Then she gnashed her teeth, stepping into Sorasa’s way. The assassin stared, the child melting away before her eyes.

“The Spindleblade, Sorasa,” Corayne said, her eyes black as jet.

“I know,” she hissed, making quick work of Valtik’s lock.

“Do you think Charlie is still waiting?” Corayne followed close on her heels. Desperation rolled off her in waves.

“I really can’t say,” Sorasa forced out, prying open the final cell. Dom glowered at her from the wall, awkwardly splayed within his chains. The assassin approached him with her picks bared, raised like daggers. “Try not to bite, Elder.”

“Why would I?” he snarled back. “Your blood is probably poison.”

His first wrist came free, then the second. The neck was more difficult: she had to push his hair away to find the padlock holding the chains in place.

She chuckled to herself, unlocking his feet. “Only a little,” she said as he fell to the floor, a heap of sore muscles.

Corayne was right: there was no time to waste. But Sorasa found herself wishing they were deeper in the cells of Taltora, if only to buy a few more seconds to think. They were running into oblivion, with no plan and no hope of finding the light on the other side. It was well into the night by now, but that would mean little until they made it outside. Past the guardrooms, the garrison, the citadel itself . . .

Her mind spun, hunting for opportunity.

For the first time in her life, Sorasa Sarn found none.

The door loomed, cedar planks banded with iron, its hinges fat and heavy. She imagined it splintering under Dom’s weight, opening onto a room full of soldiers armed to the teeth.

Our only hope is surprise. Get a sword, get a dagger, get any weapon we can. Fight until numbers are back on our side. Let Dom do the heavy lifting. I could manage the rest.

And above all else, she knew, keep Corayne an-Amarat alive.

Dom stared at the door, his face pulled in concentration. Sorasa knew he was listening, trying to figure out exactly who and how many were on the other side.

“I’ll take down whoever I can,” he murmured, staring around at them. Even Valtik stood in front of Corayne, with Andry shifting to protect them both, his long arms stretched out.

The squire met the Elder’s eye, exchanging stern nods.

“With me,” the boy said, resolute.

“With me,” Domacridhan of Iona echoed, taking as many steps back from the door as he dared. Two, three, ten. Until long yards stretched between himself and the wood.

He lunged, a blur, sprinting so quickly Sorasa felt the air stir around her. She braced, willing him through the door, telling herself to follow, as close as lightning to thunder.

The door gave beneath his shoulder, cracking on its hinges, falling flat like a drawbridge. He kept his balance, staying on his feet to pound through, nearly colliding with an oak table. Instead he leapt over it, spinning, lithe as a deer in the forest.

Sorasa burst into the room, clamping down on the fear rattling between her teeth. She waited for the sting of swords, the cut of daggers, the bashing blow of a shield or fist.

Nothing came.

Sigil sat in a chair, her overlarge boots resting on the table, legs crossed at the ankles. She had a chicken leg in one hand, a smear of grease over her lips. A forelock of dark hair fell over one eye. She looked from the Elder to Sorasa, a smile in her eyes as she sucked meat off the bone.

“Two hours to get out of a cell,” she chuckled. “Sarn, I think you’re losing your touch.”

Their weapons fanned over the tabletop, the Spindleblade safe in its sheath. Sorasa’s blood soared, singing with adrenaline. Her mask of indifference slipped, showing a true smile.

“Sleeping draft?” she said, angling her head at the ceiling.

“You’re not the only one who knows her way around poison and powder,” she answered. “These soldiers certainly can drink. The entire garrison went down like a baby.”

“Good you came to your senses, Bounty Hunter. To betray us is to betray the realm, and your own survival.” Dom glowered, snatching his weapons from the table.

Sigil basked in his judgment. “I didn’t betray you, Elder. Or, at least, I didn’t betray you for long,” she added.

“And what did you learn from two hours with the citadel garrison?” Corayne asked, returning the Spindleblade to her back. She breathed a sigh of relief as it slid home, her shoulders dropping. “That was your aim, right?”

“Smart girl,” she answered. “The Gallish soldiers had a chatty captain, not to mention stupid. He was happy to trade news—I think he wanted to share in my earnings, or my bed. I had no interest in either, of course.” Sigil fiddled with the edge of her ax. “But he did say they aren’t the only Gallish troops in Ibal. Two hundred soldiers arrived a week ago, sailing right into Almasad.”

Andry balked. “The Queen can’t send that many soldiers into a foreign kingdom, not without a declaration of war.”

“I doubt she minds,” Corayne muttered. “Did he tell you where they were going?”

Sigil raised her chin, catching Sorasa’s eye. After so many years, they shared an understanding, a familiarity. The assassin saw reluctance in the bounty hunter, perhaps even fear.

“An oasis on the Aljer coast,” she said. “Called Nezri.”

Sorasa felt that fear too, and let it be her guide.

Mirrors on the sand.

It had been years since the daughter of Ibal had ridden its deserts, a sand mare beneath her, flying over the dunes she was born to. There was nothing quite like it. Not standing at the prow of a ship, nor the bed of a chariot. Not even leaning into the wind at the edge of a cliff, the entire realm splayed out like a blanket of green and blue, all the world in your teeth. In the heart of Sorasa Sarn, there was no thrill to match a desert at night, moving swiftly below clearest stars, the cold, clean wind in her hair, the only sound her heartbeat and the shifting of ancient sand.

She lay back in the saddle, thighs clenched tight to keep her seat as her spine hit leather, her eyes on the heavens. The oil-black sand mare shuddered beneath her, galloping in perfect, steady rhythm. With the breeze on her face and the stars above, Sorasa cleared her mind, emptying her head of Spindles and Elders, Corblood girls and enchanted blades. It was a Guild tactic, to seek clarity through peace.

Sorasa had never been much good at it.

She sat up again, the reins back in hand and her boots in the stirrups. The mare surged beneath her, eager to run. The other mounts responded in kind, the horses’ hooves like meteors across the sand.