say, “I’m not a boy, Lady Bayar. Not anymore.”

Fiona sat frozen, staring at him, her reins clutched in one hand. The long column of her throat jumped as she swallowed. “No,” she said, running her tongue over her lips. “You’re not a boy. And you don’t sound like a copperhead, either.”

Wil reached over and touched her arm, as if trying to regain her attention. “Do you know this . . . trader, Fiona?” he asked, contempt trickling through his voice.

But she kept staring at Han. “You’re dressed like a trader,” she whispered, almost to herself. “You’re in copperhead garb, yet you have an aura.” She looked down at her own glowing hands, then up at him. “Blood and bones, you have an aura.”

Han glanced down at himself, and saw, to his horror, that the magic blazing through him was excruciatingly apparent, even in the afternoon light. If anything, he was brighter than usual, power glittering under his skin like sunlight on water.

But the amulet was supposed to quench it, to take it up. Maybe, in times of trouble, he spouted more magic than the piece could manage.

“It’s nothing,” Dancer said quickly. “Comes of handling magical objects at the clan markets. Sort of rubs off sometimes. It doesn’t last.”

Han blinked at his friend, impressed. Dancer had developed a talent for “amusing the law,” as they’d say in Ragmarket.

Dancer gripped Ragger’s bridle, trying to tug the horse forward. “Now, much as we’d love to stay and answer jinxflinger questions, we need to move along if we don’t want to sleep in the woods.”

Fiona ignored Dancer. She continued to stare at Han, eyes narrowed, head tilted. She sucked in a breath and sat up even straighter. “Take off your hat,” she commanded.

“We answer to the queen, jinxflinger. Not to you,” Dancer said. “Come on, Hunts Alone,” he growled.

Han kept his eyes fixed on Fiona, his hand on his amulet. His skin prickled as magic and defiance buzzed through him like brandy. Slowly, deliberately, he grasped his cap with his free hand and ripped it off, shaking his hair free. The wind pouring down through Marisa Pines Pass ruffled it, lifting it off his forehead.

“Take a message to Lord Bayar,” Han said. “Stay out of my way, or your whole family goes down.”

Fiona stared. For a moment she couldn’t seem to get any words out. Finally she croaked, “Alister. You’re Cuffs Alister. But . . . you’re a wizard. That can’t be.”

“Surprise,” Han said. Standing tall in his stirrups, he gripped his amulet with one hand and extended the other. His fingers twisted into a jinx as if they had a mind of their own, and magical words poured unbidden from his mouth.

The road bulged and buckled as a hedge of thorns erupted from the dirt, forming a prickled wall between Han and Dancer and the other wizards. It was chest- high on the horses in a matter of seconds.

Startled, Han ripped his hand free of the flashpiece, wiping his hand on his leggings as if he could rid it of traces of magic. His head swam, then cleared. He looked over at Dancer, who was glaring at him like he couldn’t believe his eyes and ears.

Fiona’s tongue finally freed itself. She screamed, “It’s him! It’s Cuffs Alister! He tried to murder the High Wizard! Seize him!”

Nobody moved. The wall of thorns continued to grow, stretching spined branches into the sky. The bluejackets gawked at the trader who’d turned into a would- be murderer that pulled thorn hedges out of the air.