The sun rested on the eastern hill—a lone orange eye tracking the thirty-eight black-clad Rippers and the sole Sovereign who’d ventured into the desolate place. Roland stood on the rise to the south, facing away from Jordin and the rest, hands on hips, staring out at the long rolling stretch of barren desert that ran all the way to the distant sea. He hadn’t spoken a word since the arena, seemingly oblivious to the load on his shoulder as they raced through the tunnels, despite Jordin’s insistence that he set her down. Only upon reaching the cellar had he unceremoniously dumped her to the ground before ascending to the main floor. He was mounted and already spurring his horse into a gallop by the time she’d stumbled out of the basilica. It had taken her a full minute to catch the others speeding north through Byzantium after their leader. Roland had ridden like a man possessed. Even when they’d put the city safely behind them, he hadn’t slowed his stallion to a trot for several more miles.
