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Instead, he thought of that day in the mountains, high upon the Wolf’s Way. Dom and Sorasa went to hunt for dinner, and Sorasa returned covered in blood, silent as the bodies she left behind.

“They found Sorasa and the Elder,” Charlie said.

Garion paled. “She killed them all?”

“Dom helped,” he replied, shrugging.

The cold wind rustled in the trees, shuddering the branches. Garion looked sick, his eyes unfocused as he took in the news. Charlie saw the same pain in Garion, the one Sorasa bore too. The guilt. The rage. More than anyone, Garion knew what a cost Sorasa had paid.

As Charlie knew what a cost Garion paid now, to be here, his blades unbloodied.

“We are both betrayers. In blood and bone,” Garion said finally, heaving a deep breath. Charlie felt the heat of him radiating through the winter air.

The priest forced a grim smile. “Betrayers for the good of the realm isn’t so bad.”

Garion did not match his grin. “If only I could pay in flesh as Sorasa did once,” he cursed. This time, he reached for his own ribs.

Charlie knew why. He remembered the tattoo inked along Garion’s side, a symbol on each rib, every mark a testament to his days serving the Amhara. He didn’t have so many as Sorasa, but enough to mark him as a dangerous killer. Charlie had traced them many times, with fingers on flesh, then quill on parchment. He traced them even now, fingers twitching at his own side.

“Lord Mercury will be on the hunt soon enough. If he isn’t already,” Garion hissed. Charlie felt his body tighten up beside him. “With the twelve dead, and me... off the path. He might finally leave the citadel to finish the job himself.”

Charlie propped an arm behind his head and looked up through the tree branches. They could barely see the stars.

“As if dragons and torn Spindles weren’t danger enough.”

Garion could only snort in reply.

“Do you think the Elders heard us?” he breathed, watching the branches overhead.

Fear curled in Charlie’s belly. “If they’re anywhere nearby, yes.”

A rather largeif, Charlie mused. He knew Garion thought the same thing. The Castlewood was hundreds of miles wide, impenetrable even to the armies of Galland. There was a reason it was still wilderness, as good as a green wall across the kingdom.

“They say there used to be Spindles all through the Castlewood,” Garion said, half-asleep. His eyelids drooped. “The trees fed on them, turning into doorways themselves. Before I went to the Amhara, my mother used to tell me stories of unicorns springing out of hollows just like this one.”

Grimacing, Charlie shifted against a knotted root poking him in the spine. He eyed the tree hollow around them, the trunk of the great oakparted like a pair of curtains. It looked unremarkable, empty but for dirt, dead leaves, and two weary travelers.

“Well, I don’t fancy being stabbed by a unicorn,” Charlie retorted, putting a hand to Garion’s hair. He brushed it idly, the familiar dark waves a river in his fingers.

Garion made a low, satisfied noise, his eyes falling shut. Another might think him asleep, but Charlie knew better. Amhara assassins rarely dropped their guard, and Garion was a light sleeper in the best of times.

“Not anymore, of course,” Garion added dreamily. “Those Spindles disappeared a long time ago. But they left echoes behind. There are still witches in this forest. Spindlerotten.”

“I believe the preferred term is Spindleblessed,” Charlie murmured back. He looked to the stars again, then the trees. A small part of him expected lightning-blue eyes and the smell of lavender. “You’ve never met a witch before. Best not to speak ill of them.”

On his chest, Garion raised his head and opened his eyes, almost nose to nose with Charlie. He studied the fallen priest with intensity, his gaze passing slowly over his face.

“You’re certainly not the church mouse I remember,” Garion rasped.

Charlie swallowed equal parts sorrow and pride. “But you are still my fox.”

9

Eagle and Crow

Andry

There was no cold like the cold of the sea.