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“The Elders of Iona sent assassins against me,” she said, holding up her bandages for all to see. Her teeth bared behind her veil, gleaming. “They destroyed my palace, they set fire to Ascal. Make no mistake, they are behind every opposition to my reign. And toourvictory. We must destroy them at the root, lest they continue to destroy what we seek to build.”
She looked at each of her lords in turn, weighing their measure. They stared back at her, grim or fearful, determined or resigned to her rule. None would dare speak, nor stand.
And that was enough.
“We march on, my lords,” she said, rolling her shoulders back. “To glory.”
36
On the Matter of Small Things
Charlon
A storm broke after midnight, drenching Iona in a downpour. Charlie woke fitfully from an already fading dream. He tried to grasp it as the rain hammered the window, and the wind howled. But the dream slipped away, leaving only hazy echoes. The shadow of a dragon on snow. The smell of death through the cavernous castle halls. He shivered and turned to look at Garion asleep next to him.
The assassin’s eyes flew open, alert in an instant.
But Charlie waved him back down.
“It’s fine,” he said, swinging out of their bed. “Just a nightmare.”
After donning a thick robe and rabbit-fur slippers, he padded out into the hall. Charlie did not fear the Elder castle, nor the guards placed around its passages. He was a mortal, and one of the useless ones at that. Even their enemies hardly paid him any mind.
Hearths burned in the grander chambers, while candles lit the halls, creating islands of light in the darkness. The rain continued its onslaught, louder in the public corridors, where the windows remained open, without shutters or glass to keep out the elements.
Pulling his robe tighter, Charlie cursed the Elders and their too-high tolerance for discomfort.
“Good evening.”
A voice echoed down the passage, from one of the open galleries. Despite his shivering, Charlie walked toward it, careful to avoid the puddles of rainwater pooling on the stone floor.
He stepped out onto the long balcony, looking out over the Elder enclave. Even in the rain, he could see the dark silhouettes of catapults in the streets, and slings fixed to the city walls.
Isadere of Ibal stared from one of the arches, wrapped in a coat of golden fur. They eyed him over their collar, their curling black hair pulled back into a neat tail.
“Looking for an altar, Priest?” they said, smirking behind the furs.
Charlie sneered in reply. “Looking for a mirror?”
They gave a soft flick of their hand. “It is in my chambers.”
Of course, Charlie thought bitterly.
“See anything interesting lately?” he needled.
“Only shadows and darkness. Lasreen shows me less and less every day.” A muscle ticced in Isadere’s cheek, their eyes narrowing. “The closer I came to this place, the more distant she has been.”
Charlie scoffed. “Convenient.”
“Much as you try to hide it, you are a believer, Charlon Armont,” Isadere bit back, fixing him with a black glare.
“In some things,” he answered with a shrug. “In some people, too.”
Their expression loosened, if only a little. “I must admit, I was surprised to findyouwaiting for my army in Lenava.”
In spite of himself, Charlie gave a half smile. “I was surprised you showed up at all.”
Isadere did not return the favor. “For a man of faith, you have very little of it.”
