Hugh sensed more than saw that Iridal slept. The rain-soaked darkness was thick, blotted out the faint glow of the coralite below, making it seem as if ground and sky were one and the same. He shifted the reins to one hand, drew his cloak over the woman with the other, forming a tent to keep her warm and dry.
In his mind, he heard the same words, over and over and over.
You had only one thing that raised you above the level of common cutthroat, Hugh the Hand.
Honor… Honor… Honor…
“You spoke to him, Trian? You recognized him?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Stephen scratched his bearded chin. “Hugh the Hand lives and has been alive, all this time. She lied to us.”
“One can hardly blame her, sire,” said Trian.
“We were fools to believe her! A man with blue skin!