Page 28

As the Falcons slowed their horses, Corayne leaned in the saddle, angling toward Andry. Despite their argument, he still rode at her side, and Corayne was glad for it. Even if his words still stung.

Am I a monster too?she still wondered, feeling the sword against her legs.Is that how he sees me?

“Who carries a solid gold dragon into the desert?” she muttered, grasping for something to say. Her eyes traced the dragon leering over the tents.

Andry’s grin flashed, white teeth in a brown face. At the sight of his smile, some tightness in her chest unwound. She blew out a sigh of relief.

“Well, the King of Ibal is rich beyond measure,” he said.

“Gold are his hands, gold is his treasure,” Corayne finished the old children’s rhyme. “Gold are his fleets patrolling every inch ofthe Strait,” she added with a grumble, thinking of the tolls every ship must pay to cross the Long Sea.

What I would pay to cross it now,she thought. The pang of sorrow took her by surprise, and she had to lower her face.

“Corayne?” Andry prodded, his voice gentle.

But she shook her head, turning away. She was grateful when her sand mare came to a halt, and she slid from the saddle. When her boots hit the ground, her legs weren’t quite as weak as the days before.

And the Spindleblade was not as heavy.

The tent city beckoned like open jaws, the sky above streaked pink and purple with the sunset. A few early stars gleamed. In another life, Corayne would have found the sight beautiful. Now dread replaced the all too familiar exhaustion, the heat of the sun giving over to cold fear.

Dom and Andry flanked her, as always, with Sigil and Charlie behind. Sorasa led, her gait easy to match, her head turning back and forth like a hawk looking for prey. Valtik plodded behind them, the old woman just as pale as she had been when they landed in Almasad. Not like the rest of them. Even Dom’s Elder skin had a pink tinge, while Sigil’s and Sorasa’s faces had darkened in the sun.

Mine too,Corayne knew, though she had not seen her own face since—she could not even remember. But the prickling pain had receded from her cheeks, her sunburn at last giving over to tanned skin.Perhaps I look more like my mother,she thought, her heart giving a tiny leap. Years of sailing had left Meliz the color of finely made bronze.And less like my father. Less like Taristan.

Even his name was a dark cloud. It settled over her, heavier than the sword on her back.

But worse than his name was the presence behind her uncle. What Waits was always waiting, curled in the corners of her mind, her nightmares of Him only a heartbeat away. Only her exhaustion kept him largely at bay, thanks to their grueling pace across the desert and her daily training. Sorasa and Sigil were a better lullaby than any Corayne had ever known.

The Falcons marched them to the largest tent in the makeshift outpost. Guards protected the open flap, wearing scale-patterned bronze armor beneath deep blue cloaks. Each held a steel-tipped spear twice his height. Unlike the Falcons, they wore helmets forged to look like dragon skulls. They obscured their faces, turning each guard into a grim monster.

The Companions passed into the massive tent without a word, a mouth of cool air and dark shadows swallowing them up. Most of the Falcons remained outside, but for Commander lin-Lira, who fell in beside Sorasa.

Falcon and Amhara, side by side.

When Corayne’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, she could see that the tent was subdivided into rooms on either side, with the center forming a long hall. There was a round table in the middle, surrounded by chairs, but no one sat. The only figures in the room clustered at the far end, standing around a polished bronze mirror. It illuminated the room better than any candle, catching the pink light of sunset from a slit cut in the tent high above.

Someone knelt before the mirror, staring at its surface.No, into it,Corayne realized.At the light itself.

“Lasreen’s Chosen,” Charlie whispered under his breath, his usually calm voice oddly sharp. He put a hand to Corayne’s arm, pulling her close as they walked.

“Every god in the pantheon has their hand upon the realm,” he whispered. Charlie was not tall, and it was easy to bend their heads together. “One who can see their will and speak their words. Meira’s Tidewatcher. Syrek’s Own Sword.” He ticked them off on his free hand. “The Heir is Lasreen’s Chosen, both royal and holy.”

Meliz an-Amarat had never been one for religion or prayer, even for Meira, goddess of the sea she loved so much. And Corayne followed suit. She knew trade routes and tax law better than the godly pantheon and its many intricate weavings.

She dropped her voice, leaning into Charlie.

“They can speak for a goddess?” Corayne muttered, glancing at the Heir again. The mirror gleamed. Even after all Corayne had seen, it felt difficult to believe.

“They can say whatever they like,” Charlie said, scoffing in reply. Bitterness laced his voice, and his warm brown eyes seemed to cool. He lowered his hood, exposing his sunburned faced and deepening scowl. “The gods speak through all of us, not just the so-called chosen.”

Suddenly it was not so difficult to imagine why Charlie was a priest fallen, his order left behind. But he kissed his fingers and touched his brow. The fallen priest was still holier than the rest of them put together.

And holier still was Lasreen’s Chosen, both dedicant and heir to the Ibalet throne. A royal servant to the goddess of life and death.

Corayne swallowed hard, trying to see the Heir’s reflection in the mirror, but their visage was distorted in the dying light, mottled by the hammered and warped surface. Still, Corayne could make out that black, curling hair, unbound with no crown to mark their station, though their clothes were the finest Corayne had seen since Ascal. Blue woven with silver and gold thread, a long silk coat over an even longer tunic, both light enough for the desert heat.

The dragon guards flanked the mirror and their charge, stoic and inscrutable behind their helms. They were silent, as were the dark-eyed handmaidens seated nearby, both in identical dark blue dresses. Another guard stood over the kneeling royal, his scaled armor gleaming, but his head was bare, his fanged helmed beneath one arm.