15 THE PATH CHOSEN

15

THE PATH CHOSEN

Corayne

Somewhere in the palace, a bell tolled. It was full dark outside, the stars like pinpricks in the windows. Dom slowed in his steps, faltering for the first time since Corayne had met him. She glanced his way, concerned. To her surprise, it was the squire who waved her off.

“He’s fine,” Andry said, sharing a look with the Elder. “Let’s keep moving.”

The Spindleblade was a nuisance. It was too long and cumbersome to wear at the hip, at least not without hitting a wall or person every time she turned, so Dom and Andry had rigged her sword belt to lie from shoulder to hip instead. She fastened her blue cloak to hide most of it from passing eyes. The sheath dug into her back, reminding her of the sword with every step. It wasn’t so difficult to carry this way, but it would be impossible to draw should she need it. Not that Corayne expected to be dueling any time soon, with the Spindleblade or anything else.

The guards knew Andry and nodded at him as he led their small group through the palace, toward the Queen’s feast. The passages became a long hall of vaulted ceilings and soaring columns supporting pointed archways. In the daylight, it would be magnificent; the windows all made of intricate stained glass. Now they were dark, the panes dull as dried blood. Some courtiers milled about the columns—couples, mostly, dancing around each other like circling predators and prey.

At the end of the long hall was a tall oak door bound in iron, cracked ajar, the sounds of music and conversation spilling out. Andry pulled it open, his smooth face set with determination. He met Corayne’s eye as he waved her through, offering her the smallest nod.

“She’ll listen,” he murmured, an assurance to both of them.

For some reason, it calmed her nerves a little, enough to keep a tremor from her hands.

Dom followed, massive and looming, his cloak thrown back to show his fine tunic and broad form. More than a few courtiers eyed him with interest as they entered the great hall, a canyon of marble and glass and candlelight. But any interest the small band conjured was fleeting. Queen Erida’s betrothal feast was well into its courses, the servants roving between tables with platters of roast meats and fresh summer vegetables. Dom dodged them all, dogged in his focus, his eyes flying to the curved wall at the far end of the room. Corayne did the same, looking up to a raised dais backed by vaulted windows and lion banners. Chandeliers dangled from the ceiling of the hall in two rows, their iron hoops as wide around as a carriage, hanging from chains of heavy link. There was a high table set with a long green runner embroidered in gold, a parade of silver plates and goblets marching the length of it. A dozen men and women sat in their raised seats, grinning and talking among themselves, most of them fair-skinned and pale-eyed. Even though Corayne had never seen her before, there was no mistaking who was the young queen.

Erida of Galland had been mentioned often in Corayne’s ledger. Her fleets patrolled Mirror Bay and the Long Sea like lions over grassland, hunting pirates and smugglers, protecting their waters. But their captains were easy to bribe. Galland was an empire in all but name, fat and sated, its borders far-flung. Its interest lay mostly in growing wealth the easy way: through trade, tariffs, and subjugation. There were the escalating border skirmishes with Madrence, the Jydi raids every summer, but nothing to interrupt their long harvests and the passage of gold. Gallish merchant vessels were bloated, slow, easy prey. Corayne expected their queen to be the same.

She was sorely mistaken.

Erida was young, that much was true, with a lovely, gentle face and skin like a polished pearl. She did not speak to the people flanking her but listened intently as they jabbered in her ears. Her face was as still as the surface of a pond. The crown on her head was gold, as was the rest of her jewelry, set with every kind of gemstone, a rainbow of emerald, ruby, and sapphire. Beneath the chandeliers, her gown flared a deep, visceral blood red, cut in crimson and scarlet, vivid as a still-beating heart. Corayne would have expected more of that Gallish green, but perhaps red was tradition for weddings? Then Queen Erida caught her gaze, her eyes a piercing blue even across the hall. She tipped her head, staring as they approached, her focus darting from Corayne to Dom and then to Andry following close behind.

Erida stood quickly, waving back the knights at the base of the high table.

“Let them pass,” she said, her voice light and musical. Giving no cause for concern.

