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The Amhara—and Mercury—grew smaller, fleeing out into the city. They ran, but she could not, watching as they disappeared out into the gateyard. Her lip quivered. In the back of her mind, she sent up a prayer to Lasreen.
Let him be dead.
Their figures faded, just like the memories. Like the Amhara she once was.
“Where is Taristan?” Dom snarled, his head craning back and forth.
“I don’t know,” Sorasa replied, desperate. She prayed he had not slipped by her in the melee.
Dom whirled to her, taking her by the neck as Mercury did. But the immortal’s touch was far more gentle, his thumb light across her throat. In spite of herself, Sorasa pushed into his grasp, his skin cool against her flaming body.
His green eyes danced, explosive, his face streaked in blood.
“Then where is Corayne?”
“With Isibel,” Sorasa cut back. “She returned before you did. Andry and Charlie are with them.”
Some tension released and Dom gave a great sigh, heaving his shoulders. It was enough for Sorasa, relief ebbing through her. She tipped her head, bracing her brow against the flat of Dom’s chest, the steel cold beneath her hot skin.
In through the nose, out through the mouth, she told herself, schooling her breathing. Slowing her heart. Letting the fear shrink into something she could control.
Dom is here now.
“Fuck,” he said above her, a rare mortal curse sliding through his teeth.
Sorasa raised her head, turning as he turned, looking where he looked. Again the world narrowed. Again sound fell away.
She glimpsed Ronin first, his robes scarlet against the tide of rotting corpses. But it was his face that stood out, his head bobbing back and forth. He threw out a hand, clutching someone next to him, letting them lead.
Because the wizard no longer had eyes.
Only two bruised sockets remained, weeping blood between the eyelids, as if the wound was still fresh. Red rivers wound down his pale cheeks.
Sorasa felt her knees buckle even as Dom held her, time slowing for them both.
Another head appeared above the corpse tide, coming into view with every step upward. The face, the neck, the shoulders. Red hair, black eyes, white veins like lightning in his skin. Like Ronin, he wore scarlet over one shoulder, a cloak billowing out behind him. But his leathers were old, stained and worn, a testament to a life of bitter hardship.
Taristan of Old Cor.
Though the Elders stood in the way, still fighting, Taristan looked right through them. Sorasa expected his leering smile, horrendous andcruel. Instead he glared across the yards, unfurling more of himself with every step up into Tíarma. His pace was languid, lazy even. Like he had already won.
Without thought, she threw out an arm, meaning to bar Dom’s way. She remembered how he charged into a burning palace for even the chance to kill Taristan. But the Elder did not move. To her shock, he even took a step back, pulling her with him.
“Where did Isibel go?” Dom breathed in her ear, his grasp on her tightening.
Sorasa gripped him back, her eyes still on Taristan as he advanced.
“Let’s find out.”
41
The Clash of Empires
Erida
It seemed a simple endeavor.
The mist cleared beneath the rising sun, revealing Iona to them as they descended the last miles of the pass. The Elder city sat upon a wedge of granite, thrust up from the valley floor. Little more than a large town to Erida’s eyes, paltry in comparison to the great cities of her empire. And dwarfed by the massive army around her.
