“She looks like me,” Taristan said sharply. He watched as Corayne disappeared from the hall, following the Queen and her knights through a side door. “Like my brother.”
At least Dom is with her, Sorasa thought again, her teeth clenching together. Six knights against an Elder. Good odds. He’s survived worse. Her heartbeat raced. Unless he doesn’t. And then it’s just the squire, a boy. She’s as good as dead.
And the Ward as good as destroyed.
Frustration ate at her fear, warring for dominance. This was not in the contract, she snarled to herself, wishing she could scream. Wishing she could flee. But where? Not home, not even to the citadel. What Waits will devour them both, with Taristan at his side, fists to his fangs.
“I must say, I’m still shocked she agreed to this.”
Taristan’s voice grew closer, his steps quiet, but thunderous to Sorasa’s ears. He tapped the hilt of his sword, clinking a single ring against the metal like a small, hateful bell.
She sank, bending her knees, shifting her weight to the balls of her feet. I can sprint for the stairs, vault over the gallery, break my fall on a nobleman’s head. Her options spun.
The Spindlerotten traitor and his pet wizard closed the distance at a steady, almost lazy pace. “Ambition is in her blood,” Ronin answered serenely.
His voice took on an odd quality: another layer of sound, as if someone else spoke with him, forming a deeper harmony. It echoed, even when the wizard fell silent.
“It’s good we reached her first, before the other could.”
“A choice we did not need to make,” Taristan scoffed. “I see no witch with my niece.”
The wizard’s robes hissed over the carpet like a snake. The double voice was gone, leaving only his own. “Even so, we have a strong ally in the Queen of Galland. Corayne of Old Cor will be dead soon, and of no consequence any longer.”
Sorasa took her chance, peering around her column with one narrowed eye. The pair stood at another stairwell, the steps leading down into the great hall. Taristan looked back at the chandeliers, light splaying across his hard features. She does look like him.
“If she has my brother’s blade, we need only take it and lock her away,” Taristan said, again tapping his sword. The sheath was silver-and-black leather, the steel hidden while jewels flared at the hilt, red as ticks swollen with blood.
Ronin shrugged. “To die when What Waits comes and sets this world to ash beneath your feet?” he said, guiding Taristan through the arch. “Trust me, my friend, dying now is a mercy to her. As for the Elder, let him live, let him watch . . .”
Their cruel laughter echoed with every step down the curling stairwell.
Run run run run.
Sorasa allowed herself five more seconds of fear and indecision. Five only.
Her breath hissed through her nose, coming out hard between her teeth. One. Taristan was the Queen’s chosen. Two. Her army would protect his Spindle, the passage spewing a sea of corpses. Three. No kingdom could stand against Taristan and Erida, not alone. Four. Sorasa Sarn was no one. There was nothing she could do about the great dealings of the world. Five.
She stood and moved quickly, a cat among the columns, before dropping to her knees at the end of the gallery. Below was the high table. Across was the doorway, set ajar, leading off to wherever the Queen and Corayne had gone.
There is something I can do.
The gown tore again as she cut a square from the wine-colored cloth. She’d exhausted her common powders back in Byllskos, but the black remained, tucked at her belt in its triple-wrapped packet, a square smaller than her palm. With careful hands, she tore it open, sprinkling small, dark grains onto the center of torn fabric. The writing on the packet was nearly worn away, the language of Isheida barely recognizable. Worth five times its weight in gold.
She made a pouch, tying the corners together tightly, but careful to leave one length of cloth free. She hoped it was long enough. She hoped it was short enough.
Below, she watched two knights emerge ahead of Corayne and the Queen, and then Dom and the lanky squire, flanked by the remaining four knights. Sorasa looked at Dom first, searching his face for any sign of worry, any indication he knew what was coming.
She nearly cursed aloud. Of course he doesn’t.
“I know my betrothal has been long in the making, perhaps too long for some of you,” Queen Erida said below, and her court laughed like hyenas.
There were no candles within reach, not even the chandeliers, so Sorasa made do with a corner of flint and the steel of her dagger, striking them together to produce a spray of sparks.