Page 82

Sorasa’s jaw tightened, her mouth resolutely shut. But she met Charlie’s gaze, and found it in her heart to shake her head.

With a long sigh, Charlie fell back from her, his body trembling.

Sorasa shivered too and pulled her dirty cloak back around her shoulders. Slowly, she raised her hood, her face all but hidden. Only her tiger eyes remained, a little bit duller than the days before.

Dom kept watch that night, unable to sleep. She never shut her eyes either.

When the next morning dawned, she did not speak. Nor the morning after, despite all Sigil’s and Corayne’s coaxing. It set Dom on edge, the loss of her voice and cutting remarks.

A Veder could spend a decade in silence and lose little in the scheme of their time. But she was a mortal, and her days meant more than his own. They ticked by like sand through loose fingers, each one lost to the quiet. He found himself stricken, far more concerned for the mourning assassin then he would ever admit.

We need Sorasa Sarn whole, in mind and body, if we are to save the realm.

It was an easy thing to tell himself, to explain his growing concern for an immoral, selfish, and all-together infuriating assassin. She was a killer. A murderer.

And a hero too.

15

An Honest Face

Andry

Every night Sorasa stared into the fire, rolling a jade seal between her hands. What it meant or who it stood for, Andry did not know, and even Corayne knew better than to ask. But she stared at the seal as if she could memorize it. Charlie actually did, practicing the shape on scraps of parchment when he was sure Sorasa wasn’t looking.

They traveled north along the Wolf’s Way, through Ledor and then Dahland and Uscora. Small kingdoms all, shadowed by the great mountains to the south, and the Temurijon to the north. The assassin continued their journey in pressing silence, the days sliding past. It came too easily to her, unsettling them all.

But worse than Sorasa’s mood was the cloud overhead, the constant fear of Amhara. Andry watched every shadow, peered around every bend, his head snapping back and forth every time the wind rattled the branches. He wasn’t the only one. Sorasa andDom kept sentinel watch, as did Sigil, all three of the great warriors worn raw by vigilance. While Sorasa stopped talking, Dom stopped sleeping. It turned both of them into ghosts.

Andry did his best to make things easy for them all. He was quick with his tea and his help, minding the horses with Sigil or foraging with Charlie. Corayne did what she could too, learning to clean horse tack and tending to their blades.

The realm was colder this far north, a vicious wind blowing all day and night. Cold from the mountains, cold from the steppes. The ground went hard with frost, the grass sharp and glinting in the morning light. The woodlands turned sparse, offering little cover, thin game, and poor, wet firewood that threw off more smoke than heat. Andry shivered against the chill. Winter loomed on the horizon, the mountain peaks growing whiter every day, the snows gaining more ground each night. Andry knew winter in Galland, but this land was harsher, more severe and barren. Golden hills went gray and empty, fallen leaves dying underfoot.

Sigil turned restless in the shadow of her homeland, her eyes drawn northwest, to the steppes. She didn’t mind the cold, snug in her leathers, but Corayne, Charlie, and Andry were of warmer countries. They rode close, using each other for warmth.

It was Andry’s only respite against the dropping temperatures.

Meanwhile Valtik delighted in the weather. The Jydi witch knew the frozen north better than any. It suited her, her pale cheeks going pink and her blue eyes gleaming in the cold sunlight. She sang every morning, when the frost glittered, a diamond coating beneath their horses’ hooves. It was all in Jydi, unintelligible to any but Corayne, and even she could only translate small, bizarre pieces.

But one morning, near the Treckish border, Valtik’s song rang out and Andry discovered he understood. He jolted in the saddle, wondering if the Jydi tongue had finally sunk in. But no, she was singing in Paramount that day, a language they all knew.

“The snow falls and the cold comes, with raider ships and battle drums.”

Her voice was as thin and brittle as the frozen grass. As one, the Companions turned to the witch, watching as she rode along.

Even Sorasa looked out from beneath her hood. At least her scowl had returned, if not her voice.

“Brave and bold the raiders be, to sail across the Watchful Sea,” Valtik sang on. Her sand mare plodded beneath her, unsure on the rocky ground. Or unsure of the rider on her back. “Broken swords and battered shields, from icy fjords to Gallish fields.”

Corayne urged her mare up alongside Valtik, better to listen. She mouthed the words after the old woman spoke them, memorizing her song. Andry followed close behind, trying to puzzle out this latest impossible riddle.

Grinning, Valtik leaned between their horses, reaching out to tap Corayne on the nose. Her braids swung. The Ibalet jasmine was long gone from her hair, replaced by bright purple iris, the last flowers of the season.

“A fearsome thing, the world undone, but raider folk do not run,” she finished. The shuddering wind continued to blow. It smelled of pine and snow and iron, of hard things.

“If only the witch took a vow of silence instead of you, Sorasa,” Sigil muttered under her breath. By now they all knew to expect no reply, and the assassin carried on in silence.

“Raider folk do not run,” Corayne echoed, worrying her lip.