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The Falcon smiled again, coming around Andry’s horse to face him. They were of the same height and build. Lean, young men, trained to fight, loyal to their kingdoms.

“Most of the Gallish hunch in the saddle like a sack of barley shoved in armor,” the Falcon said, grinning. “But you move with the horse.”

In spite of himself, Andry felt a small laugh in his throat. For the first time, he remembered Sir Grandel as he was alive. A bit too big for his armor, a bit slower than the younger knights. The memory lifted his heart instead of dragging it down. The corners of Andry’s lips pulled, wanting to smile.

“Thank you,” the squire said, and he meant it. He looked over the Ibalet warrior again. The young man wore no sword, but a long dagger hung from his belt, the sheath pattered in gold and copper. “I’ve heard great tales of the Falcons. They say you rival the Lionguard.”

The Falcon blew out a scoff, putting his hands on his hips. “I prefer the Born Shields,” he said, referring to the storied guardians of the Temur emperor.

At that, a raw-faced Sigil popped up from among the horses, towering over their flanks. Her eyes crackled like kindling.

“You and your chittering birds aren’t worth their horses,” she sneered, eyeing the young Falcon like he was mud on her boots. She put a fist to her heart, near to spitting. “The iron bones of the Countless will never be broken.”

“Sigil,” Andry warned, trying to head off a fight before it could start.

Somewhere among the horses, Andry heard Charlie’s laughter. The fugitive priest bumbled off, a waterskin in hand. He only incensed Sigil more, and the bounty hunter’s glare deepened.

The young Falcon joined in Charlie’s laughter.

“Let it be, my friend,” he said, touching Andry lightly on the shoulder, guiding him away from the pool.

The dune shade fell over them, Sigil fuming in their wake.

“The Temur thinks we took her freedom. We can leave her some pride if she needs it so badly.” The Falcon frowned against the rising sun. “And she is not our prisoner, nor are you. Everyone but the girl may go as they please.”

The girl.Andry’s chest tightened, his teeth grinding together.

“Everyone but the girl is expendable, Falcon,” Sigil called after them. “Her blood can save the realm, if your commander would only let it.”

Huffing, she stalked off, stopping only to grab Corayne away from the oasis pool. Corayne allowed herself to be dragged, scowling with every step.

The squire knew where they were going, and that Sorasa would soon join. Corayne’s fighting lessons had begun again, now that they were no longer half dead with exhaustion. He did not envy Corayne. Sorasa and Sigil were talented teachers, and far from gentle.

“Are all Temur women like that?” the Falcon muttered, his eyes still following Sigil’s form.

Andry tried not to smirk at the Falcon’s clear fascination, if not infatuation.

“I wouldn’t know,” the squire replied.I’ve never met any.“But she isn’t wrong.”

He looked from Sigil to Corayne, her shoulders squared, the Spindleblade sheathed across her back. When they stopped walking, content with some flat ground, she laid it gently in the dirt. Her fingers brushed the sword for a lingering moment.

Does she remember the Spindle cut beneath its edge? Does she think of the blood it spilled?

Andry shuddered despite the growing heat, feeling his skin prickle beneath his cloak. He felt the weight of the dead so keenly, the bodies lying heavy across his shoulders.

Does Corayne? Can she?

His mouth went dry.

Will the sword make her a monster, as it did her uncle?

“Corayne an-Amarat is the key to saving us all,” he said forcefully, for the Falcon as much as himself. “Whether you believe it or not.”

The Falcon rocked back on his heels, cracking a half smile. “She’s certainly the key to something.” And then he leaned close, tapping two fingers over Andry’s heart.

Another searing bloom of heat crossed Andry’s cheeks.Am I eternally sunburned or eternally embarrassed?

“Sir—” the squire sputtered out, only to have the Falcon hold up a quieting hand.