“All right,” Corayne said, spinning on her heel. By the time she mounted her own horse, the saddlebags full to bursting, her golden cheeks were moon pale.

Pale with fear or with frustration, Dom had no idea. Mortals are impossible to fathom, especially Sorasa Sarn.

He urged his mount alongside Sorasa’s as they trekked from the old cemetery. She didn’t acknowledge him at first, focused on checking her saddlebags too many times. He saw her whip, a great many flashes of steel and bronze, alongside small packets he vaguely recognized. A few were blue, some green, one of them a tiny square of black covered in Ishei writing. Clearly she had stocked up on supplies of her own.

By the time they reached the Adira gate, she huffed a sigh.

“Just say what you’re going to say, Elder.”

It felt like victory. A corner of Dom’s mouth curled into a smirk. He leveled his eyes on Charlon, swaying on his mule a few yards ahead, planted firmly between Andry and Valtik. He didn’t favor either for company.

Dom pointed his chin at the forger. “You’re using that young man as bait.”

It was meant to be an insult. Sarn took it as anything but.

“Catching on, are you?” she said, spurring her horse down to the marsh.

Larsia was a sea of tall yellow grass and gentle hills, the dirt too poor for much planting. As night fell, Dom’s eyes perceived the empty, sloping lands, without forest or farm, all but barren. The emptiness rankled. A pang of longing shot through him. He had never been so far west, the travels of his long life having taken him only to the Gallish border. His days were not well spent under harsher suns in distant lands, away from home. He ached for woods, for glens, for rivers swollen by rain and snowmelt. A stag beneath the boughs of a yew tree, its antlers indistinguishable from branches. The old gray stone of Tíarma, the proud ridge thrust out of the fog, her windows like glowing eyes. The Monarch in her silver gown, waving from the gate. Ridha, smiling in the stable yard, her armor cast away, her sword forgotten and unneeded.

Will I ever see them again?

The stars above gave no answer, veiled by cloud and doubt.

The Cor road was still too dangerous. They rode a dirt track instead, a path older than the empire, rutted by centuries of cart traffic. Every step took them farther from Ascal and the lands of the Queen. Even so, Dom felt Taristan breathing down his neck again, his voice hateful and gloating.

Shall I kill her in front of you too?

The leather of the reins cracked between Dom’s hands, threatening to tear. He wanted to do it, to feel something break that wasn’t his own heart.

The sun rose and the sun set and still they moved on, shadow-eyed and tired. The others dozed off and on, heads lolling with the rhythm of the horses. All but Corayne. Even as the hours passed, the dawn sliding into day, she did not sleep, her pulse disquieted. The sword was a gargoyle on her back, misshapen under the cloak. It made her slump.

Dom wanted to take it from her, to ease her burden. And claim what little of her father remained on the Ward.

It’s not for you to wield, he scolded himself sharply. He wished for Corayne’s questions or Andry’s gentle platitudes. Sarn’s hissing retorts, sharp and quick as the whip coiled on her saddle. Even Valtik’s rhymes, annoying as they were, would be better than his own thoughts.

There were no settlements but Adira this close to the border, all having been either razed or abandoned in the many skirmishing centuries. Dom couldn’t even spot a village or castle on the horizon. It wasn’t until afternoon, when the sun dipped toward the distant ridge of the Ward Mountains, that he saw a smudge far off, trailing smoke. A tavern or an inn, Dom knew as it came into sharper focus, the thatched roof and stonework chimney stark against the sky. It was shaped like a horseshoe, at the intersection of two tracks. A crossroads.

A mile off, the sour scent of beer wrinkled his nose. I do not think I will enjoy this, he thought as they approached, the sun sinking behind the mountains.

When Sarn ushered them through the tavern door, he knew he wasn’t wrong.

The interior stood in stark contrast to the empty road and empty landscape outside. All manner of folk gathered within the boisterous common room: travelers and merchants, priests and wanderers, crossing paths as the tracks crossed outside. Judging by the full stable, it was a busy evening, and the barkeep didn’t break stride when they entered, barely glancing over their strange party.

In this part of the world, where the east and west began to collide, it was difficult to seem out of place, even for them. An immortal Veder, a Jydi witch, a copper-eyed assassin, a royal squire, a criminal fugitive, and the pirate’s daughter, the Ward’s hope. What a mess we are, Dom thought as Sarn claimed a corner of the room.

Her glare and Dom’s bulk were enough to send a few patrons scuttling for alternate seats, leaving them a nook of space to cram into. Far too tight for Dom’s liking, so he leaned against the wall instead, feeling like a statue, wishing he could be one.

Corayne dropped her hood as she sat, planting herself in the narrow corner between the table and the wall. She braced her back, taking some of the blade’s weight off her shoulders.

Dom expected Andry to slide in next to her, if his stolen glances were any indication. Instead the squire sidled up to him instead, his expression gentle but shadowed with exhaustion.

“How are the ribs?” he said, glancing at Dom’s side.

The flesh had healed over and caused him no more pain. But he could still feel the knife between his ribs, tearing as it went in and tearing as it went out.

“Better” was all Dom could say.

Andry didn’t push and offered a tight-lipped smile. “You’ll have a hell of a scar.”

“The Vedera don’t scar,” Dom said quickly, without thought. Then he remembered his face, the long, jagged lines he would never be rid of. Weapons and monsters of the Spindles did not cut Vederan flesh in the way he knew. “Not usually.”

At least I’m not alone in these, he thought, remembering Taristan’s face again. The lines down his cheek, torn by Jydi magic and Corayne’s own hand. He has scars to match me now.

It wasn’t like Squire Trelland to fidget. But his fingers twitched and his eyes darted, not to their table or even to the bar, where any young man might wish to stray. Instead he eyed the stairway, bending up and around to the bedrooms upstairs.

“If you’d like to retire, no one will stop you,” Dom said softly, looking down at the boy.

As in Ascal, Andry was torn between duty and desire. The squire will march and fight and carry on until he drops. Until someone gives him permission to stand back, and be a little less strong.

Dom felt a burning in his chest when he remembered Cortael at his age, and his same dogged, sometimes misguided resolve.

“You’re no use to anyone half-asleep, Trelland,” he said, putting a hand on the squire’s shoulder. “I’ll be sure to wake you if any trouble arises.”

A wash of relief fell over Andry and he sagged, the last few days pulling on his shoulders. He gave Dom a grateful nod, and with only a single glance back to their table, fled the common room. Though the squire was mortal, he had a grace to him that most did not, even with lanky limbs and overlong strides. He dodged tables and took the stairs two at a time, disappearing to the next floor with his pack and cloak.