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Then the Elder lord cocked his head, eyes narrowing as he scrutinized some sound Corayne could not hear.

“Is that a horse?”

The bang of the doors behind them cut him off, followed by the thunderous clatter of hooves on marble. While the Elders jumped to stand, slack-jawed, Corayne turned in her chair. Next to her, Andry went for the ax at his hip.

Two horses reined to a halt at the center of the throne room, the first of them rearing up with a pawing of hooves. It obscured the rider on his back, only for a moment. Behind them, the statues of the Elder gods looked on, fearsome in white marble.

Then a ghost slid from the saddle. Muddy, roadworn, his broad shoulders wrapped in old, stained wool, his blond hair dark with rain.

Corayne’s chair fell backward as she lurched from it.

This is a dream. This is a dream, she told herself, tears already stinging her eyes. She could not bear the thought of waking up.

This is a dream.

Then the second rider jumped to the ground, landing with her lethal grace. She looked worse than ever, her leathers torn and re-sewn, her telltale dagger missing from her belt. There were bruise-like circles beneath her eyes and her cheekbones cut more sharply in her face.

But there was no mistaking the tattoos.

Dull pain radiated up from Corayne’s knees as they hit the marble beneath her. She did not feel it, as she could hardly feel anything at all.

“This is a dream,” Corayne said aloud. She expected her eyes to open. She expected the now familiar rush of grief.

Instead, she found only warm, strong arms and the smell of horse. She forgot the council, forgot the war, forgot Erida and Taristan and all their horrors.

Someone lifted her clean off the floor, his grip carefully gentle. She felt herself spin, her head already whirling, her heart torn in every single direction.

“This is a dream,” she said again, trembling as her boots touched the ground.

Above her, Domacridhan of Iona grinned with the full force of the blazing sun.

“It is not,” he said. “I promise you, it is not.”

34

What You Choose

Domacridhan

“This is a dream.”

Corayne’s voice brought him spiraling back to the world. Gently, he lowered her down to the marble. She stared up at him, eyes too wide, as if she feared to blink. Fine clothing flowed around her, embroidered velvet, silk, and fur. Her hair gleamed, freshly washed, woven into a black braid over one shoulder. She looked healthy, despite the shadows beneath her eyes.

“It is not,” he said, his voice trembling. “I promise you it is not.”

She stared up at him, her eyes shining. Dom’s breath caught and he realized she had the same look her father did as a young boy. Cortael wore the same wonderment when he learned a new twist of the sword, or felled his first deer.

Even as his heart swelled with happiness, it bled a little too.

Reluctantly, he looked up from Corayne to survey the rest of the great hall. What he found stole his breath away. He looked, not to the dais of Elder monarchs, all of them stoic and cold. But to the assembled council below.

Charlie stared back at him, eyes round as dinner plates. He gripped the back of his chair for support, his mouth open in shock.

There was Andry, unmistakable, and somehow taller than Dom remembered. He had a wolf pelt around his shoulders, looking more raider than squire. He stood with an ax in one hand, ready to defend Corayne at a second’s notice. Dom expected nothing less.

The squire lowered his weapon with a sheepish grin, almost laughing.

Dom felt as if his legs might give out, but he kept his footing. Sorasa would certainly torture him if he made it all this way only to faint.