The guards in their golden armor pressed back, allowing the trio enough room to approach. Corayne clenched her teeth, hoping Andry and Dom would do the talking. She didn’t want to explain the realm’s destruction in front of a feasting crowd.

Andry bowed quickly, nodding at several of the table occupants as well as the Queen’s knights, before honoring the Queen herself. “Your Majesty,” he said, bending low at the waist.

“Squire Trelland,” she answered, inclining her own head. “I’m glad to see you feasting with us again, after so long in your mourning,” the Queen said, clasping her hands together. “Will your mother be joining us? Lady Valeri is always welcome at my table.”

Lady Valeri is halfway to the city docks by now, if not already on board a ship bound for Kasa,Corayne knew. They had sent her off less than an hour ago, tucked into a wheeled chair with two servants for the long journey.

Andry merely shook her head. “My mother is still not well enough for feasts, I’m afraid. But I have brought two more to your great hall, Your Majesty. You would do well to listen to what they have to say.”

She did not hesitate, her courtly smile fixed in place. “Very well.”

“Alone,” Andry said, “in the privacy of your chambers. If it pleases you,” he added hastily, bowing again.

The squire is court-raised, born behind the walls of a palace,Corayne surmised, hopeful. He knows how to speak to nobles and royalty without losing some semblance of a spine.

Again, Erida ran her eyes over Corayne and Dom, weighing them both. What she saw in them, Corayne could not say.

“Her Majesty cannot simply abandon her betrothal feast,” said the nobleman at her side, his gaze cutting. “Her husband has not even been presented to the court yet.”

“It can wait a matter of minutes, Cousin. Squire Trelland has no cause to lie, and I trust his judgment,” Erida replied, turning a winning smile on him like a sunbeam. It did not reach her eyes. But the man set down his goblet and opened his mouth to argue.

“This is a matter of great urgency, Your Majesty,” Corayne blurted out. She let every ounce of desperation and need rise in her face. And hope too, whatever there was in the corners of her mind. “Your kingdom depends on you. The realm depends on you.”

“The realm,” the Queen echoed, looking at Andry. The squire stared back, his face just as desperate, trying to communicate as much as he could without speaking. Between them, Dom kept his mouth firmly shut, though a vein stood out in his neck. Corayne worried he might explode or simply drag the Queen off if they wasted another minute on court posturing.

Erida perceived.

“Very well,” she said, gathering her skirts. “Follow me.”

No less than six guards in lion armor followed, peeling off in formation to flank the Queen as she led them away from the high table. There was some murmuring on the dais and through the great hall, but none of it seemed to bother Erida as she walked, her crown high and proud. Corayne could not help but let the hope inside her grow, a flower in sunlight. And yet there was cold in her still, pricking at her fingers and toes, like she’d been out in the winter rains too long. It was an odd sensation, difficult to ignore, begging to be heeded. She shoved her hands in her pockets, hoping to warm her them a little. Her fingers brushed against the charm from the old Jydi woman, bits of twig and polished bone.

They didn’t go far, entering a passage behind the dais that led down a shallow stair. Doors branched off on either side, some open to show parlor rooms and dark fireplaces, shelves of books and long couches piled with cushions. Erida brought them to a round room, the base of another tower, its ceiling low and intricately carved. More lions, Corayne thought wearily. There were a few chairs, as well as a stout table, but no one bothered to sit.

The guards did not stay. Queen Erida waved them off with a quick brush of her hand and a pointed glance, gesturing to the door. They obeyed, leaving the Queen alone with a squire and two strangers.

She must trust Andry very much,Corayne thought. Or be more foolish than I thought.

“Well, you’ve come to talk about the Spindle,” the Queen said sharply. Her face did not change, but her gentleness disappeared. She was as stone, resolute, her brow sterner than her years suggested. “I’ve heard the tale twice over from Andry Trelland. I might as well hear it again from you.”

Not a fool at all.

Dom raised his chin. “I am Domacridhan, a prince of Iona, what you call an Elder, son of Glorian Lost. Your knights answered the call of my aunt, the Monarch. I bore witness to their slaughter at the Spindle, and I saw the army brought forth from a burned realm,” he said quickly, the words coming hard and fast. “All Trelland told you is true, and you will not waste another minute of whatever time we have left. I only hope it is not already too late to stop Taristan of Old Cor.”

