29

You should not treat your condition so lightly, Tighearna,” admonished Rowena as she sat beside Mordha in his tent and carefully examined the gashes Sonya had left on his torso. As expected, the wounds had not closed or changed in any way since they had been inflicted.

“I cannot treat my condition lightly,” Mordha said quietly. “For the pain is endless. These small marks left by the beast witch, however…” He shrugged. “They are nothing.”

Rowena sighed. For such a brilliant man, he could be infuriatingly dense at times. “In and of themselves, yes. But if you are always so reckless, you will soon be riddled with holes. How well do you think you’ll be able to fight then? To move about, even?”

“I do not plan to indulge others as I did that beast witch. She is a special circumstance.”

“How so?”

“When we fought, I saw it in her eyes. Doubt.”

“Of course. She was afraid of you, mighty Tighearna. For all her bold talk, she feared she could not win.”

He shook his head. “It was not that. It was something… deeper. Something fundamental within that beast witch has shifted from when we first met her. I don’t know the cause, but I can tell she questions now. And in time she might seek real answers.”

There was no one else in the tent, but one never knew who might be lurking outside, so Rowena leaned in and asked quietly, “You think she might abandon the gods and join our cause?”

“I believe there is a chance, at least. And that was reason enough to spare her.”

Rowena had a hard time imagining Sonya betraying her “Lady,” but then, she’d never really understood Sonya.

“Regardless, it would have broken Jorge’s heart to lose her completely, so I suppose I should thank you for that small mercy.”

Mordha turned to her, his scarred expression as unreadable as always. “I pressed that friendship upon you, but it seems to have taken on a life of its own.”

She nodded. She would not have betrayed Mordha for Jorge, of course. But she had been pleased to discover she was capable of genuine respect and affection for someone outside of her own people.

Lorecchio poked his head in through the tent flap. He looked uncharacteristically flustered. “Do you have a moment, Tighearna?”

“For you, Lorecchio? Of course.”

“Not for me, actually,” said Lorecchio. “For this man.”

Lorecchio stepped back to reveal an Izmorozian man nearly as large as Mordha with bright red hair. He was dressed in typical Izmorozian peasant garb, and his expression had an oddly placid, almost indifferent expression. But despite those qualities, he held himself with the easy confidence of a soldier seasoned by combat.

“Greetings, Tighearna Mordha,” the man said in the imperial tongue. He spoke in a monotone that suggested it was a message he had memorized. “My name is Sasha Rykov, and I bring an offer of alliance from my master.”

“And who is your master?” asked Mordha.

“One who is well positioned within the high palace of Magna Alto,” said Rykov. “One who would see the empire fall.”

Mordha’s scarred face crinkled into a smile. “Sit and drink with me. We will discuss this potential alliance.”