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Seph couldn’t disagree with that.

“Except that Basrain is not justanyman,” Serinbor argued. “He is a trusted friend of Abecka.”

“I’ve never put much stock in friends.”

“So you’ve made quite clear,” Seph said, thinking of Rys, and when Alder looked sideways at her, she knew he was thinking of Rys too.

“You should hide your ears.” He urged his horse down the narrow slope that hugged the face of the cliff they stood upon.

The wind became greedier now that they were out of the forest. The mist thinned here in the valley, though it didn’t dissipate completely. It hovered like a spirit, as if waiting for the Fates’ permission to consume the world completely.

They tore across the rolling hills for the colonnade, where a handful of gray-robed kith gathered beneath the open gate, waiting for their unexpected visitors. Seph spotted a few archers atop the wall, and she was adjusting her grip on the reins, ready to draw an arrow, when she caught Alder’s eye.

He was watching them too.

Abecka slowed her horse to a stop before the gathered kith, and the rest of her party fanned out behind her. Seph kept a close eye on those archers.

“I seek an audience with Basrain.” Abecka’s voice cut through the silence, but the angry wind snatched its power away.

“Master Basrain is otherwise engaged,” said the man at the front. He had a reedy voice, severe features, and small, haughty eyes that were currently appraising their group. Seph didn’t think he smiled very much. “I will deliver whatever message it is that you wish to give.”

Abecka regarded the man coolly. Wind clawed at her hair and coat. “I never imagined a world where the archives of our people were made available only to a select few.”

The man’s lips pursed just a little. “It is a very different world, madam.”

“It is. However, my message is for Basrain, and Basrain alone.”

“And I will be sure to inform him. Who shall I say is calling…?”

Seph stole a glance at Alder, who watched that man with unnerving scrutiny, and she wondered if they all should have given more weight to his caution.

“An old friend from Delyre,” Abecka answered carefully.

The man waited, expecting more.

Abecka did not give it. “We will take shelter upon the ridge.”

Abecka nodded stiffly to Alder, then turned her horse around, and the rest of them followed suit. The robed kith watched them a moment before filing into procession after their leader, back into the hidden—and apparently selective—depths of Callant.

Seph didn’t like having her back to the archers.

“I hate to say it…” There was an inexplicable note of amusement woven in Alder’s words.

“Then please refrain, Prince Alder,” Abecka cut back. “There’s still time yet, and I would hate to see you eat your words.”

“Oh, he doesn’t mind that,” Serinbor interjected. “I daresay the Weald Prince has acquired a taste for them.”

If Serinbor’s comment affected the Weald Prince, he didn’t show it. He glanced behind him to the museum, but his eyes caught hold of Seph before he gazed ahead at the ridge. “And how long do you intend to wait upon that ridge, Enchantress?”

“I don’t know. Basrain has always been protective of his artifacts, but this is?—”

“Wait!” yelled a voice from behind them.

They all stopped their horses and looked back.

A figure strode briskly after them, dressed in a robe that looked positively outlandish against this landscape of gray. It was a swirl of different shades of green, as if its designer had been unable to choose a particular hue so the person had been consigned to use all of them. Silvery blue thread accented the trim, and Seph wondered how this man had managed to find an object of such color when there was no color anymore. His hair was either pale or gray—Seph couldn’t quite tell—and it fell to his shoulders.

“Ah, there he is,” Abecka said. Her countenance visibly lightened as the man—undoubtedly Basrain—approached.