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In Hizir, Asaro cast aside a clutch of juniper for the lance.
In Syrene, Empir dropped the gnarled cypress to uncurl his whip.
In Tarima, Gida scattered stalks of wheat to raise the scythe.
And in Ghishan, Anarim burned her jasmine to bring forth a swinging mace.
Though no battle had been won, it felt like a victory. Across the throne room, eyes lit with fresh determination. Andry and Corayne shone brightest of all, clasping arms like champions in a competition. Dom wanted to share in their celebration. Gods knew they deserved it. Instead, his gaze slid past them, to Sorasa hanging back, her face half in shadow. She was already staring, copper eyes fixed to his.
Her heart thumped, steady and slow. Constant.
In that instant, Dom understood why Sorasa hated hope so much. It looped around his throat, tight as a noose.
After so many days and weeks in dungeons and wilderness, a blade at his neck or free beneath the stars, it felt odd to sit surrounded, at a table laden with food, chairs filled, familiar voices chattering back and forth. Dom looked around at them, the Companions, gathered in the salon. Andry and Corayne sharing a spiced cake, both bent over a map of themountains. Charlie kicked his feet up alongside them, savoring a glass of wine. Even Valtik sat in the corner, humming to herself. They were whole but for Sigil, and she was far from danger at least.
A sun shower pattered at the window, sending sparkling dots of light across the floor. It passed slowly, lingering over the castle. As Dom wished to linger in this moment, content to sit and listen, his fingers laced together as he leaned back in his cushioned chair. He spent many centuries in Tíarma, raised within the castle walls. Not once could he remember so much laughter in one room, not even with Ridha and Cortael.
It felt bittersweet, to remember. And, for a moment, to forget.
The others wove their tales together, Andry, Corayne, and Charlie. Through the Castlewood, to the frozen shores of the Jyd. All ending here in Iona. In return, Dom and Sorasa detailed their journey, piecing together all that befell them since Gidastern. The shortest version, at least. He did not mention how he panicked in the Sea Prince’s villa, anchored only by Sorasa’s sure hands. And Sorasa did not tell them how she screamed on the Calidonian beach, weeping when she thought herself finally alone.
She stood in the corner, somehow finding the shadows even in the brightly lit room. Garion perched next to her, muttering in a low voice. He was another Amhara, the one Charlie spoke of so many times. Dom quickly gathered he was not Amhara anymore either. They whispered of Lord Mercury, the Amhara Guild, of problems long behind them both.
“So every Spindle we closed, we took something back from him.” Corayne grinned down at her map and brushed away a few crumbs, bolstered by their news. “He can be wounded by any one of us. He is mortal again, vulnerable?”
“But still dangerous,” Sorasa interjected, looking up from her conversation. “As is Erida. You are to go nowhere without me or Dom, and never let the Spindleblade out of your sight.”
A low current of anger rippled over Dom. Grimly, he nodded. “Taristan stole the sword from this castle once. He may try to do so again.”
“I can understand how. I saw the vaults for myself,” Corayne huffed. “You Elders don’t believe in locks.”
We Vedera have never had to, Dom thought bitterly. Then he raised an eyebrow.
“You went into the vaults?”
“Isibel took me,” she replied, her eyes filled with meaning. And longing.
He knew the feeling well. Dom did not need to ask to know which vault she visited, or what relics she saw within. The remnants of Old Cor—and the remnants of her father, now left to gather dust.
The conversation ebbed away from more dire things, all of them loath to destroy their reunion with dark tidings. Dom fell silent, content to watch his friends as they smiled and talked, the candles gleaming brightly in their eyes. The fire crackled in the hearth and even Charlie threw off his furs, basking in the warmth. It thrummed against Dom’s skin, holding him, until his eyes grew heavy, the voices around him distant, the patter of rain fading.
Sure fingers gripped his shoulder, sending a jolt down his arm. He started in his seat, looking up to see Sorasa standing over him. She surveyed him sharply, her brow furrowed with concern.
“You fell asleep,” she said, half in disbelief.
Dom blinked and straightened, only to find the others staring at him.
“You must be exhausted, both of you,” Corayne said, glancing between them. “You should rest, we have time to talk.”
Time.
He saw the word break against Sorasa, as he felt it break against himself. She eyed him again, speaking without words. Dom heard her as easilyas he heard her heartbeat. Her face was not so difficult to read anymore. Her tells were there. The pull at the corner of her mouth, the thrum of a vein in her neck, fluttering beneath the tattooed image of a snake.
Corayne studied them both, her scrutiny sharp as ever. Slowly, she stood, all cheer draining from her face.
“We have time, don’t we?” she asked gently.
Next to her, Andry wore a grave look. “It will take weeks for Erida to rally her full strength at Rouleine. And weeks more to march them across the mountains here.” He spoke firmly, but with desperation. Not confidence.
