“That sounds . . . exciting,” he said, taking great care with his choice of words.
“For her.” Not for me. Not for the people she robs or kills. “It’s the first time I’ve ever said that out loud. The others know. You should too.”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant to anything.” Corayne’s head snapped up to find Andry staring at her, his faced gold at the edges with summer sunlight. He watched her intently. “What your mother is, or what your father was.”
My father. Even though she had seen Taristan, far too close for her liking, his face identical to her father’s, she could not see Cortael in her mind. The image wouldn’t hold. It was wrong somehow, and she knew why. It didn’t matter that she had seen his twin. She would never see Cortael himself. Whatever remained was ash and bone. He was lost to her, without hope of return. A man she didn’t want, who hadn’t wanted her. And still it cut her to pieces.
“You saw him die. You knew him.” You heard his voice; you saw his face.
Andry shifted, uncomfortable. “A bit.”
“More than me.”
Sorasa’s shout forced them apart. She stood in the saddle, the cowl back around her neck, a dirty shawl or blanket draped around her shoulders. She could pass for a farmer or a beggar, if no one looked too hard.
“It’s three days’ ride to Adira,” she called. “I’d prefer to do it without a Gallish army on my heels.”
“Adira?” Corayne and Andry said in unison, both gaping. But while Trelland was incredulous—stunned, even—Corayne felt a rare burst of excitement.
Dom seemed to share Andry’s trepidation. He launched himself into the saddle, wheeling his horse up alongside Sorasa. He loomed down on her, eyes flashing. “You can’t be serious.”
“The witch said seven,” Sorasa said neatly. “Adira will get us to seven.”
“Adira will get us killed,” Andry sighed, climbing neatly into the saddle.
After a moment of scrambling, Corayne got her foot under her in the stirrup and swung a leg gracelessly over the saddle. Still, she smiled. Adira. There was not a sailor aboard her mother’s ship who did not have a tale of the Adoring Port, a pilgrimage for all below and beyond the laws of any crown.
“You were at the temple, Trelland,” Corayne said, leaning over to eye the squire. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a few drunks and cutthroats.”
Sorasa grinned and snapped her reins. “More than a few.”
“Gods save us,” Andry murmured under his breath.
20
BLEED FOR ME
Erida
“The suitor is next, Your Majesty,” Lady Harrsing said in her ear, bending over Erida, who was seated on her throne.
Both sighed in annoyance. The old woman and the Queen had seen a hundred of their like over the years, petitioners noble and peasant, both men and women, rich and poor, handsome, ugly, and everything in between. They had only one thing in common—they were stupid enough to think they could tempt the Queen of Galland.
In most courts, petitions were heard in public, in a throne room or great hall jammed with courtiers feeding their own amusement. Not so in Galland. The petitions chamber was small and comfortable, wood-paneled with tapestries on the walls, one end of the room raised to seat the Queen, her chosen advisors, and her knights of the Lionguard. Today the odious honor fell to Lady Harrsing and six guardians, half of them nearly asleep. There were more knights stationed just outside, in the halls and passageways branching off the throne, should the need arise. Erida guessed they were dozing as well.
She could not blame them. She wanted nothing more than to sleep too, but she had another hour of hearings to suffer through. I can manage another starry-eyed dreamer, she thought, dismissing the Madrentine diplomat in front of her with a wave of her jeweled hand.
He bowed low and left the throne room, clearly dissatisfied. The Queen cared little for the whims of Madrence and forgot him as soon as he disappeared, leaving the space before her dais empty and waiting for the next person brave enough to approach.
Erida blinked, surprised when not one but two men approached the throne. Most petitioners were easy to read, by either the heraldry on their clothing or the set of their faces. Not so with these two. One was some kind of priest, cloaked in scarlet, his hood thrown back to show pale skin and white-blond hair. He walked with his hands folded, hidden in his sleeves. She guessed him to be a dedicant of Syrek, Galland’s patron god, though his robes were unfamiliar from any service she’d ever attended.