Corayne winced at the hot accusation in the Elder’s words. Though Dom was an immortal prince, Erida was a queen, and they needed her aid more than any other. She braced herself for the inevitable: a denial and a dismissal.

It never came.

Erida nodded at Dom, her hands folded again. A ruby winked on her finger, big as a grape. “And you?” she asked, looking to Corayne with sapphire eyes. “Did you survive as well?”

“I was not there, Your Majesty,” Corayne said. The sword was cold against her back, stealing the heat from her flesh. Part of her wanted to rip the Spindleblade off and give it away, to someone better suited to the task of saving the world. To Dom, to Erida, even to Andry.

The rest, the part she did not understand, the part that grew with every passing day, would never let the sword go.

“My father was at the Spindle,” she said, trying to look somber for a man she’d never met. Erida’s face fell a little. “Cortael of Old Cor. He was of Spindleblood, able to open—and close—any Spindle still in existence.”

The Queen looked her over, eyes widening as she took Corayne in. Does she see the Spindle in me, the tremor of something lost and distant? Do I look as different as I feel?

“So it’s your blood too, then,” Erida said finally, steel in her voice. “You can do the same. You can fix this.”

Corayne could only shrug. “That’s the idea.”

The tower room was round, made for pacing. The Queen did so slowly, like a philosopher in a library, searching for answers. A flush rose in her pale cheeks. “Taristan has an entire army, and while you three seem capable enough, I doubt you can face it alone.”

“We cannot, Your Majesty,” Corayne said. She wished she could show her, wished they had more proof than Dom’s scarred face and Andry’s story. “I’ve seen only shadows of it, but the shadows were enough.”

“So the realm depends on me.” Erida raised her chin, standing in profile against the low fire. Corayne thought of kings on a coin, their images worked in copper and gold. “My armies, my soldiers. My blood as much as your own.”

“It does” was all Dom said.

Corayne shot him a withering glare, then dared a step forward, her cloak hanging loose around her shoulders. Up close, she and the Queen were of a similar height. But everything else could not have been more different. She was a pirate’s daughter and Erida a ruling queen.

“If it helps,” Corayne murmured, “one can hardly be expected to marry while fighting a war against hell itself.”

The Queen’s true smile was a small thing, one corner of her mouth turning upward. She loosed a single, knowing laugh. “I wish that were true,” she said sadly, her shoulders drooping in resignation. “But my agreement is made. I’ll need to go through with it, for better or worse.

“I’m sorry for doubting you, Andry, and for not acting sooner,” Erida added, moving to address the squire. He did not gloat as most men did, and remained still when the Queen took his hands in her own. He looked disconcerted by her touch, as if he wanted to pull away. “Before, I could not believe it—I thought lying to the court was the best option—but with you three standing here . . .” She looked over them again and faltered, showing the girl beneath the crown. Frightened, alone, but brave to a fault. “I see the truth of it now.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Andry whispered, slowly removing his hands.

She only nodded and clapped her palms together. At the sound, the door to the chamber flew open, her knights still waiting dutifully in the hall. “Well, let’s get on with it,” she sighed.

They followed her out, a row of strange ducklings behind a stranger duck. Corayne had to stop herself from bouncing as she walked. Though her uncle’s army rose before her, with hell behind him, she felt lighter than ever, hopeful—optimistic, even. The Queen of Galland would help them fight. The largest army in the north was with them, and certainly more would follow. She had Dom to keep her safe, a queen on her side . . . every step away from Lemarta had been a leap into a life she’d never thought possible. Every moment was danger, excitement, freedom. Every morning brought a new horizon.

If only my mother could see me now,she thought.

“So, Spindleblood. A descendant of Old Cor.”

The Queen fell in beside Corayne, the golden knights hemming them in.

She glanced at Erida and felt another burst of relief. “Don’t remind me,” Corayne muttered, drawing another laugh from the Queen.

