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Sigil looked on, stern for once. She took a step toward the Elder, as if handling a spooked horse.
“I have to warn the Temur.” Her voice took on a softer edge than Sorasa knew Sigil possessed. “The ambassador is here to negotiate, but there’s no negotiating with Erida anymore. Not with Taristan by her side.”
Sigil kept her eyes on Dom, imploring.
“If we can get the Temur out of the city, they can go to Emperor Bhur.” Her jaw clenched, a muscle twitching in her cheek.
Dom did not answer, his gaze fixed on the wall.
“That is the most useful thing we can do, Dom,” Sorasa said, trailing the path of Sigil’s logic. “If the Emperor can be convinced to fight, the Ward might have a chance against Erida’s armies.”
“Neither of you need me for that,” Dom spat out, whirling around. In the armor, he looked the picture of a brave knight, bound by duty and honor.
Or caged by it, Sorasa thought.
“You’re right, we don’t,” she snapped back at him. “ButCoraynedoes need you.”
By now, Sorasa lost count of how many times Dom had been injured in front of her. Stabbed, burned, bruised. Strangled by a kraken’s tentacle.Nearly trampled by stampeding horses. Laid low by the tolling of a bell, high in the tower of a temple lost.
Somehow, her words cut deeper than all the rest.
His face fell, the grim scowl sliding away.
Any Amhara knew how to spot an opportunity, and Sorasa took hers. She twisted the knife in his heart.
“Corayne is still out there, alive,” she pleaded, her own desperation coloring her voice. “Don’t abandon her for Taristan’s sake.”
The Elder met the assassin’s eyes, a storm in him. She weathered it, refusing to break his stare.
“For Corayne,” he finally growled.
Some tightness released in Sorasa’s chest and she exhaled slowly, grateful.
A dull pop sounded and she spun, only to find Sigil holding a glass bottle in one hand, a cork in the other. Smirking, she raised the bottle of clear liquid, letting it slosh. Sorasa caught the sharp, acrid smell of gorzka.
“For Corayne,” Sigil echoed, taking a gulp. She winced as the Treckish liquor burned down her throat.
Dom rolled his eyes at her and shook his head. “Sigil—”
The bounty hunter waved him off. “I’m about to play the part of a drunk foreigner, stumbling around a palace I don’t know. I should smell the part at least.”
He pulled a face but didn’t stop her. “Fair enough.”
Sigil raised the bottle again. Her eyes met Sorasa’s over the glass, her gaze darkening. The Temur woman toasted once more, this time to Sorasa herself.
The assassin did not raise a bottle in return, but dipped her brow all the same. They spoke easily, without words, seeing what Dom could not. Again, Sorasa’s throat tightened. All these months, Sigil was a wallbehind her, someone to lean on, as close to a trustworthy friend as Sorasa had. After almost losing her in Gidastern, farewell felt like salt in a still-bleeding wound.
But Sorasa respected Sigil too much to embarrass her with goodbyes.
Our paths have already been laid, our fates written by godly hands.
She only hoped the ink of their lives wove together for a little while still.
15
The Right to Die
Domacridhan
