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I have never seen a heart break before,Corayne thought, watching Andry Trelland. He wore no wounds, but she knew he bled within. Once he was a squire of Galland who dreamed of becoming a knight.And now he is a killer of them, a killer of his own dreams.
For once, words failed Corayne an-Amarat, and she turned away to stand alone.
Her eyes roved over their surroundings, taking in the destruction fanning out from the center of the town. The oasis felt eerily quiet after the battle. Corayne almost expected some echo to remain, the cry of a kraken or a serpent’s hiss.
She could hear the old witch Valtik as she wandered through the limestone ruins, humming to herself, skipping like a child. Corayne watched her bend a few times, collecting fangs from the serpent corpses. There were already a few teeth braided into her long gray hair. She was her strange, bewildering self again, justan old woman puttering around. But Corayne knew better. Only moments ago the Jydi woman and her rhymes had driven the kraken back, clearing a path for Corayne and the Spindleblade. There was deep power in the witch, but if Valtik cared or even remembered, she did not show it.
Either way, Corayne was glad to have her.
The Ibalet sun continued to rise, hot against Corayne’s back. And then suddenly cool, as a long shadow fell over her.
She looked up, her face falling.
Domacridhan, immortal prince of Iona, was red from eyebrows to toes, painted in swaths of blood. His once-fine tunic and cloak were ruined, torn and stained. His pale skin looked rusted, his golden hair gone to fire. Only his eyes remained clear, white and emerald green, burning like the sun above him. His greatsword all but dangled from his fist, threatening to fall.
He heaved a rattling breath.
“Are you well, Corayne?” Dom said, his voice grinding and strangled.
Corayne balked. “Areyou?”
A muscle flexed in his jaw.
“I must make myself clean,” he murmured, bending to the water. Red clouds bloomed from his skin.
It will take more than that,Corayne wanted to say.For all of us.
All of us.
Corayne jolted, a sudden shock of panic arcing through her. Her eyes darted, searching the town for the rest of the Companions, heart in her teeth.Charlie, Sigil, Sorasa.She did not hear or see them, and fear churned in her gut.So many lost today. Gods,don’t let us lose them too.As much as her own sins weighed in her mind, their lives weighed more.
Before Corayne could call out, yell their names across the oasis, a man groaned.
She snapped to the sound, Andry and Dom flanking her like guards.
Corayne exhaled when she saw the Gallish soldier.
He was wounded, crawling through the water now steadily draining into the sand. His green cloak weighed him down, slowing his progress as he slithered forward, pawing through the mud. Blood bubbled from his lips, his only words a gurgle.
Lasreen comes for him,Corayne thought, naming the death goddess.And she is not the only one.
Sorasa Sarn abandoned her shadows, stepping into the light with the grace of a dancer and the focus of a falcon. She was not as bloody as Dom, but her tattooed hands and bronze dagger dripped scarlet. Her eyes fixed on the soldier’s back, never wavering as she followed him.
“Still alive, Sigil?” she said, calling out to the bounty hunter. Her manner was easy even as she stalked a dying man across the town center.
A hearty laugh and a scuffle of feet answered from a nearby rooftop. Sigil’s broad frame appeared, wrestling with a Gallish soldier in broken armor. He raised a knife, but Sigil caught his wrist with a grin.
“The iron bones of the Countless will never be broken,” she laughed, snapping his hold. The knife fell and she hoisted him overher shoulder. He wailed in opposition, fists beating against her leather armor. “You cannot say the same.”
It was not far to fall, only two stories, but the water was shallow. He broke his neck with a wet crack.
Corayne did not flinch. She’d seen far worse today. Slowly, she blew out a breath, steadying herself.
As if summoned, Charlie stepped out into the street. His eyes fell on the body, his face devoid of emotion.
“Into the hands of mighty Syrek go you, son of Galland, son of war,” the fallen priest said, bending over the body.
He brushed his ink-stained fingers through the water, touching the soldier’s unseeing eyes. Corayne realized Charlie was giving him as close to a godly burial as he could offer.
