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“Marital bands,” I whispered. “I’m not married.”

Hugo tilted his head as though puzzled.

“You have the same kind of tattoos,” I said, glancing at the dark ink around his fingers. “Does that mean you are married?”

There was a shadow that bled from his gaze. “I was. I lost my husband during the war. It’s been fifty season weaves now.”

“Oh Hugo, I’m sorry.”

“Part of life,” he muttered. “An unfortunate part. But enough of dreary things, what other questions might I try to answer?”

A burn of emotion welled behind my eyes. Hugo Byrne, for the short time I’d been in his acquaintance, burned with a genuine kindness. Such a rare quality in my experience.

I dragged my bottom lip between my teeth. “Um, what’s aweave? You said fifty have gone by, but I don’t understand that term.”

“Season weave.” Hugo flashed a forced grin through his melancholy. “You know, a time that spans the full seasons. Frostfall, New Birth, Warming, and Harvesttide.”

All right. I was taking those as summer, autumn, winter, and spring. “We call it a year in themortal realms.”

The more I considered this place was a fantasy playing out in my sleeping mind, the more expansive the world became, the more, frankly, I enjoyed myself.

The click of Hugo’s tongue commanding his horse drew me back to the present.

“What was your husband’s name?” I asked, hoping to learn more about culture and life in my strange new land.

All at once my rider’s face went taut. “It doesn’t matter.”

“If it matters to you it does. I’m sure it’s healing to speak about people we’ve lost. I mean, I don’t remember my birth parents, but I still find ways to think of them, talk about them, and?—”

“We’ve arrived,” Hugo interrupted. “Make ready to meet Prince Destin.”

With that, Hugo hurried ahead.

Great. Way to make a good impression. Force someone to talk about his dead husband. I rolled my eyes. Dream or not, my social skills were the things they’d write in psychology books of what not to do to be a functional citizen.

The wagon jolted to stop. Leather groaned and stretched as riders kicked legs over their horses. Steel slid into fur sheaths. Laughter and chatter surrounded me.

I didn’t look out the window.

My gaze kept pinned on the swirls of black on my fingers. Marital bands. Soturi. Mage.

A squeak slid out when the door clicked and yanked open. Two new riders stood at attention, one holding out a palm for me to take. I blew out a rough breath, encircled his palm with my fingers, and blinked against the stormy light.

Mudstrewn in straw made the ground. Stone walls surrounded wooden carts with dirty canvas tops. Roots and potatoes were stacked in wooden crates, others had glittering satin fabrics or silk ribbons. Some held knives made of bone or bronze.

Drums, plucking strings, laughter, and a sweet ribbon of air layered the dirt and sweat smell filtering from another courtyard.

“This way, Milady,” said a different rider who hadn’t yet grown into his features.

“What’s going on over there?”

“Havestia festival for commonfolk and courtiers to celebrate the selfless sacrifice of House Ravenwood. I’m certain the revelry will die out soon with Torrent so near.”

“So, that storm isn’t normal?”

The rider shook his head. “No, Milady. I’ve only heard of one other that came on so fierce. Fifty weaves back, during the end of the war.”

When Hugo lost his husband. Why did that matter?