“An assassin in my city!”
Daresina Nin Drialla stood in the light that came in through her office window, staring out at her garden. She looked as if she wanted to put her fist through the glass, and her voice grated with barely-restrained fury.
Desa waited patiently with hands folded behind her back, her mouth tight with anxiety. When it became clear that the Prelate would say nothing further, she worked up the nerve to speak. “That’s correct, ma’am. I suspect she’s from the desert, the same place as Sheriff Troval.”
Turning slightly, Daresina looked over her shoulder. The woman’s raised eyebrow betrayed more than just skepticism. Desa would bet good money that the Prelate was thinking about throwing her into a cell again. “From the desert, you say,” Daresina muttered. “How did she get
