“Ride well, Cousin,” he said. All the horrors of the world, all he had seen just days before, rose up in his mind, their hands and jaws reaching for dear Ridha. She will not fall as the others did. I won’t lose another, he promised himself.
But you won’t be with her, his own voice answered. It shuddered through him.
Either Ridha did not notice or was good enough to ignore his fear. She swung herself onto the antlered saddle with ease, the sand mare shifting beneath her, eager to run.
“I always do,” she answered, her dark eyes bright with the prospect of her journey. And their great purpose.
Again Dom wished he could express himself as mortals did. Embrace his cousin, tell her how much her belief and action meant. Emotion rose up in his throat, threatening to strangle him dead. “Thank you” was all he managed.
Her response was as sharp as her sword. He expected nothing less. “Don’t thank me for doing what is right. Even if it is quite stupid.”
Dom bowed his head and stepped out of the stall, leaving the way clear for her.
But she paused, one foot in the stirrup, her eyes on the horse’s neck. Her gaze wavered. “I did not realize he had a twin,” she murmured, almost inaudible. “I did not know—my mother separated them.”
“Nor did I,” Domacridhan answered. Like Ridha, he scrambled for some understanding but found none. “Nor did he, until that monster appeared out of the mist.”
“I’m sure she thought it was the right thing to do. Raise one, protect one. Create only a single heir to Old Cor. Leave no room for conflict. For the Ward.”
Though Dom nodded, he could not agree. Not in his heart. She did it for herself, for Glorian. And no other.
With a steel will, Ridha leapt into the saddle. She looked down on him, a picture of a fierce warrior proud and true. “Ecthaid be with you.” The god of the road, of journeys, of things lost and found.
He nodded up at her. “And Baleir with you.”
On Baleir’s wings, she rode west.
After changing his clothes and scrubbing the muck from his body, Domacridhan of Iona rode south. No one stopped him, and no one bid him farewell.
5
THE STORM’S BARGAIN
Sorasa
Her sword was back at the harborside inn, hidden beneath a loose floorboard with the rest of her gear. She only needed her dagger, the bronze edge dim in the dark bedroom of a merchant king. She stood patiently over him, counting his breaths. He slept fitfully, jowled like a fat dog, his breath rattling through yellowed teeth. His wife dozed on the bed beside him, a dark-haired beauty, barely more than a child. Sorasa guessed her to be sixteen. Probably the merchant’s third or fourth bride.
I am doing you a favor, girl.
Then she slit his throat, the well-fed blade cutting with ease.
His mouth gurgled and she covered it with one hand, turning him onto his side so the blood did not wash over his wife and wake her. When he finished the familiar process of bleeding to death, she removed his left ear and his left index finger, tossing both on the floor. Such was the mark of Sorasa Sarn, for those who knew to look. This kill was hers and no other’s.
The merchant’s young wife slept on, undisturbed.
The steady drip of blood was louder than Sorasa’s footsteps as she retreated to the balcony, unfurled her whip, and swung across the courtyard to the wall beyond.
She crouched against the pale pink stone, using her hands to steady her balance. The fruit trees of the garden hid her well, and she gave her eyes time to adjust to the midday light. The merchant’s guards were slow in the heat, making their rounds on the other side of the courtyard. She took the opportunity to drop to the empty alley below. It offered little shadow.
The sun was high and merciless. It was a dry summer on the Long Sea, unseasonably so, and dust clouded even the wealthiest streets of Byllskos. The capital of Tyriot, usually cooled by sea breezes, burned in the heat. But the weather bothered Sorasa little. Her life had begun in the sands of Ibal, and her mother was of the Allforest, a woman of Rhashir. Sorasa’s blood was born for the dry cruelty of the desert or the cloying hot air of a jungle. These men know nothing of the sun, she thought as she walked the alleys, winding her way toward the docks.
She kept her steps measured and well timed. The blue waters of the Tyri Straits flashed between gaps in the walls, every home looking down on the famed port. Only the Sea Prince’s palace rose higher, its pink towers and red-tile roofs like a burst of Cor roses.
Sorasa glanced at the great harbor of Tyriot, the famous docks reaching out into the Straits like the arms of an octopus. A trade galley would take her forth, leaving behind no trace of Sorasa Sarn.