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On the floor, the bear stirred, yawning his fearsome jaws. His teeth were three inches long, yellow and dripping. He looked up at his master and blinked sleepy, warm eyes. Again, Dyrian scratched his fur, earning a satisfied hum from the bear’s throat.

This time, the Monarch did not smile. He did not look like a child anymore.

“The enemy we all must face,” he said. “Whether we choose to or not.”

30

AGAINST THE GODS

Sorasa

There were three prisons in Almasad. One on the water, the cells half flooded at high tide, with crocodiles tearing at the bars. One on the outskirts, between the city and the dunes, the cells open to the sun, so that prisoners burned and blistered within hours of captivity. The third was buried beneath the citadel fortress of the city’s central garrison, its cells dark and cool and sepulchral, secure as a tomb. The first two were unpleasant, but manageable. Sorasa Sarn had swum and climbed her way out of both.

She gritted her teeth as they were led, bound and gagged, to the third.Taltora,she knew, cursing its name.

Sorasa kept her face lowered. It wasn’t difficult to look defeated. After all, Sigil had betrayed them.

I should have known,she thought as their footsteps echoed.She never saw the corpses on the hill. She never saw Taristan of Old Cor, the red wizard at his side.Sigil is of the Ward, still existing within the rules she understands.

And she’s right,Sorasa thought.In another time, I would have done the same.

The Ibalet officers brought them to a guardroom below the prison fortress, flaring with torches, its walls lined with shelves and trunks. The Ibalets wasted no time stripping away their weaponry, relieving Dom and Andry of their swords. Corayne grimaced in the flickering light, her eyes too wide as they removed her cloak and tossed it away. She fought weakly, choking against her gag, when they unbuckled the Spindleblade and took it gingerly from her back.

Dom bucked against his captors, but six men and a heavy iron chain around his wrists and ankles were enough to keep the Elder from escape.Sigil warned them,Sorasa cursed, watching him writhe in vain.

The bounty hunter was nowhere in sight, and neither were the Gallish soldiers in their cloaks. While the soldiers patted down Valtik, puzzling at her trinkets, Sorasa imagined Sigil in the soldiers’ mess, surrounded by the northern troops. Or perhaps in the warden’s office, collecting a seal of merit to be presented for payment in Ascal.The latter, most likely. Sigil enjoys nothing until her business is completed.

When it was her turn, Sorasa leaned into the shadow, trying to obscure her face. She winced when a guard with a badge of office examined her, his eyes narrowing beneath full, dark brows. He had the hawk face of a noble Ibalet, his eyes a warm, syrupy brown. She recognized his black beard, shaved and oiled into perfect curls beneath his cheekbones. Without removing the gag, he grabbed her by the chin, turning her head from side to side. Then his gaze dropped, taking in the tattoos at her neck and the lines on her fingers.

He sighed aloud, sounding fatigued. “Back so soon, Amhara?”

Sorasa smiled, working the gag out of her mouth, using a combination of her tongue and lips in a well-practiced trick. “Bar-Barase, I see you made lieutenant,” she sneered, nodding to his badge. “Congratulations.”

The soldier clenched his teeth. “Put the rest in the cells; space them evenly. Keep the immortal chained,” he said wearily, without joy or zeal. “Strip this one bare. Search every inch.”

Across the room, Corayne made a small noise behind her gag, trying to take a step. A single guard stopped her. Dom himself fought harder, nearly overpowering his six guards, until a seventh caught him around his neck. They struggled even as they were marched away, nudged along at spear and sword point.

Sorasa shrugged as they went, her hands still bound. “The sooner we get this started, the sooner we can finish.”

The lieutenant’s lip curled and he waved forward two of the female guards, both of them hardened enough to have been carved from the granite of the Red Pillar. Sorasa let them work, her muscles tight with tension. She stared at the lieutenant’s back, hating him.

There is nothing so frustrating as an honest officer.

It didn’t take long. Sorasa Sarn had been strip-searched since childhood. It was a regular occurrence in the Guild, where acolytes were encouraged to steal food, money, or whatever else they could get away with. She barely noticed as they checked over her body, looking for hidden weapons from her scalp to her toes.

She counted the cells as she passed, and every hairpin turn. Taltora was a labyrinth beneath a fortress, the air dry and cool. They took everything—her belt, her sword, her bow, her daggers, every pouch of precious powder, and, worst of all, the coin purse strapped along her thigh. All that Ionian gold, gone to the vaults of Taltora, where it would only gather dust under the watchful eye of dutiful Lieutenant Bar-Barase.The stiff-necked fool won’t even use it for himself,Sorasa lamented, marching along the passage.

Four guards marched her along, their swords drawn and raised. Subduing them wouldn’t fix anything. Another six would come running, and she’d end up unconscious and chained in a deeper cell, without even the hope of a candle. No, Sorasa was a model prisoner, her wrists tied behind her back, her leggings, boots, and shirt hastily donned again. Her black hair hung loose over one shoulder, ragged from their journey.

She heard Valtik around the fourth turn, the old witch rambling in Jydi again. Her voice echoed off the dirt floor and stone roof, a ghost haunting its mausoleum. For once, Sorasa was glad to hear her squawking. She wagged a finger as Sorasa passed, grinning with too many teeth.

Around the next turn she found Corayne and Andry, an empty cell separating each from the other. Sorasa looked them over, expecting a blubbering mess, especially from the squire. Both stood at the bars, flint-eyed and bold, their gags torn away.

“Did they hurt you?” Corayne demanded, her fists clenching on the iron.

Sorasa tossed her head. “Does it look like it?”

The Elder’s cell faced the others, alone across the aisle. He was half obscured in the dim light, chained against the wall like a rabid animal. Even his neck was bound, forcing him to stand awkwardly straight, his back braced to the stonework. He shifted, clinking his chains.