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Immortal and Amhara exploded together, one rolling beyond the reach of Taristan’s sword. The other arced with her bronze blade, her grip on the Queen’s arm still tight.
Without blinking, Sorasa laid the screaming Queen’s palm flat against a side table. The dagger jumped in the air as she switched her grip, giving herself the most leverage. With a downward stroke, Sorasa speared through the Queen’s hand, nailing Erida to the spot. The Queen’s scream turned into a ragged howl.
Taristan roared through the flames, a monster in mortal skin. But he went for Erida, forcing Sorasa to dodge. She sprinted, careful with her footing over burning floorboards.
Dom matched her easily, both aiming for the wall of windows. He threw a chair at the glass and it shattered, letting a gust of fresh air into the bedchamber. Without breaking stride, he bent to retrieve his sword, sheathing it in a single motion. Behind him, Taristan loosed the Amhara dagger, drawing it free of wood and flesh. Queen Erida yelled again, her screams almost swallowed by the fire.
There was no time to argue, or even think.
Dom could only trust Sorasa, and Sorasa trust Dom.
They leapt out together, his arm around her waist, the other free to scrabble against tumbled stone. A banner ran slick beneath his fingers and he tightened his grip, enough to slow their fall but keep sliding. Sorasa pressed in tightly, small against his chest, her own heartbeat faster than he ever knew it to be.
He felt his heart matched her own.
The gardens rose up below them, a flaming castle above.
The Queen’s screams echoed in Dom’s head they collapsed to the winter-bare earth. Sorasa jumped away from him, only to keep sprinting, a shadow among the trees.
Without question, Domacridhan followed.
16
To Be Enough
Charlon
He knew better than to complain. There were worse paths to walk, or ride. Even so, Charlie winced with every new day, their horses galloping over a broken path of roots and stones.
There were no true pathways through the Castlewood, but two hundred Sirandel Elders drove through the knotted woods as if the uneven ground was an old Cor road. The Elders were expert horsemen and set a wicked pace, their horses trained to traverse the precarious terrain as well as any. Charlie could only hold on, his thighs and fingers aching every night when they made camp for the mortals. Elders did not journey with tents or the usual wares, as they did not need to stop or sleep. At least Charlie never feared for their rations. The Elder company provided more than enough for three mortals. Sometimes too much. They clearly had no idea how much any of them ate, or how often.
Charlie’s only comfort was Corayne, her teeth gritted against the same exhaustion, her body just as worn. For her, he kept his mouth shut. Corayne had the world on her shoulders. Charlie just had to follow along.
Garion was more infuriating, mortal though he was. His Amharatraining made him accustomed to long days of travel, his body broken and remade by years at the citadel. If the blistering pace through the Castlewood bothered him, he gave no indication. Even at night, when they lay down together, Garion never fell asleep first.
The fallen priest breathed a long sigh of relief when they broke through the tree line a week and a half later, leaving the Castlewood. But Valnir and his Elders skirted the eaves of the forest, careful to keep the company out of plain sight. They would not risk the Cor road or open ground, not with Corayne.
Its shadows remained, the eaves of the forest casting a long twilight. Charlie’s horse followed the pack as they turned east, riding the line between the forest and the valley sloping away to the south. The Rivealsor wound below them and an old Cor road too, the ancient paving stones a line of silver next to the river.
Beyond it was Madrence.
Charlie swallowed at the sight of his country, distant as it was. In winter, the fields were barren, glittering with frost. The land looked gray and cold, devoid of any of the joy he remembered. Come spring, he knew the hills would burst into green, covered in farmlands and vineyards.
Or so it used to be, he realized, his stomach churning.
As they rode, the landscape came into sharper focus, and Charlie nearly slid from the saddle.
Next to him, on her own horse, Corayne sucked in a searing gasp.
“Erida,” she cursed over the sound of hooves.
Miles to the south, along the river, her castles stood guard of the once border. Now that Madrence had fallen to Erida’s conquest, their garrisons were quiet. But the mark of her army remained. Erida’s legions had beaten a terrible path over the Cor road, tearing up the earth witha thousand hooves, boots, and wheels. Tree stumps littered the way like a pox, the riverbanks bare of vegetation. The border, once invisible, now bore a terrible scar.
“Madrence falls,” Charlie hissed to himself, tightening his grip on the reins. It was one thing to know his homeland had been conquered, but another thing entirely to see it.
Garion glared at the borderlands. Charlie saw his own pain mirrored on his lover’s face. Garion was a son of Madrence too, even if he hardly remembered it.
As they rode, Charlie tried to focus on anything else. The sound of hooves, the ache in his legs. It was no use. He thought of his own home, far away along the coast. Partepalas.
