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.

“I don’t suppose bandits will bother you much,” Corayne admitted. She watched not the water but the road as it wove away from the cliffs, pale pink stones giving over to a packed earth track, rutted by cart and carriage wheels.

Dom could not imagine what fool of a bandit would try his blade, but then mortals weren’t terribly intelligent to begin with. “Because I am intimidating?”

She nodded, pleased. Her eyes were still black, even in the sun of high noon.

She has Cortael’s eyes.

“Even when you aren’t trying.”

“So why can I not simply intimidate a ship’s captain to deliver us to Ascal directly?” he mused, looking back at Lemarta. Fishing boats bobbed like jewels among the shoals. “Why bother riding to the Siscarian capital at all?”

Scoffing, Corayne eased her mare to a stop. “Because, frightening as you might be, my mother is more feared in these waters.” With a sigh, she hoisted herself up into the saddle. Mortals were graceless beings, but she was particularly clumsy in this.

She is not well accustomed to traveling on horseback, Dom realized, his gut twisting. It will make the journey all the slower.

“We’ll take our chances in Lecorra,” Corayne said, gathering the reins in one hand. “The capital port is ten times the size of this harbor.” She looked back over her shoulder, glaring at Lemarta. “And I’m not known there as I am here.”

Sarn’s voice was a hiss. “I prefer horses to boats anyway.”

“By the Spindles,” Corayne cursed, startling as Sorasa stalked out of the tree line.

Dom was not so affected. He knew Sarn was following them all the way from the city gate, where she’d split off to “avoid problems” with the soldiers guarding the city. It felt silly to him. The assassin scaled the walls and kept to the shadows where, Dom had to assume, no mortals could see her. To his eye, she stood out sharply among the leaves and tree trunks, as obvious as a second sun in the sky. At least she moved well in the woods, stepping lightly instead of crashing through the undergrowth with the usual mortal grace of a broken-legged cow. Her silence was her best quality. Perhaps her only good one.

“You needn’t come if it’s such an inconvenience,” Dom said, both sets of reins still clasped firmly in his hands. “I’ve found Lady Corayne. Our quest is our own. You’ll have payment when it is finished; on this I give my word.”

Beneath her hood, Sorasa curled her full lips.

That is a scowl, Dom thought.

“I learned long ago not to trust the promises of men. Even immortal ones,” she said. “I have an investment to protect, and I intend to see it through. The deal was to Ascal. I’ll give you no reason to go back on our bargain.”

Dom wanted no more deadweight to slow their progress, not to mention threat to their lives. Sorasa Sarn was worse than a mercenary, bought at the highest price, with no allegiance or care for Corayne or the Ward. It would be best to leave her behind. Better yet, to kill her where she stands. The realm would not mourn the loss of an assassin. And the day will come when it is my head or hers, if we are not dead already.

She stared back at him, her vibrant copper eyes pinning him in place. He held his ground and her gaze. He did not doubt she knew his mind.

“Very well,” Dom snapped, breaking first. He tossed the reins in her direction.

She caught them and swung into the saddle, at ease on horseback. She sneered at the stallion beneath her, looking over its flanks with the air of a butcher inspecting a bad cut of meat.

“You’ll lead, Sarn. I presume you know the way to Lecorra.” Dom hardly liked calling the Amhara assassin by anything other than what she was, but it felt rude to do so now.

To his surprise, she did not argue, and maneuvered her horse onto the road with a twitch of her heels. At least horsemanship is well taught in the Amhara Guild. Corayne fell in behind her, giving her mare a few tentative kicks to get her moving at a decent trot. With a sigh, Dom brought up the rear of their strange company, a mismatched trio the likes of which the Ward had never seen.

This is how all our troubles began. A line of horses on the road, a quest ahead, with Allward hanging in the balance. He shoved the grief away and leveled his eyes on the girl riding ahead of him. Her body swayed in time with the horse, finding a rhythm. From this angle he could not see her eyes, nor her father’s stern face. She was black-haired and small, as far from Cortael as a person could be. She will not share her father’s fate. That was a promise, to the Ward, to Glorian Lost, to Corayne—and to himself.