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Valtik’s words,Corayne knew.
The prince’s gray eyes ran along the table, then back to Corayne and the sword over her shoulder. A corner of his mouth twisted, curling into a black smile.
“My war camp has been quiet for too long. We will ride with you into Galland.” He rapped his knuckles on the table, and his lieutenants responded in kind, cheering. “Few men can say they fought the apocalypse. I will be one of them.”
Corayne nodded along with them, her own thin smile a front for the hurricane swirling in her belly. Terror, conviction, relief, and the seedling of hope battled within Corayne an-Amarat, each one wrestling for dominance. But all paled beneath Taristan—and What Waits. He was something worse than fear—he was doom.
“Call the camp up to Volaska,” Oscovko said, shoving one of his lieutenants toward the great hall.
With a mad chuckle, he poured himself another glass of wine. The liquid pooled like blood, filling to the brim. It sloshed when he raised the glass, spilling crimson over his fingers. Oscovko didn’t mind.
“Tomorrow we ride!” he shouted, his voice too loud for the room. No one matched his toast. “But tonight we feast.”
They were given chambers throughout the castle, filling apartments long deserted by the shrinking Treckish court. With an ailing king and an absent prince, there was little cause for nobles and courtiers to remain. Most kept their own castles and halls, spread through the countryside. Luckily, Volaska still had many servants in employ, from the kitchens to the stables, and all were put to work cleaning out the dusty, unused apartments.
Corayne felt odd waiting for a maid to finish changing the linens on the bed, so she helped where she could, taking up the broom and refilling the water pitcher and washing bowl. She felt odder still with Sorasa standing in the corner, her arms crossed over her body tightly. She looked like a corpse in an upright coffin, set among the shadows. The maid eyed her warily and rushed through the room as quickly as possible.
Neither Corayne nor Sorasa spoke while the maid worked. While Corayne doubted Queen Erida had spies in the Treckish capital, it wasn’t worth the risk.
A fire crackled merrily in the hearth and tapestries lined the stone walls. Both kept out the worst of the chill. There was even a tub before the hearth, half filled with steaming water.
Corayne didn’t feel the cold anymore, but her skin prickled anyway, goose bumps rising under her clothes. Her eyelids drooped as she looked over a tapestry of the god Syrek, cloaked in red, the whites of his eyes all but glowing. A conquered army lay beneath his feet, the soldiers of many kingdoms, their faces every color.
His face was oddly familiar, woven with impossible precision. She stared, eyes running over white skin, long nose, thin lips, and dark red hair.
Taristan.
She clenched her teeth and blinked.
The threads changed, the face losing detail. Corayne hissed out a breath and wrenched herself away, crossing to the center of the chamber.
“This is fine,” she said to the maid, first in Paramount, then in broken Treckish. There was still dust on half the furniture, but the bed linens were fresh, the chamber pot cleaned, and the bath full. That was enough. “It’s only for the night.”
The maid barely nodded and scurried out, eager to be gone from the room.
Sorasa wasted no time. She set to examining the bedchamber as well, but instead of investigating the tapestries, she pawed behind them, scouring every inch of the walls. Her fingers felt for cracks and gaps as she shoved aside a heavy wooden chest, sending up a cloud of dust.
“It’s good to hear your voice again,” Corayne said, sitting down on the bed. She watched, thoughtful, as Sorasa went through the room. “I’ve missed your training notes.”
The assassin didn’t turn around. “No you haven’t,” she shot back.
Corayne laughed outright. “No, I haven’t.”
With a sigh, she fell back on the bed, stretching out. After weeks in the wilderness, the stiff straw mattress felt like a cloud. It took all her will not to shut her eyes and fall asleep.
Sorasa kept up her searching, dropping to her knees to check the floor.
“Oscovko isn’t going to hand me off to Erida.”
“I’m not worried about Oscovko,” Sorasa muttered, wriggling under the bed. “This castle has a rat problem.”
She emerged on the other side, a tail and a wriggling, greasy body dangling from her grasp. Corayne pulled a face as the assassin tossed the rat into the hall.
“Oh, stop it, you’ve seen worse by now,” Sorasa scolded, shutting the door behind her.
“That doesn’t make rats better,” Corayne snapped, drawing up her legs. She rustled the sheets, checking for any more rodents.
“We’re about to feast with a Treckish war camp. Trust me, you’ll wish for rats.” Sorasa braced her hands on her hips and surveyed the room, finally satisfied. Then she poked at a folded pile on the table by the window, wrinkling her nose. “It seems Oscovko was kind enough to give us some clothes for the evening.”
