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Next to him, Isadere’s breath caught.
“I could not— I did not want to look,” they said, ashamed. “Something in me knew not to press further, lest I fall into something I could not escape.”
Charlie swallowed hard around a lump in his throat, his chest suddenly tight.
“What Waits hangs heavy over us all, it seems,” the Heir added, shaking their head.
“And heaviest on Corayne.” Charlie shrugged beneath his furs, cursing the realm. “It isn’t fair.”
Isadere of Ibal, born royal and holy, gave him a withering, almost pitying look.
“When have you ever known the world to be fair, Priest?”
“True” was all he could muster, watching the last rolls of thunder, and the wretched lightning.
In the following days, the first roses in the grand courtyard began to bloom, bloodred buds peeking out from green vines.
Charlie sat among them, breathing in the sweet scent of fresh flowers and air after rain. He relished the rare sunlight, beaming directly downinto the garden. The walls of Tíarma would cast shadows soon enough, but Charlie lingered, enjoying what seconds of warmth he could. As the rest of the castle and city buzzed in preparation, silence ruled here. They could not hear the hammers on wood, nor the roll of endless wagons traveling up and down the ridge of Iona. There were only the roses, and the sky.
Next to him, Garion sprawled out on one of their jealously hoarded blankets, his eyes heavy-lidded. He clutched a half-eaten apple in one hand, the last of the fall harvest. He watched the clouds race overhead.
“I’m surprised you aren’t down in the training yard with the rest of them,” Charlie said, quirking a pleased smile at the assassin.
Indeed, Sorasa spent most of her days near the castle barracks, drilling Corayne for hours on end, with Dom and Andry watching over them both. They fell back into their rhythm so quickly, it was as if the months apart never existed. Corayne and her loyal bodyguard, the squire of Galland. Domacridhan and the surly assassin snapping at his heels.
Though she doesn’t snap at him quite so often these days, Charlie thought with a smirk.
Garion angled his head, meeting Charlie’s gaze. His dark mahogany curls splayed out against the blanket.
“Corayne has enough nannies,” he said with a sigh. Wordlessly, he passed the apple to Charlie, who finished it off. “I have my own charge to mind.”
“I assure you, I can manage,” Charlie replied, tossing the apple core away.
“I disagree.” Garion straightened up to face him fully, his eyes narrowed in concentration. “Besides, I have wasted our time enough. I won’t waste any more.”
Guilt twisted in Charlie’s stomach.
“Garion—” he began, but the other man cut him off with a sharp look.
“I regret it, Charlie,” he said fervently, an admission as much as a prayer. “I regret the choice I made. Let me at least apologize for it.”
For many long days, Charlie imagined hearing the same words from the same mouth. He dreamed of them night and day, at his desk in his basement workshop, or curled up in his musty bed. In his imagination, he would feel triumph, if not vindication. Instead, he felt hollow, almost ashamed.
The words were not worth the pain on Garion’s face, nor the regret they both carried.
“Amhara are not supposed to form attachment to anyone or anything but the Guild. It creates weakness, confusion—” Garion’s voice broke, his head shaking. “Our loyalty belongs to one person, only. Ever.”
Lord Mercury, Charlie thought, imagining the shadow of the Amhara leader. He did not know what he looked like, but Garion and Sorasa’s fear painted the picture well enough.
“I suppose that is still true,” Garion muttered, his frown fading. “My loyalty lies in one place still.”
Warmth burst in Charlie’s chest, a balm to the stinging agony. Charlie reached across the inches between them, putting a hand to Garion’s neck.
“I was a coward too,” the priest said. “Hiding behind the walls of a backwater, too afraid to step out into the world.”
Garion gave him a look. “For good reason.”
A dozen bounties on my head, Charlie thought, counting off his charges.And one very large, very capable Temur woman who intended to collect.
