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“Do they bleed too?” “I don’t know either,” Andry muttered, wrenching his eyes from the blade. Sir Grandel clapped the squire on the shoulder. “Perhaps we’ll find out,” he said, stomping down the hill, his heavy armor clanging with each step. I certainly hope not, Andry thought
Me at war
“Don’t fret, Squire Trelland. I am not the kind to let buzzing flies bother me,” the southern knight replied, waving a nimble-fingered hand. “Not today, at least.” Andry fought the impolite urge to grin. “Are you calling Sir Grandel a fly?”
Across the clearing, Marigon lost a hand to an ax, and then her head.
Bleh
Corayne offered smiles like her coin: an item to trade. Like always, she felt a barrier between herself and the throng of people, as if she were watching them through glass.
“How fare the winds?” Corayne called, watching her mother rule over her galley kingdom. From the deck, Meliz beamed, her hair free about her shoulders, black as a storm cloud. The faint smile lines around her mouth were well earned. “Fine, for they bring me home,” she said, her voice like honey.
“At least my father was good enough to only abandon me once,” Corayne said coolly, her teeth bared. With a will, she stepped away from Meliz. “You’ve done it a thousand times.”
“Boys do stupid things to feel like men, no matter how old they are.”
“I’ve killed men for less,” she growled. “You’re welcome to try,” Dom said with disinterest, his focus elsewhere.
“Mortals are hot-blooded, quick to anger, quick to fight,” he said. “It has been your flaw these centuries past. Perhaps it will be your salvation too.” Corayne chewed the inside of her cheek. Elders anger too, if you are any measure, she thought hotly. She wanted nothing more than to scold him. You are a pot on a slow boil, angry since the moment I met you, trying to grieve with no idea how, seeking revenge without direction. You are a predator with nothing to hunt.
“I can’t imagine living for a thousand years and still being so stupid,” she said, tearing his tunic at the wound. “It’s almost an accomplishment.” “Five hundred,” Dom hissed through gritted teeth, as if it made any difference.
“If Valtik is going to rhyme, you can’t start talking in riddles, Sorasa,” she said, exasperated. “I refuse to save the realm under these conditions.”
The son of Old Cor, a rogue and a murderer, did not enjoy being ordered around by anyone. Men never do.
