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Beneath her sleeves, Corayne still wore her vambraces, gifted months ago in the Ibalet desert. Gold chased through the black leather, outlining the image of dragon scales. The sight gave him pause.
Andry opened his mouth to ask but thought better of it. The halls echoed, seemingly empty, but he knew Elders too well to assume. Immortal guards hid well, and listened even better.
The castle walls and buildings ringed the top of the city ridge like a crown, with a courtyard at its center. Many windows looked onto it, down into a vast garden of winter-dead roses. Corayne climbed higher, up to a long gallery of windows. It looked down to the rose courtyard on one side, and the valley on the other.
Andry slowed to watch, transfixed by the mountain kingdom stretched out like another tapestry. Rain passed in sheets across the golden hills, shimmering with streaks of sun. The light changed with every passing moment, the bands of cloud and rain dueling against cold sunshine.
Corayne stopped with him, looking giddy. Before Andry could think to ask why, she called out down the gallery.
“I’m here!” she said to seemingly no one.
“It’s Valtik, isn’t it?” a familiar voice answered from the next chamber, sounding weary. “Elders traveling with a raider and a Jydi witch? It has to be, of course that old crone weaseled her way out of—”
“I’m a raider now?” Andry said, a smile splitting his face.
The fugitive priest came around the corner and froze. Like Corayne, Charlie wore Elder-made clothing, done up in soft greens and a sleek fur vest. The finery suited him, his brown hair braided and set with a jeweled clasp. He carried a satchel at his side, no doubt bursting with his usual collection of quills and ink.
“All my squinting at parchment has truly done my eyes in,” Charlie sputtered, closing the distance between them. He reached up to take Andry by the face. “By the gods, you lived, Squire.”
“So far. Glad you made it, Charlie,” Andry replied, embracing him with a firm thump. Then he dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’m glad she wasn’t alone.”
It dulled Charlie’s mood a little. He pushed back to meet Andry’s eye.
“I did my best, which isn’t saying much of anything.” Then he shouldered the satchel, the flap hanging open. To his surprise, Andry glimpsed folded clothes and provisions inside.
Charlie followed his gaze. “I’m trying to make myself useful.”
“Are you...?” Andry searched for the correct word. Upon closer inspection, he realized Charlie was dressed for travel.
“I’m not running,” the fallen priest said with a half smile. “I’m done with that now. But I am going to see what’s going on out there in the world. We’re blind here, thanks to the Elders.”
Again, Andry took in the sight of Charlon Armont. He was far fromthe wanted fugitive they first met in Adira, ensconced in his basement of forged papers and spilled ink. Still, Andry felt his throat tighten.
“Certainly you aren’t going alone,” he muttered, just as another man joined them.
He stood silent as an Elder, but clearly mortal. Unlike the other two, the stranger wore battle-worn leathers beneath his Elder robe.
Andry tensed, ready to grab for his sword or ax. But Corayne’s mood stayed his hand. Whoever the man was, she was clearly comfortable in his presence.
“Aren’t you going to introduce them?” Corayne said, waggling an eyebrow at the priest.
Charlie went scarlet.
“Oh, ah,” he said, scratching his head. Then he waved a hand between the two dismissively. “Garion, this is Andry Trelland. Andry, this is Garion.”
Garion who, Andry wanted to ask, before he spotted the telltale dagger belted at his hip. It was only black leather and bronze, unremarkable at a passing glance. But Andry had spent too many days with Sorasa Sarn to forget what an Amhara blade looked like.
An assassin, Andry thought, torn between fear and relief. The Amhara were hunting Corayne, but a friendly assassin was a powerful ally. Then the name snapped across his mind again, joined by a foggy memory. His eyes widened, jumping between Charlie and the Amhara. Though they stood a few feet apart, both were clearly bound together.
A swell of relief washed over Andry.
“Garion,” Andry said aloud, feeling his own smirk spread across his lips. He remembered the same name whispered across campfires and saddles, overheard in snatches of conversation.
Somehow, Charlie went even redder.
The squire put out a hand in friendship. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
The assassin’s eyes gleamed. “Do tell.”
