Cinda Chima - The Gray Wolf Throne

Simon pointed to the shrine. “There. That’s them.”

Han knelt next to it and sorted through the muddle. There wasn’t much—a few articles of clothing that seemed too big for Rebecca, and fancier than anything he’d ever seen her wear. Nothing looked familiar. But then, she’d left her belongings behind when she disappeared from Oden’s Ford.

Her horse was gone, Simon had said. So maybe she was still alive. It was the best clue he’d had so far. The only clue. If it was really her.

“What kind of horse did she ride?” Han asked.

“A flatland stallion,” Simon said. “A gray.”

A stallion. Traders rode ponies, as a rule. Someone else had seen a girlie matching Rebecca’s description riding a gray. But Rebecca had kept an upland pony cross in Oden’s Ford. A mare that had disappeared along with her.

If she’d been carried off alive by someone other than the Bayars, there was no telling where they’d gone.

Nothing fit together. Frustration boiled inside him, but there was nothing to do but press on.

Han finally arrived in Delphi in early afternoon. The city was, if anything, more crowded than he remembered. Now there were refugees from Tamron as well as Arden.

At least these were problems he didn’t have to solve. There was little news from the Fells, save the old story that the princess heir was still missing and that her younger sister might be made heir in her place. Of greatest interest to Delphi were the threats from the “copperhead savages” that they would close the border and interrupt trade between Delphi and Fellsmarch if the princess were set aside.

Han bypassed the Mug and Mutton, where he’d met up with Cat and outsharped the needle point. Had it been less than a year ago? He hoped Cat and Dancer were still walking out, immersed in their summer studies, far from the turmoil of his life.

He paid top-shelf prices for room and board at another inn, and replenished his supplies, enough to get him to Marisa Pines Camp, anyway. He wondered if the matriarch Willo Watersong would be there.

He regretted their strained parting when he left for Oden’s Ford. Yes, she had lied to him, she’d conspired with those who meant to use him. In a way it was a relief to learn that she wasn’t perfect. Maybe the hardest lesson Han had learned was that nobody is purely bad or good. Everybody seemed to be a mixture of both.

Han meant to set out for Marisa Pines Pass the next morning, but a spring storm came howling down from the north. A foot of snow fell in Delphi, and the livery man said that meant three or four feet would have fallen in the pass, and only an idiot would try to make it through before the weather settled.

Han knew about spring storms in the mountains, so he delayed a day. He spent that time walking from inn to inn to stable, asking if anyone had seen a green-eyed girlie traveling with two charmcasters. Or a pack of rovers. Or a girlie on her own. One tavern maid recalled a pair of charmcasters resembling Micah and Fiona passing through some weeks before. Nobody recalled anyone resembling Rebecca, with or without rovers.

She’s not dead, Han repeated to himself over and over. Delphi is a madhouse. It’s not surprising she wouldn’t be remembered.

When had she become so important to him?

He paid the stableman for extra grain rations for Ragger, and the pony stuffed himself.

“Don’t get used to the soft life,” Han murmured, more to himself than to the rugged pony. He bought himself a pair of snowshoes at the market in Delphi, gritting his teeth at the price.

He left Delphi before dawn the day after the storm, a day that promised to be brilliantly clear. He’d debated waiting another day, letting other travelers break trail for him through the pass. But more bad weather was closing in, another early spring storm, and he decided he’d better travel while he could. By the time that weather hit, he hoped to be snug in Marisa Pines.

The crossing into the Fells was anticlimactic, compared to last time. Han kept hold of his amulet, his hand stuffed into his coat as if for warmth. A bundled-up bluejacket pried himself out of his warm guardhouse to give Han the once-over and wave him on. It seemed that Fellsian eyes were turned inward now, focusing on the drama surrounding the princesses. No one seemed to care if a lone rider crossed into the north.

Han was oddly disappointed. He’d almost hoped for a confrontation, like any sword-dangler wanting to try out his shiny new weapons.

Ragger was downright frisky as they began the gentle climb that led to the pass, crow-hopping and tossing his head, trying to wrench the reins out of Han’s hands.

“Better save your strength,” Han said. “You’ll be complaining before long.”

It was the same road he’d traveled with Dancer eight months before, transformed by the recent snowfall. It was hard to say how much had fallen. In some places the wind had piled it into drifts higher than Han’s mounted height. Other places were scoured clean, down to bare rock. Once the sun rose, light glittered on the peaks, setting every twig and icy rock face aflame.

Han hadn’t much experience traveling in early spring in the mountains. He’d spent his summers in the mountain camps, his winters running the streets of Fellsmarch. As they climbed, the temperature dropped, the clear sky seeming to suck up the heat of Han’s body, no matter how many clothes he layered on. He drew heat from his amulet, using bits of flash to warm his hands and frozen face.

Even in summer, the weather in the mountains was changeable and treacherous, but Han was surprised how much the deep snow slowed him down. The road became a trail, threading between great blocks of stone that blocked the wind and drifting snow, at least.

It wasn’t long before Ragger stopped his prancing and dancing and bore down for the long haul, laying his ears back along his head. Han rested him frequently, graining him at every stop from an already dwindling supply.

It was past midday when Han came on a clan way house, called Way Camp, which lay a few hundred yards off the main road. He and Dancer had stayed there on their way south back in autumn. Han turned off the road toward the camp, thinking he could rest Ragger under shelter this time.

Han was tempted to stay the night. The Demonai often stocked the way camps with food and other supplies, especially this time of year. Han had chosen to travel light since he’d assumed he’d reach Marisa Pines by nightfall.

But if they stayed, they might be overtaken by the next storm, and then there was no telling how long they’d be stranded there. He decided that if the camp were provisioned, they’d stay and weather the storm under shelter. Otherwise, they’d push on through the pass, hoping to beat the snow.

When they reached the clearing, Han recognized the small cabin and attached lean-to for horses, layered with snow. Ragger went balky at the edge of the trees. He skidded to a stop, tossing his head, nostrils flaring as if picking some dangersome scent out of the razor-sharp air.

That was when Han noticed the bodies.

There were eight or ten scattered in bunches, like they’d gone down fighting together. Snow shrouded them in a rumpled coverlet as if the Maker had tried to put them to rest.

Easing his bow from his saddle boot, Han fumbled with the bowstring with half-frozen fingers, drew an arrow from his quiver, and nocked it, all the while scanning the camp for signs of life.

Nothing—no disturbance in the pristine snow cover. The snow frosted the corpses, unmelted, so the bodies were cold. This killing had happened at least a day ago.

It reminded Han of the time he’d passed through a dark cemetery in Ragmarket after the resurrection men had been at work. He’d realized to his horror that he was surrounded by linen-wrapped corpses, spilled everywhere on the ground, shallow graves yawning beside them. He’d fled the burying ground, screaming. He’d been seven years old at the time, the same age as his sister Mari when she burned to death.