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When the chiefs hooted out their war cry again, Andry almost shouted with them. Instead, he put a hand to the sword at his hip, hisfingers following old instinct as they wrapped around the hilt. It felt like the only thing he knew how to do anymore.
“Together,” he said softly, his voice lost to the echoes.
With me.
10
The Crown First
Erida
Outside the window, night fell across Ascal. Erida watched the bloody remnants of the sun fade while lights sprang up across her city. She inhaled slowly, as if she could breathe in the many thousands who lived within her walls. It steadied her enough.
“I should see them,” she said, turning back from the window. Her mind flew down to the dungeons beneath the palace, and the prisoners jailed there. “All three of them.”
“Only the assassin might be of some use,” Taristan said. “But Ronin was not... gentle with her.”
Erida flinched. She knew the work of torture well enough. Her own dungeons held many chambers for such things, her interrogators and executioners well trained in the art. It was more than necessary for any ruler, especially someone with a kingdom as vast as her own, and a court so untrustworthy.
Something told Erida that Red Ronin was even worse than her own agents. The bitter, Spindlerotten wizard had far more tools at his disposal.
“Is she dead?”
Erida finally looked back to Taristan, too much distance between them. Her cloak still lay discarded, golden as her armor. So much of her wanted to do away with the rest of their clothing, to lay herself bare, but there was work to do still.
He only shrugged at her, his detached manner returning. Taristan cared little for the captured Amhara.
“Not yet. The guards report she has not awoken from her last interrogation, since they brought her back to the cells.”
Erida narrowed her eyes. “And when was that?”
“Near three days ago,” he answered.
Again, she flinched and thought of Ronin, his red-rimmed eyes and too-wide smile glowing in the shadows of a dungeon.
Erida shook her head to chase away the vision. “What of the immortal?”
She remembered Domacridhan too well. The monstrous, menacing Elder loomed tall in her mind, with a barely concealed rage simmering below the surface. He reminded her of a storm out at sea, threatening to break on shore.
Taristan’s rare smile returned. If Domacridhan was a storm, Taristan was the cruel wind keeping him at bay.
“He lives, rotting in the cells. It’s a harsher punishment than even Ronin could concoct,” he said. Erida detected the smallest thread of pride. “When the end comes, when our victory is absolute, only then will he see the sun again. One last time.”
There was no flare of red in Taristan’s eye. The dark satisfaction was his and his alone. It shivered and delighted Erida in equal measure.
“Will he know where Corayne is?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Doubtful. Domacridhan is only a few things. Brave, idealistic. And stupid.” Taristan scoffed low in his throat. “He was a shield to Corayne, little more.”
“He is an Elder prince.”
“Do you wish to ransom him?” Taristan raised an eyebrow and barked out a laugh. “Wring some gold out of his queen?”
She waved off the thought with a swing of her hand, her emerald blazing.
“No. Let him lie in darkness,” she answered. “We’ll take the gold ourselves when we wipe his enclave from the face of the realm.”