“We don’t choose what we’re born to, Corayne,” Erida replied. She touched the crown on her brow. “We can only walk the path put in front of us.”

Corayne shook her head. The cold feeling snuck into her fingers again, sharper than before. “I’m not sure why my path had to involve the end of the world.”

To her surprise, the Queen of Galland took her hand kindly, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Erida stared at her intently, as if looking into a deep pool.

“At least we’re walking it together,” she said, dropping her grip. “I believe in you, Corayne. Something about your eyes—I suppose it’s your blood. The legacy you carry.”

Corayne wished she had a mirror. Wished she could see what the Queen saw in her, what Dom saw in her father. Something in the fathomless black.

“I wouldn’t know.”

“It could be the sword too. The Spindleblade.” Erida’s eyes darted, looking to Corayne’s hip and then her shoulders. She fixed on her cloak with a knowing smirk. Ahead, the door back to the great hall swung open, bathing them in a wash of noise. “You have it, don’t you? I’m told we’ll need it.”

“I do,” Corayne whispered as they walked through, side by side.

She felt Andry and Dom at their backs, and the knights in their golden armor. The army of the Ashlands and the hell of What Waits were far away, barely a wisp of memory. And her uncle was a shadow, a mountain on the horizon that need only be climbed.

We can do this.

Queen Erida ascended the dais with ease, accustomed to the eyes of a hundred courtiers. She raised a hand for silence and they obeyed, their conversations dying to soft murmurs through the cavernous hall. At the high table, her advisors jumped to their feet, allowing her to pass in her bloodred gown. She nodded in turn, wearing her cold court smile.

Corayne and the others stood to the side, with nowhere to sit and nowhere to go without causing a fuss. The knights did the same, at ease in a semicircle around them. Dom clasped his great hands behind his back. Andry stood tall, his eyes narrowed with focus as he watched the Queen settle her audience. His jaw tightened when she opened her mouth.

“My lords and ladies, I thank you for joining me this evening,” Erida said, dipping her head gracefully. Her courtiers responded in kind. They adore her, Corayne knew. It was easy to see the love the Gallish court held for their young queen. Will they love her tomorrow, when she sends their children to war against a madman and a devil?

“I know my betrothal has been long in the making, perhaps too long for some of you,” the Queen continued. Behind her, a few members of her council exchanged knowing smirks and the edges of laughter. Erida took it well in stride. “But with the aid of my illustrious council, I have come to a decision, and upheld the will of my father, King Konrad, who built all you see before you.” Erida put out one glittering hand and gestured to the vaulted ceiling, the columns, the great glass arches and rose windows of the hall. “His wish for me, and for Galland, was one we all share. We are Old Cor reborn, the glory of the realm, heirs to an empire we are destined to rebuild. With my husband at my side, I intend to fulfill that destiny.”

Among the tables, several courtiers raised their goblets and drank deeply. A few cheered in agreement. Even her cousin, the surly nobleman, banged his fist on the high table.

Corayne felt the thud of it in her chest, like a war drum. Next to her, Andry flinched. There was sweat on his lip, an odd shallowness to his breath. Corayne furrowed her brow and put a hand to his wrist. His skin felt clammy and cold.

“Andry?” she whispered. “It’s all right. Your mother needs you, and no one will blame you for leaving to protect her.”

The squire drew a shaky breath, his lean chest rising and falling.

“I thought I heard—did she ask you about the Spindleblade?” he whispered.

Corayne frowned, confused. “Yes.”

Andry took her hand without breaking his gaze, his eyes never leaving Erida’s face. She felt a jolt as his fingers joined with her own. Then his lips pulled back, baring his even white teeth. It was not shame on his face, or regret.

Terror.

“I never told her about the sword,” he breathed, sounding dazed.

Hot and cold leapt up inside Corayne, fire and ice, burning fear and frigid shock. She blanched, owl-eyed, unable to move, rooted to the spot. Never told her about the sword. It was still there, the length of steel running down her back, tucked beneath her cloak, digging uncomfortably between her shoulder blades. Forged in a lost realm, twin to her blood, the only other thing in the realm that could stop an apocalypse.

