Page 96

She made a striking sight, a beautiful Ibalet woman with brown skin and black hair, done up in Treckish skirts. She seemed to glow, her high-boned face and full lips looking as fine as a lady in a painting.

Corayne felt the familiar sinking sensation in her stomach, the kind she felt standing next to her bold, magnificent mother.

“Abysmal or not, you look lovely,” she said, waving a hand at Sorasa.

The assassin only shrugged. “I’ve looked better, I’ll say that,” she muttered, lacing her sleeves tight. “If only we could travel through the south properly. The court of Ibal is a glorious sight indeed.”

Corayne tried to imagine it. In Almasad, they were more focused on passing through, but she remembered glimpses of finesilks and precious jewelry. Gold, turquoise, amethyst, lapis, and finest silver. Cloth draped to protect the wearer from the desert sun, but also to show off a fine figure or muscular build. Until now, she had only seen Sorasa in her leathers and tunics, her cloak never far away. Corayne could hardly picture her in silk.

“I’ve never been to a feast before,” she muttered, picking at her gown again.

“I have, but I’ve never been invited,” Sorasa shot back, hiking up her skirt to show a lean length of leg. She belted a dagger to her thigh before sliding another into her boot. “Firsts for both of us.”

Corayne looked to the Spindleblade. “I suppose I can’t leave that here,” she said, imagining how foolish she would seem with a sword down her back.

“Have Dom carry it for the night, or Andry. I’m sure the squire would do anything you ask,” Sorasa said, a sly look on her face.

Corayne’s face burned and she grabbed the sheath. “Andry is just kind,” she muttered, fighting the sudden swell of emotion in her chest.

Out in the passage, jeers echoed, sounding even through the door. She was suddenly grateful for the distraction.The prince’s men are drunk indeed.

“How many ride with Oscovko?” she asked.

Sorasa shrugged. “Five hundred at most. I’ve never known a war camp to number more.”

Corayne frowned. “He treats saving the Ward like a game, with glory as his prize.”

“He can treat it however he likes, so long as he holds to hisword,” Sorasa said, crossing to the chamber door. She put a hand to the latch, her inked fingers curling. “Ready?”

“Starving. I mean yes.”

To the surprise of no one, Dom was still waiting outside the door. He said nothing when they entered the passageway, and stalked off ahead, like a giant, lumbering shadow. But he kept pace with their steps, never more than a few yards ahead. Corayne noticed that his beard was trimmed and he had new braids in his hair, two hanging in front of each ear, with the rest of his blond locks falling loose. He looked a prince again, an immortal son of Glorian Lost, imposing and powerful.

Corayne smiled to herself.

And completely undone by Sorasa Sarn.

17

Queen of Skulls

Erida

The towers and cathedral spires of Partepalas rose against a cloudless blue sky. White stone and flashing silver paint gleamed in the afternoon sun, a stronger beacon than even the city’s famed lighthouse rising over the port. The autumn chill of the woodlands was gone, replaced by the calm, temperate air of the southern coast. Everything was still in bloom, the air perfumed with flowers and a fresh salt breeze. Erida drank it down, greedy for more.

The Madrentine capital sprawled alongside the bank where river met sea, the strong current carrying out to Vara’s Bay. Part of it was dug out to form a moat around the city, a green canal forming a second barrier alongside the city walls. There were several gates, all formidable, far more imposing than the gates of Rouleine. And far richer. Partepalas was a city built not for conquest or trade, but for the eye. The Madrentine kings were wealthy, and their city showed it, down to the cobblestones. There were shieldsof hammered silver decorating the walls and watchtowers, each one etched with the stallion of Madrence.

King Robart’s residence, the Palace of Pearls, more than lived up to its name. It jutted out into the river, walled with polished gray and pink stone, its many windows like jewels.Smaller than my own palace,Erida knew,but far more beautiful. Built for pleasure and comfort, for a monarch without fear of war. Until now.

Only one thing was missing from the city, conspicuously absent. There were no flags: no burgundy silk, no silver horse of King Robart. They were all gone, replaced by a single white banner hanging listless in the still air. The flag meant only one thing.

Surrender.

The entire capital was a perfect, delectable cake, ready to be devoured. And the feast had begun.

Half of her legions were already camped outside the capital, ten thousand of them ready for the occupation. Gallish ships floated in the bay. Only three war galleys, double-decked and green-sailed, but they were more than enough warning. Erida’s fleet was coming. It was only a matter of time before the entire port was blockaded. Most of Robart’s ships were already gone anyway, leaving the bay half empty.

Erida felt as if she could fly, all but vibrating in her skin. It took every bit of her court training to restrain herself and keep her horse at a trot, holding pace at the head of the column of courtiers. The wary murmurs of her nobles and generals were long gone, replaced with buzzing excitement. For once, Erida shared the sentiment of her court. They wore their finest—steel and silk and brocade reserved for a coronation or funeral. A rope of emeraldswinked on Harrsing’s neck, with Thornwall’s gold chain strung between his shoulders, dangling the image of a roaring lion. Marger, Radolph, and all the rest shone like coins. They knew this was a day to remember, a day to be seen.