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“How rude of me,” she said dryly. “This is my father, Ambassador Salbhai Bhur Bhar.”
Across the table, Salbhai did not break his stare. While he was gray-haired, bearded, and smaller than Sigil, with crow’s-feet and sunspots,Sorasa saw the resemblance. Their eyes were the same, brown-black, the kind to flare in sunlight, and darken in shadow.
“Etva,” Sigil said, speaking the Temur word for father. “This is Prince Domacridhan of Iona, and Sorasa Sarn of Ibal.”
A burst of gratitude exploded in Sorasa’s chest, taking her off guard. She pushed it down as she did other emotions, even as she tried to understand it.Sorasa of Ibal. Not Sorasa of the Amhara, she thought.Not anymore.
Her happiness was short-lived.
“An Amhara assassin and an Elder prince,” Salbhai muttered darkly, and Sorasa hardened again. “What strange company you always find, Sigaalbeta. But then, these are strange days.”
Sorasa fought around the sour taste in her mouth.
“Indeed the days are strange,” she echoed. Then she quirked a dark brow. “Strange enough to draw the Countless across the mountains?”
Again the ambassador waved a hand. “That is not my choice to make.”
Sorasa heard her own frustration mirrored in Dom’s steady rasp of breath, drawn through clenched teeth.We heard this before in Ibal, she cursed to herself. It was frustrating enough in the Heir’s tent, when Isadere could offer little more than honeyed words and distant promises of aid.
Now, on the edge of calamity, it stung all the more.
Salbhai was a diplomat, one of the handpicked few ambassadors in direct service to Emperor Bhur. Sorasa knew he was no fool, nor was he compulsive or rash. He eyed them all again, noting their irritation, and weighing his response in heavy silence.
He held Sigil’s gaze the longest.
“But I will go to the Emperor with all speed, and bring word of what I’ve seen here in Ascal,” he finally said.
“Bemut,” Sigil muttered.
Thank you.
Such gratitude was beyond Sorasa’s grasp. Already she pictured the Emperor on his throne, listening to Salbhai’s tidings—and doing nothing.
Suddenly, Dom’s fist met the top of the crate, thumping a frustrated blow. The wood only cracked, but did not explode.
Someone is learning to control his temper, Sorasa thought, amused.
“It is not only Erida you must fear,” he bit out, his eyes like raging green fire. “Taristan of Old Corwilldestroy this realm. It has already begun.”
Across the table, Salbhai gave a shake of his head and a shrug. “I care little for the Queen’s dour prince, his supposed bloodline, and whatever foolish magic he claims to have.”
Sigil hissed out a breath and stood, bracing herself against the crate. “I explained—”
The ambassador did not flinch, familiar with Sigil’s anger. His stare stopped her cold.
Sorasa leaned forward into the light, looking at Salbhai dead on. Her hands splayed on the top of the crate, showing every tattooed finger.
Name me Amhara and Amhara I will be.
“What do you know of the Amhara, my lord ambassador?” she said. Carefully, she flicked her eyes from Salbhai to the Temur warrior at his back, as if to size him up.
The ambassador pursed his lips.
“You are trained from childhood, crafted into the finest assassins in the Ward,” he said. “You are unfeeling, intelligent, practical—and deadly.”
Sorasa inclined her head. “And what do you know of your daughter? Of the Temur Wolf?”
Salbhai shrank a little on his seat. He raised his gaze to Sigil, stillstanding, her head scraping the roof of the lower deck. His voice softened in a way Sorasa could not understand.
