Chapters (39)
- Title Page
- Copyright Notice
- PROLOGUE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- TOR BOOKS BY JACQUELINE CAREY
- PRAISE FOR JACQUELINE CAREY
- GODSLAYER
- Copyright Page
Blaise frowned at her, uncomprehending. “We are neither cruel nor unreasonable, Lilias of Beshtanag. If you give us a chance, you may come to see it. If that is not your will … You know full well, lady, that you may have your freedom—to do whatever you wish with your life, including end it—for one simple price. Tell us how the powers of the Soumanie may be wielded. Give us the dragon’s lore.”
Lilias shook her head, aware of the solid wall behind her. Her home, her fortress. Her prison, now. Still, it stood, a testament to what she had achieved. A monument to Calandor’s death. The irony in what had passed seemed no longer bitter, but fitting. “No, Borderguardsman. Whatever else you may accuse me of, that is one trust I will never betray, and one death I will never forgive.”
He sighed. “Then you remain with us.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-EIGHT
“RIGHT HERE, LADS.” VORAX TAPPED the map with one thick forefinger. “In the Northern Harrow. There’s a node-point in the middle of the range; or was, at any rate. That’s where Lord Satoris suspects they landed, based on their trajectory through the Ways.”
He glanced up to make sure they were following. Osric and the other Staccians were no worry, but one was never certain with Fjeltroll. A few of them had a look of cheerful incomprehension, or at least one he’d come to recognize as such. For someone unacquainted with their features, it was hard to tell. Still, the one Hyrgolf had recommended to lead their contingent-Skragdal, the young Tungskulder—seemed alert and attentive.
“Now, these are desert folk,” Vorax continued. “And bear in mind, they’ve never been out of their desert before; or at least not that we know of. So they’re likely to stick with what they know, which is lowlands. See here, where the Harrow dips.” He traced a line on the map. “If they’re coming for us, and we have every reason to think they are, they’re like to take the valleys, follow the riverbeds.”
“Lord Vorax.” Osric, bending over the map, met his eyes. The Staccian lieutenant was a man of middle years, solid and reliable. Not the best or boldest of his lads—that had been Carfax, entrusted to lead the decoys—but sensible, a man one could trust. “What if they’re not coming for us?”.
“Well, then we’ve nothing to worry about, have we?” Vorax grinned through his beard, clapping Osric’s shoulder. “Let’s say they are, lad. If we’re wrong, you retrace your steps. Pick up their trail at the node-point, or what’s left of it, and follow them south. Do you see?”
Osric nodded. “Aye, my lord.”