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The assassin hung back, her usual mask donned to hide her own emotions. She stiffened as Corayne pulled her into a tight embrace, her head laid against the assassin’s shoulder. Dom could not help but smirk, meeting her eye over Corayne’s head. Sorasa simply glared back, exhaustion written all over her face. Gingerly, she extricated herself from Corayne’s grip.
“That would be my broken rib,” she said tightly, pressing a hand to her side. It was only half a joke.
Corayne’s face fell. “Oh gods, Sorasa.”
The Amhara waved her off before she could make a fuss.
“It’s nothing,” she muttered. “We have weathered worse.”
Charlie approached them all with a smile, his arms crossed over his stomach. His eyes flicked over them both, examining Dom and Sorasa with his artist’s eye.
“It certainly looks like it,” he chuckled.
Sorasa staved him off with a piercing glare, before looking to Andry beside him. “Please do not hug me, either of you.”
While Charlie only chuckled again, Andry gave a stilted sort of bow. Then he turned to Dom, his eyes the soft color of swirling tea. It felt like standing before a blazing hearth, safe and delightfully warm.
Grinning, Dom reached out an arm to the young man. Andry clasped it eagerly in return.
“We thought you were dead, my lord,” he murmured.
“Squire Trelland,” Dom said, giving his arm a shake. Then he dropped his voice. “Thank you for keeping her safe.”
Andry’s lips curved, halfway between a smile and something more forlorn.
“She kept herself safe,” he answered. To that, Dom could only nod.
Then Andry’s voice dropped again, near a whisper. “Where is Sigil?”
Corayne went grave, her face falling. Pain pulled at Andry, while even Charlie gave a little look of regret, his eyebrows knitting together.
Again, Sorasa waved a hand, the tattooed sun blazing on her palm.
“She’s fine,” the Amhara said to their relief. “Or she’s safer than us, at least.” Her copper eyes swept the room again, scanning the collected faces, mortal and immortal. “I assume the witch is well enough?”
“Somewhere in the castle,” Andry offered, shrugging beneath an odd wolf pelt. “You know Valtik.”
“Indeed,” Sorasa spat back. “She’s the only one I did not fear for.”
Next to her, Corayne gave a sly grin. “Careful. You’re showing that heart you try so hard to hide.”
Sorasa’s expression did not change, but pink spotted high on her bronze cheeks. Dom heard her teeth grind together, bone on bone.
“Good of you to join us, Amhara,” one of the assembled council said, calling from their chair. After a moment, Dom realized it was Isadere, the Heir of Ibal.
Sneering, Sorasa inclined her head to both the Heir and their brother, the tempestuous Sibrez. Both huddled in thick furs, their noses red with cold.
“Good of you to finally listen,” Sorasa snapped back at them. “Try not to freeze.”
With a roll of her eyes, Corayne stepped in front of Sorasa, her jaw set.
“Tell us everything,” she demanded.
Dom only loosed a weary sigh, the long road to Iona unfurling in his mind. He knew Sorasa shared the sentiment, her teeth bared as she forced a painful breath.
“In due time,” he said. Tired as he was, there was still work to be done.
He faced the dais, the anger of many months eclipsing whatever joy he felt. From her throne, Isibel held his furious gaze, matching it with her own icy stare. It felt like a challenge, but Dom had faced far worse since the last time he challenged the throne of Iona.
