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Corayne’s voice was sharp and close. He jumped.
She was still in front of him, standing only a foot away, her eyes blazing up into his own.
“Stop torturing yourself,” she said, taking his shoulders in her hands. “You were every inch a knight out there. You might not want to remember, but I do. You should be proud—”
Andry’s stomach twisted. Reluctantly, he stepped out of her grasp, putting some distance between them.
“I take no pride in what I did, Corayne.” His voice faltered. “And I won’t justify it either. I know what’s at stake, the monsters we face, but I won’t let it turn me into a monster too.”
She drew in a sharp breath. Her black eyes darkened somehow, growing deeper. “Am I a monster, then? Are we all?”
Andry nearly swore in frustration. “That’s not what I mean.”
“Then say what you mean,” she said coolly, folding her arms.
The squire could only shrug. His tongue stuck in his mouth, and while a dozen words rose in his throat, none felt right.
“I guess I don’t really know,” Andry finally murmured, lifting his saddlebags.
Corayne seemed to deflate. “Fine,” she said, her voice toosharp. Then she shook her head, her braid coming loose after the night’s ride. When she raised her face again, her eyes were soft. “I’m sorry. I’m tired,” she mumbled. “We’re all tired.”
Despite the circumstances, Andry almost laughed. He shouldered his pack, his teakettle clanking within. “Agreed.”
This morning’s camp was at a small oasis, barely more than a stand of shrubs, wet rocks around a pool, and a narrow well. But after three days crossing the Great Sands, Andry could taste the extra moisture in the air. He led his grateful sand mare over with the rest of the horses, leaving Corayne behind.
Instead of setting their shades, the Falcons refilled their myriad of waterskins at the well, as did Sorasa and Sigil. The horses were eager to drink too, crowding the pool. Andry let his horse nose in among the other mounts, picking through the stones to the shallow freshwater.
Andry’s legs ached beneath him, despite his long years of training. Army marches and quick races were nothing compared to their thunderous days across the desert. Even his trek with Cortael and the Companions had not been so arduous.
Maybe it should’ve been. A few harder days, a few more nights without rest. Maybe then we would’ve arrived at the temple in time, and stopped this before it could even begin.
Andry hissed under his breath and shook his head, as if he could banish such thoughts. But like the faces, they never left.
He drew back from the rocky pool, his own waterskin and teakettle filled with water. Others crowded in to fill his space, but one Falcon hung back. He stared at Andry, his robes dusty from the ride.
Andry stared back, giving a small nod of acknowledgment.
Quickly, the Falcon removed his protective headdress of wound cloth and gold braid. His bronze face and mahogany eyes were soft. He was young, unbearded, only a few years older than Andry himself. Though the Falcons often threw insults and glares at Sorasa, Andry saw none of that now.
Instead he saw curiosity.
The Falcon looked the squire over, his gaze snaring on Andry’s hands, then his face and curling black hair, now growing out of his close-cropped squire’s style. After long years in the north, surrounded by pale skin and fair heads, Andry knew why. He fought back a weary sigh, feeling the sharp edge of annoyance.
“You’re Gallish?” the Falcon asked, eyeing Andry’s tunic. The blue star on the squire’s chest had certainly seen better days and cleaner moments.
“Yes,” he replied, matter-of-fact, squaring his shoulders. He was keenly aware of the dried blood on his clothes, and the disheveled state of his appearance. “But my mother is of Kasa.”
The Falcon’s swooping black eyebrows rose. Like Commander lin-Lira, he had angular features—sharp cheekbones and a long, regal nose.
Ibal and Kasa did not share a border, separated by the small, proud kingdoms of Sardos and Niron. Their lands were not enemies, but certainly rivals, alike in their great histories and even greater riches.
The Falcon half smiled, impressed. “I was not certain, but you ride like a knight.”
Heat spread across the squire’s cheeks, not from the sun, but from pride.
The Falcon took in Andry’s silence, his face falling. “A good knight, I mean,” he added quickly. “I hope you take no offense.”
“Of course not,” Andry said without thought.
