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“Farewell, Domacridhan. May we meet once more.”
“More than once, I hope.” Dom raised a hand as Sem drew back. The prince mirrored him. “Ecthaid be with you.”
Sem bowed low this time, echoing the old goodbye to honor the gods of Glorian. “And Baleir with you.”
The joy of Sem’s tidings did not last long, and Dom’s brooding returned. He could not fathom facing the temple again, army or no army. He did not want to stand upon that cursed ground and see flowers growing in Cortael’s blood.
He cursed in Vederan, kicking at the sand.
“I thought an immortal prince of Iona would have better manners.”
Dom nearly snarled. Fighting Sarn would be a welcome distraction from his wallowing. But Byllskos was a sharp memory too, made of tossing horns, the taste of poison, and a faint scent of oranges.
He turned to watch a shadow materialize into the too-familiar figure of the Amhara. She still wore the desert on her, dusty all over. It suited her. This was her home, after all.
“I suppose I was mistaken,” she said, running a hand down her long black braid.
When she stopped not a yard from his side, he growled in annoyance.
“Leave me, Sarn.”
“I’m doing you a favor, Elder.” She shrugged into her traveling cloak, drawing it against the cold of the desert night. “Or would you prefer Corayne and the squire come out here to coddle you?”
Dom kicked the ground again, sending a rock skittering. It felt childish, but he was too upset to mind. “No, I suppose not.”
He felt her stare as easily as he heard her heartbeat: a level, steady drum. Sarn did not blink, watching him with those odd copper eyes of hers. They seemed filled with torchlight, though no torches burned.
“Put the pain away,” Sarn muttered. “Put the memory away. You don’t need it.”
So easy for someone like you,he wanted to snap back. The anger felt good, better than sorrow or pain.
“Is that what they taught you in your guild?” he replied, looking her over.
Even after weeks in the saddle, crossing the ferocious sands of Ibal, she seemed dangerous as ever. Dust and sweat did not dull the gleam of her steel, in her daggers or in her heart.
But now something odd crossed her face. Sarn turned to the horizon, searching the near invisible edge where land met sky.
“It was the first lesson I ever learned.”
The perfect, slow rhythm of her heartbeat quickened, though nothing changed around them. Not even the wind stirred across the dunes. All was silent, unmoving.
“You are afraid, Sorasa Sarn,” Dom said slowly. “Why?”
“Are you drunk, Elder?” Her thoughtful manner dropped away. She turned, rounding on him with her usual distaste. “We’re trying to stop the end of the world, and all butfailing.”
Dom squared to her, fists clenched.I am not as blind as you think, Amhara.
“Something scares you about your homeland. You’ve had your hackles up since we set foot on these shores. And if I am to protect this quest, protectCorayne, I must knowwhy.”
Sarn took a menacing step toward him. Dom towered over her, but somehow she managed to seem just as tall.
“It isn’t relevant to the quest or Corayne,” she snapped. “It’s my head and no one else’s.”
Something twisted inside him. Sorasa Sarn was an assassin made, a taker of lives. And that sword cut both ways, apparently. Judging by the sharpness of her eyes and the hard set of her jaw, it was all she would say. Domacridhan did not know much of mortals, but he knew this of Sarn, at least.
“Why must you Amhara always bargain in heads?” he muttered, thinking of their agreement made back in Tyriot. His own life sacrificed for her payment, when the Ward was saved and the task finished.
To Dom’s surprise, the corner of her mouth lifted. It was only the edge of a smile, but the edge was enough.
