This time, the voices were as one: an old woman, rasping like a knife through silk. It almost sent Andry back to his knees. Shock kicked him in the gut, but he could not react, not here before a hundred eyes. Before the Queen, still watching him with her sapphire stare.
Even while willing the voice away, his hands fisted at his sides, Andry strained to remember it. But the voice was like smoke, twisting through his fingers, impossible to grasp. Disappearing in one breath of wind while flaring in another.
It curled again, seemingly all around him.
A new hand comes, the alliance made.
9
CHILDREN OF CROSSING
Domacridhan
Domacridhan saw so much of Cortael in her. Beneath her mother’s influence there was Corblood in her veins, as vital to Corayne’s being as roots to a tree. And just as tangled. She struggled with it, grappling with what she could not understand.
Cortael was the same, in his youth, Dom thought, remembering his friend when he was a boy. Restless and searching, hungry for a place to belong but hesitant to drop anchor. Such was the way of Old Cor: humans born of travel and crossing, conquest and voyage from one realm to the next. It was in their bones and blood, in their steel, in their souls.
And she does not understand, for there was no one to tell her.
He watched as Corayne haggled at the Lemarta stables, negotiating for three horses. The trader was eager to see them both gone—his eyes darted to Dom standing at her shoulder, and to the sword hanging at his side. Dom kept still under his scrutiny, trying not to draw more attention than need be.
She easily bargained the trader down to half his price, handing over a purse for reins.
There were two stallions and a mare, fully tacked with filled saddlebags, all common bays with brown bodies and black manes. Dom thought of the fine horse that died beneath him in Iona. It was like comparing a hawk to sparrows, but he did not complain. The horses would serve their purpose, and their destination was only a few days’ ride away.
Corayne smirked as they walked, leading the horses from the stables clustered against the western gate of Lemarta. Their shadows were short beneath them, the sun high in the sky.
“I don’t suppose I could convince you to work with me when this is all done?” she said.
There was laughter in her voice, but he could not fathom why.
“I do not follow,” he said, the words stilted.
She shrugged. “Merchants are easier to bargain with when they’re terrified, and you seem to terrify them.”
Dom felt strangely self-conscious. “I’m terrifying?” he blanched, glancing over himself.
Well, there’s the sword, and my daggers, and my knives, and the bow and my quiver, but that isn’t much, he thought, taking stock of his weaponry. He looked from his polished leather boots to his finely made breeches and tunic, and then his belt, his cloak, and the embossed bracers laced from his palms to elbows. Everything he wore bore the antlers, worked in muted colors, green and gray and golden brown, like the misty glens of Iona. His fine steel and mail, his master-woven silks and surcoats, lay forgotten at Tíarma. I look like a pauper, not a prince.
She looks even worse.
Corayne’s loose tunic frayed at the hem, there were stains no washing could remove on her breeches, and her boots cracked at the knee, wrinkled like a mortal’s aging skin. She had stuffed her dark blue cloak away, not needing it in the heat. She bore no weapons but an old dagger, and her eyes seemed oddly open, as if they could drink in every step forward. He knew she was young, barely more than a child, but she still seemed so small and weak alongside him. Most mortals did.
“Oh,” he offered. Again he glanced down, trying to comprehend himself through a mortal’s eyes. It felt impossible, like translating between two unknown languages. “That was not my intent.”
Those words are becoming uncomfortably familiar.
Corayne didn’t mind. “Well, keep it up. That scowl will serve us well on the road.”
“I do not scowl,” Dom said, scowling. He tested the corners of his mouth, pulling his lips into what he hoped was a less foreboding expression. “Do you expect trouble?”
The west road out of Lemarta wound further inland, with the cypress forest thickening up the hills. Dom could see clearly for miles over the cliffs and the Long Sea. Even the Tempestborn did not escape his gaze, a black speck with purple sails moving merrily into deeper water. If there was any danger ahead, he would sense it a long way off. But he had little concern this far south, in the sleepy lands of Siscaria. It had been long centuries since Old Cor had ruled these shores.