I never told her about the sword.

Dom gripped her shoulder, strong and desperate enough to hurt. She met his eyes quietly, slowly, and saw Andry’s fear, her own fear, mirrored in the Elder prince. It was worse than on the hilltop, when the corpse shadows advanced, their swords raised, their jaws wide and hungry. How can this be worse? Corayne wanted to scream.

But she wasn’t stupid.

She knew how.

The knights tightened their formation, boxing them in. There was nowhere to turn, nowhere to run. Corayne heard every clink of their armor, the rasp of their steel, as the Queen basked in the adoration of her court. Her voice rose, high and clear, echoing down the columns and archways. On the opposite side of the dais, a pair of silhouettes appeared, one of them tall and lean, the other swathed in a crimson cloak.

Dom’s grasp broke with a huff of pain, and the Elder stumbled to a knee, a dagger poking from his side. His blood ran hot and scarlet, blooming from the wound as a knight stood over him, face stern beneath his helmet. Corayne opened her mouth to scream, only to feel the sharp poke of another dagger at her ribs, begging to slide between her bones. The knight behind her breathed heavily on her neck, close enough to cut her throat if he so desired.

“Keep quiet,” he hissed. “Or I’ll run you through.”

She had a knife in her boot, the sword on her back.

Useless in my hands,Corayne thought, her mind screaming.

She could only stand, gasping through clenched teeth, watching Dom bleed as Erida beckoned to the silhouettes. The first stepped into the light with a roguish smile, a flowing gait, and the proud arrogance of a conqueror.

“It is with great pleasure that I introduce you to my prince consort, my husband, a son of Old Cor, heir to the bloodlines of the ancient empire, and father to the new world before us,” Erida said. Her gentle face was angelic. “Prince Taristan of Old Cor.”

The court rose to applaud their queen’s chosen, the high table already standing and calling their praises. The roar crashed like a wave, beating Corayne down and down and down, drowning her, pinning her, dragging her away from all hope of rescue.

There he is.

Her flesh and blood. Her father’s twin. Her monster.

Hair like dark copper, the shadow of a beard, a thin mouth unsuited to smiles. Long nose, a brow like a rod of iron. A handsome face, all things considered: a fine doll for evil strings. Taristan of Old Cor, a Spindleblood prince, a traitor to the realm entire.

He barely acknowledged the court, offering only a single, sharp glance before he looked at the Elder kneeling, the squire, and Corayne.

The yards between them disappeared. His eyes were her own, black and endless, a sky without stars, the deepest part of the ocean. They were not empty: there was something in them, a presence Corayne could barely sense. But she knew it too. She saw it in her dreams. Red and hungry, without form, without mercy.

What Waits.

He stared out from her uncle’s eyes, waiting to strike.

The man who followed Taristan could only be the Red. The wizard looked skeletal, white-skinned and blond-haired, with pale red eyes ringed with pink flesh. His mouth opened a little and he inhaled, tasting the air. She felt a clawing heat pull over her, prodding at her exposed skin.

Toasts were called out, goblets raised again, but Corayne heard none of it. She was frozen, caught between the knight’s dagger and her uncle’s starving glare. He looked ready to eat her whole.

He very well might.

His steps were deliberate and smooth, taking him down the table, one hand extended to his queen’s advisors. They touched his rough fingers or kissed his knuckles, pledging allegiance, paying fealty, congratulating him on the good match. Only the Queen’s cousin hesitated, waiting a long moment before taking Taristan’s hand.

Taristan’s eyes never left Corayne’s face. A thread ran between them, a rope from his hands to her neck. He pulled himself along it, closer and closer, until Corayne could hardly breathe.

She trembled when he stopped before her, glaring down with menace. Over his shoulder, Erida watched, her head held high. There was no fear in her, no shock. No regret.

Taristan raised his fist and Corayne braced herself for a strike, curling inward.

Instead he gripped her cloak, tearing it away with the easy rip of blue cloth.

Out of the corner of her eye, Corayne saw the sword hilt flash in the light, its jewels aflame. She tried to back away, only to feel the knight’s dagger pierce her clothing, nearly breaking the skin. There was nowhere to hide.

