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“I don’t know,” he grumbled to his horse.
She did not reply, already asleep.
Charlie made a face at her and rolled up the parchment. He set to his saddlebags, still intact, with his gear and food.Enough, he noted, checking the stores.Enough to reach the next town and then some.
He did not risk a fire. Charlie doubted he could even get a fire going if he tried. He’d spent his fugitive days in cities mostly, not the wilderness. He was usually never far from a seedy tavern or cellar to sleep in, his own forged papers and false coin in hand.
“I am not Sorasa, or Andry, or Dom,” he muttered, wishing for any of the Companions.
Even Sigil, who would drag him to the gallows herself for a sack of gold.
Even Corayne, who would be just as useless as he was, alone in the winter woods.
Angry, he pulled his cloak tighter. Beneath the smoke, it still smelled of Volaska. Good wool, spilled gorzka, and the warmth of a crackling fire at the Treckish castle now far behind.
“I cannot do anything useful out here.”
It felt good to speak, even if he spoke to no one.
“Perhaps they can hear me,” he said, mournfully looking to the stars.
They seemed to taunt him. If he could somehow punch every single one from the heavens, he would. Instead, he kicked at the dirt, sending stones and fallen leaves skittering.
His eyes stung again. This time, he thought of the Companions, and not the stars. Corayne, Sorasa, Dom, Sigil, Andry. Even Valtik. All left behind. All burned to ashes.
“Ghosts, all of them,” he hissed, scrubbing at his watery eyes.
“Better a coward than a ghost.”
Lightning jumped up Charlie’s spine and he nearly toppled over in shock—and disbelief.
The voice was familiar as Charlie’s own quills, his own seals painstakingly cut by hand. It trilled, melodic, the lightest touch of a Madrentine accent curling around the Paramount language. Once Charlie likened that voice to the silk that hides a dagger. Soft and dangerous, beautiful until the moment it decides not to be.
Charlie blinked, grateful for the moonlight. It turned the world to silver, and Garion’s pale cheeks to porcelain. His dark mahogany hair curled over his forehead.
The assassin stood some yards away, a safe distance between them, a thin rapier at his side. Charlie knew the weapon too, a light thing made for speed and swift parrying. It was the bronze dagger tucked inside Garion’s tunic that was the true danger. The same one all the Amhara bore, to mark them as assassin, the finest and most deadly upon the Ward.
Charlie could barely breathe, let alone speak.
Garion took a step forward, his loping gait easy, and lethal.
“Not to say I think you are a coward,” Garion continued, one gloved hand raising in the air. “You have your brave moments, when you put your mind to it. And you’ve been to the gallows how many times now? Thrice?” He counted on his fingers. “And never once pissed yourself.”
Charlie dared not move.
“You are a dream,” he whispered, praying the vision would not disappear.
Even if he isn’t real, I hope he lingers.
Garion only smiled, showing white teeth. His dark eyes gleamed as he prowled closer.
“You certainly have a way with words, Priest.”
Exhaling slowly, Charlie felt some sense return to his frozen hands. “I didn’t run away. I went into the city, and burned with all the rest of them, didn’t I? I’m dead and you are—”
The assassin tipped his head. “Does that make me your heaven?”
Charlie’s face crumpled. His cheeks flamed against the cold air, and his eyes stung, his vision swimming.
