There was no road. “So what do we do to get her out of there?” asked Lazar. “We don’t do anything. I can handle this. I’ll call you if I need you.” “I promise I’ll behave. I just need to know that she’s okay.” Nepenthe relented. It was the second time in as many days that Lazar had given her his word. They entered the tavern. It was a robber haunt filled with low-grade magic. A hush fell over the place the second they entered. Everyone there knew they were different. They knew they didn’t belong. Weapons were reached for. And then a murmur went through the place. “Your Highness . . . ,” someone said. Nepenthe had forgotten about the Prince’s jacket that hung over her shoulders and about the Prince’s face, which had been drawn a million times in portraits and printed in the papers. She nodded at Lazar. She knew she could not stop this many people, but he could. She would only let him if it came to that. “Do not kill anyone,” she whispered. “We’re here looking for a witch called Ora.
