“Olarune is full tonight,” Leoned remarked, looking up into the dark velvet sky to see the pale orange moon rising over the Hoarfrost Mountains. “Good omen.”
To the naked eye, Olarune—the moon known as the Sentinel—appeared to have a sort of fringe around its edges when full, which gave it the appearance of a round shield defending the heavens against attack. As such, the moon was considered auspicious by wielders of the Mark of Sentinel. As far as Sabira was concerned, it was only lucky if it gave you light by which to see your enemies.
She glanced over at her partner, studying him as he sat leaning up against the trellis, the brown and gold ivy leaves crackling with his every movement. The orange light gave his features a warm glow, like he’d just spent a pleasant evening in his lover’s bed. Or so she imagined; in the four years they’d been together, a bed was probably the only thing they hadn’t shared.
They’d grown close over the years, so much so that when they fought, they anticipated each other’s moves perfectly. If she feinted to draw an opponent in, he’d flank and attack. If she went low, he’d go high, and vice versa, all without speaking a word. They shared a synchronicity of purpose that made their partnership something greater than just the two of them working together. And it had only grown more intense here in the Holds, where they were outsiders in an insular and sometimes hostile society, with only each other to rely on and confide in.
Sabira gave him a coy look through her lashes. “The only omen I consider good is when the guy across from me re-raises after I’ve just flopped a fourth dragon.”
Leoned laughed.
“So young, and yet so cynical. You’re going to make a great Marshal when the time comes.”
Sabira was glad to see him smile; he’d done it seldom enough since this Nightshard business began. But it faded quickly, replaced by worry lines on his forehead that made the small scar over his left eyebrow stand out in sharp relief.
“Me? With my penchant for annoying the wrong clients, the only way they’ll give me a brooch is if I agree to get on a ship to Xen’drik and never come back. You, on the other hand—you’ve received more accolades than half the teachers at Rekkenmark. I’m surprised you haven’t made Marshal already.”
He laughed again at that, the left corner of his mouth twitching upward.
“They tell me my partner is holding me back.”
Sabira punched him in the arm, hard enough she knew it would bruise.
“Very funny.” Though she wouldn’t be surprised if he had been told that. She knew her aggressive style was an acquired taste—one her superiors had not yet developed a predilection for, though Leoned seemed to like it just fine. And that was all that really mattered to her.
Leoned took a deep breath and turned to look at her.
“Saba, I’m never going to be a Marshal.”
“What?” she asked, perplexed. Saying Leoned wouldn’t become a Sentinel Marshal was like saying that dwarves would give up mining come daybreak: You could utter the words, but no one in their right mind would believe them. “Why? Because your mother gave up the Deneith name? No one cares about that, Ned. As far as the House is concerned, you’re still one of ours.”
“No. Nothing like that.” He leaned forward and took her hands in his. “Saba, I’m quitting the Guild. When this mission is over, I’m going back to Vulyar to marry Rhania. Her father is going to give me a job overseeing security for his breweries.”
Another of his jokes. She played along.
“You’re never going to make it into a Dorn song that way.”
His laugh this time was short, almost bitter.
“Maybe not, but at least I’ll be happy.”
Sabira’s smile faded.
“You’re serious?”
He looked up into her eyes earnestly, his tone almost pleading. “It’s not so different from what I do now, except I’ll be guarding kegs of Nightwood Ale instead of people. Hopefully, they won’t argue as much, and it’ll definitely pay better.”
It was a weak attempt at humor, but neither of them was laughing now.
“You’re leaving the Defender’s Guild?” Sabira repeated, hearing the words but certain she must be misunderstanding them. “Leaving … me?”
“Oh, Saba, don’t think of it like that. I know we’ve been partners for a long time, but you’ll get another soon enough. Maybe even Elix—you know he worships you.”
Sabira shook her head.
“No, Ned. He worships you. He envies me—because I get to be with you.” But Elix wouldn’t be jealous of her for much longer, because Leoned wouldn’t be with her anymore. He’d be with Rhania, that simpering blonde with eyes like a bug, so thin she made saplings look plump. What could she possibly offer Leoned that he couldn’t get from Sabira? The woman couldn’t even lift a sword, for Dol Dorn’s sake!
She pulled her hands away from his, feeling her anger start to build. Wanting it to, so it would drown out the grief.
“So, that’s it? I have no say in this?”
“Saba,” Leoned said, his expression hardening. “I don’t need your permission. You’re my partner, not my wife. I—”
“Yes, I’m your partner,” Sabira answered fiercely. “The same partner who took a barbed bolt to the gut for you down in Irontown, and nearly drowned trying to fish you out of Lake Dark. The same partner who took the blame for you when you let that jewel thief trick you into letting her go. The same partner who’s been there for you in ways no wife ever could be—or would be willing to be—for four long years. Four years, Ned. I thought that meant something to you. I thought I meant something to you.”
“Saba, I—”
“Apparently, I was wrong.” She jumped up from the bench. “I’m going to go patrol the grounds.”
She turned away from him and began to jog down the long path to the river, afraid that he might call her back—and even more afraid that she would go back to him if he did. But Leoned said nothing, and the only sounds that broke the silence of the late autumn night were the distant bleating of sheep, the crunch of her footsteps on gravel, and what might have been a long, regretful sigh but was probably just the wind.
A breeze as cold as the lump in her throat greeted her as she reached the banks of the Mirror River. That wasn’t its actual name, of course—the only watercourse in the Mror Holds, and one that cut the dwarven homeland almost in half, to them it was just The River. But as trade expanded and the dwarves began allowing other races into the Holds, that appellation would not suffice, and so they’d taken to calling it the Mirror, after the lake of the same name that filled the valley between the Ironroots and the Hoarfrost Mountains.
Sheep huddled together in small bunches, dotting the thinning grass like misshapen boulders. One of them caught Sabira’s eye as she was about to step out onto the small dock and check the skiff tied there.
The sheep was limping through the grass toward her, bleating softly. As it neared, she saw deep claw marks scored across its flank, the blood on its wool black and still glistening in the moonlight.
Sabira was on her guard instantly. She drew her bastard sword and scanned the area for predators.