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“Soon there will be no borders anymore,” Erida answered, smiling. She turned back to her tent, and the ladies waiting within. “Let it burn.”
14
Put the Pain Away
Dom
“Kill the Elder slowly.”
Her voice was a blade. It cut him in two.
Dom expected nothing less. He’d said as much a week ago. But he didn’t expect Sarn’s betrayal to come so soon. Or for it to be so final, so inescapable, even for an immortal prince of Iona.
“Sorasa,” he snarled through clenched teeth, still kneeling. Her name was a prayer and a curse in his mouth.
You know what this will do!he wanted to shout.You know what you’re doing to us all.
Everything flashed so quickly—Corayne, Andry, Iona in flames, Ridha gone, Cortael dead for nothing. The whole of Allward falling beneath Taristan and the shadow of What Waits. All for the selfish, vile desires of one wayward assassin, Sorasa Sarn. He wanted to break her with his own hands.If she will be my ending, I will be her ending too.He weighed the distance in his mind,measuring himself against the many assassins around the clearing. Dom was faster than any mortal, but was he faster than an Amhara’s arrow? He didn’t know—and he wasn’t willing to risk the world to find out.
“Sorasa!” he shouted again.
She didn’t answer and turned her back, stalking into the tree line. She left without even so much as a flicker of her blazing copper glare, either to Dom or anyone else. He gnashed his teeth, wishing she would look back and see his hatred, his rage, his utter revulsion. But she denied him even that small comfort. In her sandy cloak and brown leathers, with her black braid swinging below her shoulder blades, she blended into the woods with ease. Her shadow disappeared, even to his eye, leaving only the fading sound of footsteps through the undergrowth.
His focus snapped back to the Amhara assassins and the points of their arrows, still aimed and ready to run him through. Twelve steady heartbeats, eleven raised bows. His mind spun, grasping for a plan. Brute force could only take him so far here.
Eleven assassins watched in silence, unmoving. The twelfth, the one called Luc, looked satisfied with Sorasa’s retreat. He took his time, a smile on his lips as he prowled around the clearing. Somewhere, a bird began to sing, mourning the sunset.
Dom still knelt, though every muscle tightened, ready to spring. He felt the grass beneath his hand, cool and lush. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with fresh air and the smell of earth. This was not Iona. But there were hints of it, a few wistful notes within the bird’s song. He tried to think of home, to remember a place he loved and draw strength from it. It pulsed in his blood, alivein his body. He prayed to his silent gods of Glorian—Ecthaid for guidance, Baleir for courage, Melim for luck.
The lanky, green-eyed assassin stopped over him, relishing his treacherous victory.
Dom fought the urge to cut his legs off and damn the world with his rage.
“My death will doom the realm,” he said, looking up at Luc.
The assassin shook his head, reaching for Dom’s greatsword. “You have a very high opinion of yourself, Immortal.”
Dom tried to pull away, but bowstrings creaked all over the clearing, their arrows a constant warning. Freezing, Dom realized he could do nothing while Luc drew his sword from its sheath, the steel of Iona gleaming red against the sunset. The assassin drew back to inspect the sword, turning it over in his hand. Again Dom measured himself against the arrows. In half a breath, he could put the sword through Luc’s heart. But he remained still, as if chained to the ground. He nearly flinched when Luc tossed the sword away into the grass.
“I thought you Amhara were supposed to be brave,” Dom bit out. “You will not even allow me my blade? I must die on my knees?”
Luc only shrugged. “We Amhara are smart. There’s a difference.”
Then he raised a hand, crooking long, pale fingers to signal the others. Dom read the scars on his hands. His fingertips were burned and mottled, singed by acid or poison. He remembered Sorasa’s own scars, tiny cuts between her tattoos, all the marks of many years of training at her precious guild. The Amhara werenot gentle with their own, and Dom knew exactly what kind of person that made. But for the circumstances, he might feel sorry for these venomous mortals, raised to know nothing but death and obedience.
Luc ordered something in Ibalet, the language too fast and flowing for Dom to follow.
The bows answered, as did the eleven surrounding heartbeats. He heard them all, the archers steady, their pulse slow and cold, unfeeling. Luc made twelve. His heart beat a bit faster.
Luc took a single step back, removing himself from the firing lines. He stared at Dom, his pale green eyes wide and unblinking.
He’s never seen an immortal die before,Dom realized. He remembered Sorasa’s bargain, her price for her service. His own death.I suppose I’m paying it.He drew another fortifying breath, and thought of home.
Their twelve hearts were the only sound.
No, not twelve.
He swallowed hard, every nerve standing on end.
