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Tsking, Charlie grinned at her. “Now, now, let’s not make it all about you.”

Their laughter echoed off the trees, breaking the muffled silence of a snowy forest. A bird fluttered somewhere and rose with a burst of flapping wings.

Garion wheeled to the sound, his face tight with worry. Charlie only laughed louder, amused.

“Elders or not, a city is a city,” Garion snapped. Again, Corayne was reminded of Sorasa and her well-honed skepticism. “We must be on the lookout for spies in their midst. And assassins too.”

Before Corayne could open her mouth, Charlie raised a finger and pointed. He jabbed directly at Garion’s chest.

“There’s one,” the priest said, chuckling.

A twitch of a smile betrayed Garion and he looked away to the woods again, hiding his own smirk.

“I pity the Amhara who tries Iona,” Corayne said, feeling a little warmth bloom in her chest.

The sun broke weakly through the clouds and treetops, a few shafts of light fighting their way through the branches. Corayne tipped her head, enjoying for a moment the silence and the sun.

The gates of Iona swung wide, like welcoming arms. Or open jaws.

Elder bowmen stood the ramparts above, silhouetted against the rapidly moving clouds and shifting rays of sunlight. A cold wind roared over the city, stirring the mist through the gray walls and round towers.

It shivered Corayne down to her toes.

She tightened her grip on the reins of her horse, letting it follow along with the rest of the company.

Corayne tried to take in everything she could. Great slabs of granite and sandstone made up Iona, the city worn gray and brown by long centuries of wind and rain. As Sirandel seemed grown from the forest, Iona was born from the ridge, its walls and towers like jagged cliffs. Moss grew over the roofs and ramparts, peeking out beneath the melting snow.

Stags were carved into the iron-banded gates, their heads raised proudly. More were sculpted from granite, set into the ramparts, and gray-green flags snapped in the harsh wind, embroidered with antlers. The Ionian soldiers wore similar. With a pang of sadness, Corayne remembered Domacridhan’s old cloak, its edge woven with silver stags. It was lost to Gidastern now, burned with the rest of him.

Only his memory remains.

Her heart twisted again when she raised her eyes to the unfolding city, the stone streets laid out in a straight line climbing up the ridge.

She saw Domacridhan everywhere, in too many faces. Most of the Ionians looked like him, not only in appearance but also manner. They were stiff, scowling, more statue than living flesh, cold as the mountains around their enclave. Clad in gray or green clothing, fine embossed leather or embroidered silk. They stared after the company as they passed, their lips pursed and silent, fair heads turned and pale eyes round. It felt strange to know many of the Elders were older than their own city, their flesh andblood more ancient than the stone.

To Corayne’s relief, it was not just her they studied, but Valnir too. The sight of another Elder monarch was clearly out of the ordinary, especially one fresh from battle, with too few soldiers left in his company.

The Monarch of Sirandel stared forward, his high-boned face tipped up, yellow eyes steady. His fine cloak and armor were dirty from the road and the dragon battle, but he wore them as proudly as any court regalia. Many an Ionian Elder stared after him, something strange passing across their white faces.

Corayne remembered how Valnir’s court looked when he rallied to war.I lay down the branch, he said then.I take up the bow.

She saw the same shock in the Elders now. Their illusion of calm shattered as whispers rippled through the growing crowd, following them up to the castle at the crown of the city.

Tíarma.

Her heart leapt in her chest as they approached it, her body going cold beneath her clothes. The castle was a mountain in itself, with moss and snow clinging to every hollow. Corayne counted a dozen towers of varying size, some grand with arched glass windows, others thick-walled, with arrow slits, built for a siege.

All of it gave her a strange feeling, some unsettling doubt deep in her mind. Like a thread out of place in a tapestry, or a word just beyond her grasp. The castle felt oddly familiar, though she could not say why.

Valnir led them to a stone landing before the castle, flat and wide. It offered a dazzling view of the city below and the valley beyond, the mountain peaks still hidden among the clouds. With no shelter from the wind, Corayne slid off her horse before the howling gale could throw her from the saddle.

She was grateful to be on even ground, the many days traversing themountains still evident in her sore legs. The wind buffeted her again, blowing her black hair loose from her usual braid. She did her best to fight it back into submission, fingers working as she walked.

Charlie followed and batted her hands away, retying her braid with an annoyed hiss.

“Thanks,” Corayne mumbled back, dropping her voice as low as she could.Not that whispers mean much around Elder ears.

Across the landing, a set of shallow stairs led up to the castle and a set of oaken doors, polished to a high sheen. Like the gates, a pair of stags reared on either side, their antlers impossibly large and complicated. Two guards mimicked the stags, flanking the doorway in overwrought armor, with silver antlers on their helms.