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On the floor, still bleeding, Dom seethed. “I’ll kill you,” he growled at Taristan, one hand pressed to his side. Even though three knights stood above him, hands on their swords, armored to the teeth, Corayne believed he would try.

“So eager to repeat your mistakes, Domacridhan,” Taristan said wearily. Then he seized Corayne by the neck, his back obscuring her from the rest of the court. To anyone watching, it would seem he was merely speaking to a few guests, one of them kneeling in reverence. They were too busy in their revels to notice anything amiss. “Shall I kill her in front of you too?”

He smiled into her face. Corayne wanted to spit, to struggle, but found her mouth dry and her mind blank of any options. This was not in her charts or lists. There was no preparing for this moment. They’d thought the Queen might not believe them, but to choose the other side? To choosehim?

I have no plan for the path in front of me.

“Get away,” she said again, her hands balling into fists. While the heat of the Red’s power washed over her, her hands and feet remained cold, nearly frozen, the sensation creeping over her wrists and ankles.

Taristan only shook his head, reaching for the sword. His grip tightened on her throat, while his other hand closed around the hilt of the Spindleblade. He grinned when he touched it.

“That doesn’t belong to you,” he murmured, his breath oddly sweet in her face.

Something broke inside her, snapping clean. A rush of cold pushed away the heat, and with it, Corayne slipped her hand in her pocket. Something tugged her fingers along, guiding them to the Jydi charm, the useless trinket. It felt frozen, hard as ice, the twigs honed to keen points.

She had never been so afraid.

With a will, she looked into Taristan’s eyes. She saw flecks of crimson in them, scattered like blood around the iris. They seemed to dance as he gripped the sword, pulling the first inches from the sheath. He was not watching her, but the steel, his lips moving without sound as he read the unfathomable runes on the blade.

The Jydi twigs dragged along his face like a clutch of needles, their bite blue and ferocious, clawing ragged lines down his cheek. He howled, leaping back, and the sword slid back into place. Corayne expected to feel the dagger between her ribs, sliding clean through her organs, but it never came.

Instead the knight behind her let loose a strangled yelp, blood spurting from beneath the golden gorget covering his throat. Dom launched to his feet, striking between the other knights. Andry twisted, managing to break the grip of his captor with a few fluid motions born of both surprise and skill. Together they cut a hole in the Queen’s guard, even while the hall exploded in confusion and chaos.

The Queen shouted something; Taristan fought to his feet; the Red swept across the dais like a scarlet cloud of thunder, his hands raised and mouth forming a spell. Corayne nearly fainted in shock, her knees threatening to give out, as someone grabbed her around the middle, dragging her backward.

“Run, gods damn you,run!” a woman’s voice said, hissing and familiar.

Corayne could barely breathe, but she found the will to move, lunging over the flagstones. The charm was still in her hand, the twigs no longer cold, their broken ends dripping with blood too dark for mortal veins.

Someone shoved her through the door at the side of the dais, urging her onward.

She looked back to see a flood of guards, their swords drawn, cloaks cast aside.No use running,Corayne thought dimly.I might as well just sit down and wait.

Then there was a noise like a thunderclap, followed by the shrieking scream of flowing chain, iron links sliding through their rings at breakneck speed. One of the many chandeliers of the great hall crashed down, the circle of it crushing a few men in their armor. It was not the last to fall. The chains loosed in succession, like a ripple on a pond, each hoop of iron and flame landing in a cloud of dust, breaking tables and limbs in equal measure.Boom, boom, boom—another beat of the war drum. One fell onto the dais, slamming down through the high table, cracking it in two. Corayne looked for a crimson dress, a jeweled crown, a wolf disguised as a queen, but Andry pulled her further into the passage, obstructing her view.

Sorasa Sarn was the last through the door, barring it behind her, shutting out the great hall. Her eyes were wide, manic, as she took them in, looking from Dom’s wound to Corayne to Andry’s flushed and panting face. The dagger in her hand dripped scarlet.

“Do I have to do everything around here?” she snarled.

16

GOOD BUSINESS

Sorasa

The gold was heavy in its pouch, lashed to her thigh beneath her leggings. The coins lay flat against each other, silent despite their number. Any assassin who could be betrayed by the clink of coin wasn’t worth it in the first place, and Sorasa Sarn was worth every piece. The Elder gold would go far indeed, funding travel to any corner of the Ward.If Galland is going to war with hell, I want to be far away.

She gritted her teeth, trying to forget the acrid smell of burned flesh and rot and broken realms.Saving the world is not the work of assassins,she told herself.Just move on, Sarn.

It took no time to pick a lock and find new clothing in an empty apartment. She discarded her cloak and tunic in exchange for a berry-red gown edged in gold and silver thread. It was too loose, but well suited for hiding her sword, daggers, and coiled whip. She kept her leather leggings and boots too, concealed beneath the flowing skirts. With her hair unbound, she could still pass as a ladies’ maid, if not a foreign noblewoman visiting from the south. They were easy masks to slip behind, and she wore them well.

She passed the maids with their baskets of roses, crimson in the torchlight. They scuttled by, complaining of thorns and the Queen’s wedding.

Tonight, it was not opportunity that called Sorasa Sarn, but grim curiosity.

Even at the citadel, protected by sea cliffs and desert, the Amhara were well informed on the doings of the world. Queen Erida was well known, as were her many rejected suitors. Princes, warlords, rich land barons, and poor heirs. None were worthy of the Gallish queen.

But someone is today.