“And we must be seven,” she said. “You understand, Forsaken?”
Corayne did not. To her surprise, Sorasa nodded.
Seven.
“I don’t understand, and I would like to know what you’re talking about,” Dom snapped, crossing the room in silence.
Valtik stepped out into the lane. She hummed under her breath, kicking up dirt with her bare feet, like a peasant child enjoying an empty morning.
“I’m speaking to you, Witch,” Dom rumbled, his frame filling the open doorway.
She only held up two hands, five fingers raised on one, two raised on the other. Seven.
Dom cursed under his breath, in the Elder language unknown to all.
The assassin finally came back to herself, pushing off the wall to join Dom in the doorway. “We rode to Ascal seeking a hammer,” she said, arms crossed. “But why use a hammer when a needle will do?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about either,” Dom bit out.
But the Amhara simply stalked after the Jydi, her braid trailing behind.
Corayne rolled her eyes and shoved Dom out of the ramshackle house. “If Valtik is going to rhyme, you can’t start talking in riddles, Sorasa,” she said, exasperated. “I refuse to save the realm under these conditions.”
If that’s even still possible, she thought, gritting her teeth.
Out in the overgrown lane, Dom threw up his massive hands, muttering again, his Elder curses coming in fits and spurts. He shambled toward their horses, tied up next to the mill.
“You’ll need to ride with the witch, Corayne,” he said, looking apologetic.
“I don’t think so,” Corayne answered, her eyes locked ahead.
“Well, I’m not—” Dom sputtered, then stopped short, following her stare.
Where there had been four horses only minutes ago, five now stood. A gray mare, as unremarkable as the rest, chewed on grass as if nothing were amiss. She even had a saddle and reins. Valtik stood by her, idly stroking the beast’s neck.
“They follow me.” The witch shrugged, a mad blue gleam in her eyes. “You’ll see.”
Sorasa was already in the saddle of her own stolen horse, stealing glances at the witch. Amhara Fallen. Forsaken. Broken. Osara. The words had hit a nerve in her like nothing else, not even Dom. But why?
The sun shone warm overhead, but there was a coldness to the breeze that hissed of winter. Corayne crossed her arms over her chest, fighting the urge to shiver. Andry came up alongside her, his pack over one shoulder. The teakettle clanged in it, heavy and unnecessary.
“Are you planning on inviting Taristan to tea?” she said, eyeing his pack. “That’s the first thing I’d pitch overboard if my ship were taking on water.”
He felt her scrutiny and shifted, hitching the pack higher. “It’s something I can do,” he offered. A gentle blush colored his cheeks and he looked away, toward the others. “It’s a bit of home.”
He wasn’t looking at the horses, at the witch, at Dom stomping into the mill. He looked through them. His heart was somewhere else, or at least it wished to be. With his sick mother, somewhere on the water, her face pointed south, with a strong wind at her back.
“It’s a safe route to Kasa,” Corayne said. It wasn’t a lie. The shipping lanes east were clean this time of year, an easy sail for an able captain. “Safer than any road we might travel.”
“How would you know?” The sudden sharpness of his voice took her by surprise. Even in the palace, running for his life, he’d been gentle. But then, she barely knew him. It was only last night they had met. It feels like a lifetime already.
“I know what it is to think of a ship and wish,” she murmured, her heart clenching.
Andry Trelland’s eyes melted like butter in a pan. Corayne looked away quickly and fiddled with the belts of the Spindle-blade, adjusting it on her back for something to do. Her cheeks felt hot.
“Used to be my job,” she added, her voice rough.
Andry bit his lip. “That’s what Sorasa meant, when she said you knew ships.”
“I know some. One more than the rest.” The Tempestborn rose up before her, its familiar purple sails and painted hull, a captain with black hair and laughing eyes at the prow. The admission tumbled out, beyond her control. “My mother is a pirate.”
She lowered her face, not wanting to see any more judgment or discomfort from Andry Trelland. He’d been through enough already. Not to mention he’s a squire, raised to be an honorable knight. His mother is a lady, nobleborn, beautiful, intelligent, and far kinder than any parent I’ve ever known.