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“The Elders can fight without you,” Corayne said, tears blurring her vision. She had not won this battle in the council room. Judging by the look on his face, she would not win it now.
But she tried anyway.
His golden brow bent, and for a moment, she thought he might cry too.
“I am the Prince of Iona,” Domacridhan said tightly. “It is my duty.”
“Your duty is tome,” Corayne shot back, her teeth bared. It was the only card she could think to play. “To my father.”
Gently, he broke her grip, shrugging away from her.
“Sorasa will keep you safe until I return.”
Next to him, the Amhara looked at the ground, refusing to raise her black-lined eyes. The makeup was war paint now, sharpening her copper glare until it glowed like molten glass. Her full lips pressed to nothing, teeth clenched to hold something at bay.
“Dom.” Corayne grabbed for him again.
This time, he dodged her, as if she were only a shaky toddler.
“It is my duty,” he said again, a well of regret bubbling up in his green eyes.
“And mine,” another voice answered, cool and distant.
Corayne turned and was nearly blinded by the glint of sunlight on bright silver. Isibel’s armor gleamed red beneath the strange sky. LikeDom, the antlers splayed across her chest, each point set with a jewel. The Monarch of Iona was a vision, as close to a god as Corayne had ever seen.
In one hand, she grasped the greatsword of Iona, a brutal piece of metal, heavy and ancient. Isibel spun it once, as if it were made of feathers and not steel.
Corayne could only stare, even as her mind raged, torn between gratitude and anger.
Isibel did not smile, nor apologize. The Elder only stepped down to join Dom, her own guards flowing behind them. It was the last push Dom needed, and he finally turned aside, shoulder to shoulder with his aunt. They marched in step, a drumbeat of steel.
Sorasa walked the first few yards with him, as if she too might go down to the gates. But Corayne knew she would not. Such was the plan. Sorasa Sarn had no place on the battlefield. Still, she walked alongside Dom, seeking one last goodbye, a farewell for no one else to hear.
Corayne’s heart twisted as the assassin and immortal traded words, their eyes speaking as much as their lips. Then a haunted look crossed Sorasa’s face and she halted, letting Dom move forward without her.
Like Isibel, Dom wore his golden hair braided back from his face. Corayne stared at it, tracking the back of his head as he walked. Usually Dom stood well above a crowd, but among the Ionians, he was one of many. Fair, tall, lethal. Her eyes burned and Corayne had to blink. When she opened her eyes, she could not find him again. Domacridhan was lost to the sea of soldiers, swept down the ridge in a wave to meet the oncoming tide.
Her breath rattled in her body, her ribs tight, straining against the buckles of her armor. Suddenly it felt impossible to breathe, as if something pressed the air from her lungs.
She knew the battle plans. She had listened to them every evening, whispered around the feasting table or shouted across the throne room. A ditch here, a catapult there. This many in reserve, this much time to retreat. Near a thousand Ionian soldiers stood in the field with Isadere’s army and the Kasans, with the Elders of Sirandel and Tirakrion manning the walls. Eyda and the Elders of Kovalinn remained in the castle, as Corayne’s personal guard. And Dom would lead his people below, as long as he could. Until the endless wave of Gallish legions forced them back.
All this, Corayne knew. And it broke her heart.
Sorasa stared too, long after the Ionians passed through the castle gates, until only the echoes of them remained. Her shoulders bowed once, the only indication of her own pain.
Corayne knew better than to expect tears. When Sorasa finally turned around, her eyes were dry, her face arranged into her usual mask of pride and disdain. She took a step up to join Sorasa and Andry, before spinning again to face the battlefield.
Overhead, the sun threw off a heavy, scarlet light, bathing the world in an eclipsing haze.
Corayne’s stomach twisted, the buzz of a Spindle ever-present on her skin. She could not help but remember the Ashlands, the wasted realm of dust and corpses.That sky was red too, she thought, trembling.
“It will be a long night,” Sorasa said to no one.
There was no good way to pass the time. Conversation sputtered, all of them too fearful to talk much. Even Charlie had nothing to say, standing pale and silent next to Garion. Sorasa did her best, listing off all the ways to kill a man. She demonstrated a few, pointing to a spot on Corayne’s neck, then a place between specific ribs. All of it Corayne knew already. Sorasa’s lessons were drilled into her by now. Still, she listened, but notfor her own sake. There was desperation in Sorasa’s eyes, and fear too. She needed this more than Corayne did.
In the distance, the army continued to march, the thunder of many thousands of feet undercut by the beat of battle drums and the thump of the dragon’s wings. It felt like being struck in the chest with a hammer, over and over again.
“This is torture,” Corayne murmured.
