His hair glinted in the frail winter light, more silver than gold these days. His amulet was hidden, but he wore the aura that other wizards recognized. He was known, especially here, on his home ground, as Han “Cuffs” Alister, the lowborn hero who’d become High Wizard. The strategist who continually outfoxed the Ardenine king. He was a former street thief—their former street thief—who’d married a queen.
The flower vendor was flushed and fluttering at having such royalty in her shop, bringing blossoms forward and arranging them in a copper bucket to show them off.
Adrian edged closer, listening as his father bantered with the vendor. In the end, he chose red foxflowers, white lilies, and blue trueheart, along with a few stems of bog marigold and maiden’s kiss.
The girl wrapped them in paper and handed them over. When he tipped a handful of coins into her palm, she tried to give it back. “Oh, no, my lord, I couldn’t. I’m so very sorry for your loss. I used to see the princess in the mountain camps sometimes. Running Wolf was . . . was always kind to me.”
Running Wolf was Hana’s clan name.
His father closed her fingers over the money, looking her straight in the eyes. “Thank you,” he said. “We all miss her. But you still need to make a living.” He bowed and turned away, cloak kiting behind him. The girl looked after him, blinking back tears, clutching her hair in her fist to keep it from flying in the bone-chilling wind.
That was when his father spotted Adrian lurking nearby. “Ash! This is a surprise,” he said, using the nickname he favored. A-S-H, for Adrian sul’Han. Striding toward him, he extended the flowers. “What do you think?” he said, almost shyly. “Will your mother like them?”
“That depends on how much trouble you’re in,” Adrian said, extracting a faint smile from his father. They both understood what the flowers were for, and why his father was in the market on this particular day.
Adrian’s older sister, Hanalea ana’Raisa, the princess heir, had died six months ago, at the summer solstice, in a skirmish along the border with Tamron. From the looks of things, she’d been the last one standing, taking down six Ardenine mudbacks before she went down herself. Her bound captain, Simon Byrne, had died at her side.
The Ardenine general, Marin Karn, had severed her head and carried it back to his king. King Gerard had ordered it paraded through the captive realms, then sent it back to her mother the queen in an ornate casket.
Hana was only twenty years old. She’d been the golden child who combined her father’s good looks and street-savvy charm and her mother’s ability to bring people together and lead. She was one who could walk into a room and command it within minutes. She’d been a symbol of hope, the promise that the Gray Wolf line would survive.
If the Maker is good, and all-powerful, Adrian thought, then why would this be allowed to happen? What cruel twist of fate sent a large Ardenine company into the borderlands in an area that hadn’t seen fighting for nearly a year? Most importantly, why Hana? Why not Adrian? She was the heir; he was in every way the spare.
“What brings you to the markets?” his father said, draping an arm around Adrian’s shoulders. He was never afraid to show affection in public. “Are you buying or selling?”
“I wanted to talk to you. Privately.”
His father eyed him keenly. “You’re selling then, I believe,” he said. “I have some time right now. Come to breakfast, and we’ll talk.”
2
A CRUEL FROST
They chose a place called the Drovers’ Inn, a hostelry on market square that Adrian had never been to. Everyone knew his father, of course; the server led them to the very best table, near the hearth, and clunked steaming mugs of cider down in front of them. “I’m so sorry, Lord Alister,” she said, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. “All we got is porridge and a wee bit of ham, but the bread is fresh this morning.”
“I was hoping for porridge,” his father said, signaling for her to bring two bowls. Setting the bouquet carefully aside, he leaned his sword against the wall and slung his cloak over the back of a chair and sat. He always sat facing the door, a throwback to his streetlord days.
He looked tired, the dark circles under his eyes still visible against his sun-kissed skin. He’d lost weight, too, during the long marching season. Adrian resisted the temptation to reach out and grip his father’s hand so he could look for damage. “Da,” he said. “Are you . . . ?”
“I’m all right,” his father said, taking a deep swallow of cider. “It’s been a hard season for all of us.”
“But now you’re leaving again.” Adrian had promised himself that he wouldn’t sulk like a child, but he came close.
At that, his father hunched his shoulders and darted a guilty look his way. “Your mother’s seen wolves every day for the last week. Something bad is about to happen, and I need to figure out what it is, and how to prevent it.”