The others, he wondered, trying to move his head, but a stern hand kept him steady.

He clung to life as long as he could, until there was only the sound of hoofbeats. The bells and horns faded, and the darkness swallowed him up.

Light danced over his eyelids in rhythm: shadow and sun, shadow and sun. It moved in time with a creak of old wood, the flap of canvas. Or was it wings? Baleir has wings. The god of courage is with me, I am in his grasp, and he will take me home to Glorian, where only the dead can journey now.

Indeed, someone was holding him, the press of fingers firm against his rib cage and chest. And he could hear heartbeats. Do gods have beating hearts?

Pain lanced along his ribs and he hissed, drawing a breath through already-clenched teeth. His eyelids fluttered. The light was blinding, but golden and warm. Something broke the sun, passing in front of it in steady motion. He squinted, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Certainly the realm of the gods is beyond my comprehension.

There was a wall, a roof over him, wood beneath, a creaking wheel outside a window, and the gurgle of a stream below it. Mice skittered somewhere, and cobwebs ruled the corners.

He groaned as a familiar sensation returned, hot and sharp.

“I did not know one could still feel pain after death,” he forced out.

The heartbeats flared and he felt another jab. It lessened this time, more sting than stab.

“Just keep still, Dom. She’s almost finished.”

The voice was weary—annoyed, even. It was not the voice of a god.

Ignoring the advice, he tried to move and nearly succeeded, but for the two pairs of hands holding him down.

“Corayne?” he whispered, hunting for a glimpse of her. He caught pieces. Black hair edged in red light, her hands bare and too small, her knuckles scabbed. She still smelled like the river. And blood. The whole room smelled like blood, overpowering with the sour bite of iron.

“Yes, it’s me,” she huffed. “It’s all of us. It’s only us.”

The world came back into sharper focus. “Where are we?” He looked again to the window full of sunlight, and the churning water wheel feeding the mill. “I thought I was dead.”

“If only,” said Sarn’s poisonous voice.

The sting returned, piercing the skin. A gliding sensation followed, sharp and pulling. With a jolt, Dom realized she was stitching him up, weaving his torn flesh back together. He couldn’t see her at all, only feel her deliberate, careful fingers as they worked.

“I’ve never seen anyone lose so much blood and survive,” she said dryly.

Dom tried to sneer at her, but only shifted a little on the rough table. The wood creaked beneath him, groaning against his weight. He realized his shirt was gone entirely, even tatters torn away.

“Where’s Andry?” he said suddenly, craning his head. Again, Corayne and Sarn held him down.

“The squire saw the truth of Corayne’s words, and good that he did. They were closing the port when we escaped,” Sarn said. “He followed us out of the city.”

“I remember . . . some of that. But where is he now?” Dom answered, frustrated. “I can’t hear his heartbeat.”

Corayne came around the table, one hand braced against his upper arm. She wasn’t terribly strong. “You can hear heartbeats?” she said, sounding impressed. “Since when?”

“Ah, birth?” Dom answered tentatively. He looked over the room again, mostly at the thick layers of dust coating every surface.

Sarn worked another suture. “We’re on an abandoned farm, some miles west of Ascal. Trelland is plundering the house while we huddle in this broken-down mill. Or at least that’s what he’s pretending to do while he frets over his mother.” Her disdain was bitterly clear.

This time, Dom didn’t let Corayne hold him back. He rose up on his elbows, turning to put himself face-to-face with the assassin. Her cowl was gone, hanging loose around her neck, showing her full lips pressed together so tightly they almost disappeared. Like Corayne, she had dark circles beneath her eyes, and the black powder lining her lids was smeared away. Neither had slept, and mortals were so very dependent on sleep. Even so, the rage in his chest, born of grief and failure, rose up like embers being stoked to flame. How dare she judge the boy so? He bared his teeth, fists clenching. She didn’t flinch or move her hands from his side. Her needle pulled insistently.

“You are truly without a heart, Amhara,” he growled.

She stuck him again. “Thank you.”

Dom scowled. “We’re too close to the city.” The mill suddenly felt stifling, as if it might collapse on them at any moment. “We should still be on the move.”

Sarn took the accusation in stride, to his chagrin. “We were a bit limited in how far we could go, thanks to someone’s attempt at field surgery.”

He tried to knock away her hands, reaching for the needle. “I can do this myself, you know,” he snapped. Now that he could see the wound in the daylight, he realized how serious it was. And, he noted begrudgingly, how well the assassin could stitch.

“Somehow I have a hard time believing that,” she replied, intolerant.

“Somehow I thought I escaped this nonsense bickering,” Corayne finally butted in, pressing her hands to Dom’s shoulders. He fell flat with a huff. “I’ve got the Queen, her army, and my damned uncle to worry about. Let’s not add to the list, shall we?”

Dom felt oddly scolded, his cheeks going warm. “I’m not paying you another coin, Sarn. Not a penny,” he said, trying another tactic. Without payment, certainly the Amhara will disappear. “You are free to go and do as you like.”

“Well, I’d like to survive the next few years, in a realm that isn’t claimed and conquered by a hellscape,” Sarn answered smoothly, killing his hopes. “I suppose the best way to do that is to stay with the girl, since you aren’t much use.”

“And a single assassin is?” Dom spat. She tugged the needle again, harsher than she needed to be. He let her; his body was already healing. The flare of pain faded with every second, and he felt rather smug about it.

Until she lowered her face, her mouth inches from his ribs. He could feel her breath on his skin, ghosting along the ridge of the closed wound. Dom nearly sprang off the table as she bit through the thread, tying off the last of his stitches. Her face was still, impassive, but smirking victory danced in her eyes.

Behind him, Corayne failed to smother a laugh. “I’ll take who I can get,” she said, patting Dom on the shoulder, “to accomplish what we need to do next.”

Her eyes trailed, fixing on the corner. Dom sat up and followed her gaze to see the Spindleblade, propped up and half hidden. A beam of sunlight spilled before it, swirling with motes of dust. Inside the mill, the Spindleblade seemed unremarkable, not even a relic. The jewels of the hilt were dull, the steel dim. Dom remembered it in the vaults of Iona, surrounded by a hundred candles, the reflections dancing. It had sat there for centuries, free from the ravages of time. He remembered it in Cortael’s hand, when it was time for him to take the Spindleblade as his own. There was no magic in the steel beyond its tie to the Spindles, but it seemed to bewitch him. The sword was a relic of a world dead, a people all but lost. It spoke to him in ways even Dom could not fathom. He wondered if the blade spoke to Cortael’s daughter in the same way. He could not know. She was more difficult for him to read, her eyes always darting, her mind working in furious motion. She changed paths too quickly for him to follow.