“You must wonder why we’re here.”
You’re not here because of a dead orc, he thought. And no chance two squads and an escort are stationed this close to the Edge. But he said nothing. Listened to the ring of rain on steel behind him.
“You don’t have questions?” she asked.
He stared through the water dripping off his hood in big, congealed drops. Still have my bow. Why? The half-born furrowed her brow and gave a small shake of her head. Suit yourself, she was saying. She squared up to him and folded her arms. She was unmistakably dwarf. Standing beside a host of elves, her thick features stood out. Nose slightly bulbous, square jaw, long chin. A face that would get a first look, but not a second. But a face that told a story.
She hadn’t reached middle age yet. For a mixed offspring of two gods-born species, that might mean ninety years. A century, perhaps. The lines at the corners of her mouth echoed a frequent frown. The smooth skin at the corners of her eyes confirmed an elf lack of humor. She had coarse dwarf hair, but the color was caught somewhere between the sun-touched gold of the elves and the raven strands of the dwarves. It looked dirty and bristled, though it was meticulously groomed and tied with cords in the elf style. Despite her best efforts, she looked unkempt. Disheveled. But her eyes were dwarf eyes and striking. Sparkling like cut emeralds. She sighed and left her elf companion to stand beside Sorrows. Looked past him to the elves and shook her head. I’ll be fine, she was saying.
She placed a hand on his arm, applied gentle pressure.
“Walk,” she said. A command, but a softly issued one. Sorrows complied, and the two fell in step behind the elf companion and two others.
She was tall and thin for a dwarf, short and thick for an elf. Her shoulders were broad beneath her cloak, and her jerkin had been let out at the top to accommodate decidedly dwarf curves. Her skirt swished as she walked. A pleasant side to side sway striking a balance between elf grace and dwarf muscularity. Sorrows pictured her legs, toned, pale. Calves like apples, taut and round. Covered in coarse hair.
“You’re worse than Ajenna,” she said.
She drummed her fingers on the hilt of her sword. Steel rang cold like her voice.
“Who?” Sorrows asked.
“The elf who was eying you in the waypoint.”
Sorrows shrugged, looked forward. “You flash steel, interrupt a wash, tell me to walk, I’m free to take the measure of you, don’t you agree?”
“You like what you see?”
“What?”
“You like looking at half-born women?”
“Shade better than orcs, if we’re being honest.”
Her fingers stopped drumming. Wrapped around the hilt. Knuckles white. Steel rasped as it slid a short inch from its scabbard.
“I’m not joking, orchole. I know your type.”
“What type would that be? Human? I doubt it. We’ve never met before and you’re too young to remember anyone else.”
“Predator.”
He turned to look at her.
“Predator?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I truly don’t.”
“Like you’re wondering what’s under the cloak and skirt. Like you want to see more. You’re vile.”
Her tone had grown sharp while simultaneously falling to a whisper. He studied the thick line of her brow, the easy frown that creased the skin around her mouth, the long chin, the heavy jaw.
“You think I want under your cloak?”
“Don’t you?”
He shook his head, faced forward again.
“I’d rather press lips with a Seph.”
✽✽✽
THEY WALKED IN stony, soaked silence for the remainder of that day. Made camp that evening with unbridled animosity. Broke camp the next morning with thinly veiled loathing. Late in the second day, the half-born left him, and her elf companion took her place, walking in stoic arrogance beside Sorrows.
“Don’t the gods-born have some code of honor for how they treat mortals?” Sorrows asked. “Or are elves above such concepts as basic human decency?”
The elf stared ahead. “You have food. You have water. What more do you need?”
“How about some explanation?” Sorrows said.
“You’ll learn more once we arrive.”
“Arrive where?”
“You’ll know when we get there.”
The elf didn’t answer any more questions that day or the next. And all the while, steel flashed in the sunlight, sang in the rain, and hovered like a ghost behind Sorrows, unseen but felt.
Chapter 4
THEY FILED THROUGH twin oak doors thrown open despite the storm raging outside. Three days on foot, heading south, two bridges crossed, elf pace, with the last day spent running ahead of wind and downpour. Had Sorrows been blindfolded, he’d still have known their destination. But he wasn’t blindfolded, and he had watched Godscry rise before them from the haze and mist, encircled by stone and iron. He had watched the pale, gray city pass by as they ran through cobblestone streets turned empty by the weather. He had cursed inwardly as they turned to Godscry Tower, slipped through its gates, climbed its steps. Cursed outwardly as they opened its doors, raced inside.
The half-born strode forward, shaking rain from her cloak. She studied the room, eyes sliding from pillar to pillar as she turned a full circle. She approached an elf, whispered something to him, walked away as he blushed and straightened his cloak. She was meticulous, detailed, cautious. She waved at Sorrows and pointed toward a door off in one corner. Honey-colored, tight-grained, black iron handle. An elf on either side. Gray cloaks, black jerkins, gray skirts, black boots. Mage Guard. Their eyes tracked the approach of the half-born and the elf from the tavern. They straightened in deference. But their mouths turned down at the corners when the half-born drew near. A small thing. Hardly noticeable. But an elf thing. And Sorrows caught it. Probably the half-born caught it as well. It meant the two guards weren’t accustomed to seeing the half-born, else they’d better hide their
