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Her heartbeat slowed again.

“The Heir of Ibal might be a religious zealot, but they will be useful,” she said, gracelessly changing the subject.

“I thought you also worshipped their goddess?”

The assassin was a continuous puzzle, with infinite pieces he could not even begin to fathom.

Sarn shrugged. “Lasreen rules life and death—I would be a fool not to,” she said. “But the goddess does not live in mortal flesh, no matter what Isadere says, or what they think they see in an empty mirror.”

The sliver of a smile disappeared as she looked back to the tent, and the people within.

“My own gods are silent,” Dom muttered back.

He looked to the stars again. Now he hated that they were the stars of the Ward, and not the stars of Glorian. Stars he had never seen.

His voice dropped. “They are separated from us, until my people return home to our realm.”

“I suppose your old companions are with them now,” Sarn offered in a stilted manner. She had no talent for comforting anyone, least of all Domacridhan. “The ones who fell.”

Dom shook his head.

“To fall in the Ward is to fall forever.”

Suddenly the stars did not look so bright and the moon seemed dim too. As if a shadow had settled over everything.

“A death here is absolute,” he murmured.

Her eyes went round, her brow furrowing. “Not even ghosts?”

“Not even ghosts, Sarn.”

Belief was a powerful thing, and he saw it in Sarn, as it was in Isadere and Charlie. Godly mortals, who leaned upon their holy pantheon in whatever way they felt was right. Sorasa Sarn, murderer as she was, believed there was something after this life. For herself, for the others, even for the people she killed. Somehow an assassin with no morals and no direction had something guiding her way.Not like me,he thought. It was strange to be jealous of a mortal, let alone one he hated so much.

Sarn’s voice drew him out of his thoughts, ripping him back to the task at hand.

“Corayne is already at work charting a course with Isadere’s captain,” she said, heading for the tent again. “I should help them map the way north.”

At the tent flap, the Ibalet guards in their dragon armor drew up, their grips tightening on their spears. Dom eyed them, then caught up to Sarn, taking her by the arm.

“You should be careful around these Ibalet guards,” he hissed. “They would rather kill you than look at you.”

And they’ve said as much, to your face and behind raised hands. Some of them talk of it night and day, thinking no one can hear them.It angered him even to think of the Falcons, ready to cut Sarn’s throat. Even if he understood their revulsion. Even if he wanted to do the same once.

“I’m quite aware of their hatred,” Sarn answered neatly. She sounded amused, or even proud. “It is more than warranted. As is their fear.”

Dom pulled a face. “Don’t be rash, Sarn. Keep your guard up.”

“I haven’t dropped my guard since the moment I saw you, Elder.”

Again he thought of Byllskos and the Tyri port, the city half ruined by one Amhara’s skill.

Sarn watched him think, then tipped her head. Her eyes flitted over him and he shifted, uncomfortable under her scrutiny.

“Can you evenbedrunk?”

The preposterous question set him off balance. He stumbled, grasping for a proper answer.

“It is possible,” he finally said, remembering the halls of Iona, and celebrations long past.