“Get away from me,” she managed to bite out.

On the floor, still bleeding, Dom seethed. “I’ll kill you,” he growled at Taristan, one hand pressed to his side. Even though three knights stood above him, hands on their swords, armored to the teeth, Corayne believed he would try.

“So eager to repeat your mistakes, Domacridhan,” Taristan said wearily. Then he seized Corayne by the neck, his back obscuring her from the rest of the court. To anyone watching, it would seem he was merely speaking to a few guests, one of them kneeling in reverence. They were too busy in their revels to notice anything amiss. “Shall I kill her in front of you too?”

He smiled into her face. Corayne wanted to spit, to struggle, but found her mouth dry and her mind blank of any options. This was not in her charts or lists. There was no preparing for this moment. They’d thought the Queen might not believe them, but to choose the other side? To choose him?

I have no plan for the path in front of me.

“Get away,” she said again, her hands balling into fists. While the heat of the Red’s power washed over her, her hands and feet remained cold, nearly frozen, the sensation creeping over her wrists and ankles.

Taristan only shook his head, reaching for the sword. His grip tightened on her throat, while his other hand closed around the hilt of the Spindleblade. He grinned when he touched it.

“That doesn’t belong to you,” he murmured, his breath oddly sweet in her face.

Something broke inside her, snapping clean. A rush of cold pushed away the heat, and with it, Corayne slipped her hand in her pocket. Something tugged her fingers along, guiding them to the Jydi charm, the useless trinket. It felt frozen, hard as ice, the twigs honed to keen points.

She had never been so afraid.

With a will, she looked into Taristan’s eyes. She saw flecks of crimson in them, scattered like blood around the iris. They seemed to dance as he gripped the sword, pulling the first inches from the sheath. He was not watching her, but the steel, his lips moving without sound as he read the unfathomable runes on the blade.

The Jydi twigs dragged along his face like a clutch of needles, their bite blue and ferocious, clawing ragged lines down his cheek. He howled, leaping back, and the sword slid back into place. Corayne expected to feel the dagger between her ribs, sliding clean through her organs, but it never came.

Instead the knight behind her let loose a strangled yelp, blood spurting from beneath the golden gorget covering his throat. Dom launched to his feet, striking between the other knights. Andry twisted, managing to break the grip of his captor with a few fluid motions born of both surprise and skill. Together they cut a hole in the Queen’s guard, even while the hall exploded in confusion and chaos.

The Queen shouted something; Taristan fought to his feet; the Red swept across the dais like a scarlet cloud of thunder, his hands raised and mouth forming a spell. Corayne nearly fainted in shock, her knees threatening to give out, as someone grabbed her around the middle, dragging her backward.

“Run, gods damn you, run!” a woman’s voice said, hissing and familiar.

Corayne could barely breathe, but she found the will to move, lunging over the flagstones. The charm was still in her hand, the twigs no longer cold, their broken ends dripping with blood too dark for mortal veins.

Someone shoved her through the door at the side of the dais, urging her onward.

She looked back to see a flood of guards, their swords drawn, cloaks cast aside. No use running, Corayne thought dimly. I might as well just sit down and wait.

Then there was a noise like a thunderclap, followed by the shrieking scream of flowing chain, iron links sliding through their rings at breakneck speed. One of the many chandeliers of the great hall crashed down, the circle of it crushing a few men in their armor. It was not the last to fall. The chains loosed in succession, like a ripple on a pond, each hoop of iron and flame landing in a cloud of dust, breaking tables and limbs in equal measure. Boom, boom, boom—another beat of the war drum. One fell onto the dais, slamming down through the high table, cracking it in two. Corayne looked for a crimson dress, a jeweled crown, a wolf disguised as a queen, but Andry pulled her further into the passage, obstructing her view.

Sorasa Sarn was the last through the door, barring it behind her, shutting out the great hall. Her eyes were wide, manic, as she took them in, looking from Dom’s wound to Corayne to Andry’s flushed and panting face. The dagger in her hand dripped scarlet.

“Do I have to do everything around here?” she snarled.