22 WORTH THE PAIN

22

WORTH THE PAIN

Andry

They crossed the Orsal under the cover of darkness, the gentle river sloshing up to their knees as they rode single file beneath the keen light of a sliver moon. We are in Larsia now, Andry knew, feeling the invisible divide pass over them. He expected relief, but it never came. The Queen of Galland will hunt us no matter where we go, so long as we hold a Spindleblade. So long as Corayne lives. Andry shivered, but not from the water soaking through his breeches.

She rode next to him, bowing under the weight of the sword. As soon as they were out of the river, she dozed, her head lolling forward on her chest. Andry smiled to himself and marveled at her ability to sleep in the saddle, or on any ground they made camp on. Even with the weight of the realm on her shoulders, Corayne an-Amarat had a talent for sleeping.

But she does not sleep deeply,he thought. Despite the weak light, the shadows beneath her eyes stood out starkly. Her eyes fluttered behind her lids, swept away in some dream.

When they finally made camp by a copse of willow trees, he was glad to take the first watch. Sorasa claimed one tree like a tent, disappearing behind a curtain of leaves, while Dom took another, gesturing for Corayne to follow. Even when she was sleeping, he was never far from Corayne. She yawned, half awake, trudging into the roots.

Any good squire knew how to clean and dry traveling clothes, and Andry Trelland was a very good squire. He spent his watch tending their gear, scrubbing mud from leather, oiling steel, and checking over the horses. He lost himself in chores he used to chafe under, giving his mind something to focus on that wasn’t the ending of the realm. When it was time to wake Dom for his turn, the camp was spotless, their saddlebags organized, the horses sleeping soundly with cleaned shoes and gleaming coats.

The willow branches parted, showing two lumps asleep among the roots, tucked into their cloaks. For once, Corayne was still, her face smooth, her mouth slightly parted. Her black hair fanned out around her like a dark halo.

Andry’s cheeks warmed against the cool night and he glanced away, turning to the great hulk that was an Elder. To his surprise, Dom was still sleeping. His brow furrowed, his eyelids squeezed shut, and his lips moved without sound, his face pulled in what looked like pain.

“My lord?” Andry whispered, dropping his voice so he could barely hear himself.

The Elder’s eyes snapped open, wavering as he took in his bearings, pulling himself from sleep as one might pull themselves from the sea.

The squire waited, biting his lip with worry. This is not like him, he thought, but before he could offer to take a double watch, Dom rose to his feet in silence, throwing the cloak of Iona around his shoulders again. He went without a word, slipping back through the willow branches.

Andry followed. Well, at least I can sleep now, he thought, but Dom’s behavior gave him pause. Instead of roving the camp, taking the perimeter as he usually did, the leviathan Elder settled onto a rock and stared at his boots. His jaw worked, his gaze far away, his mind clearly somewhere else.

“Was it a bad dream?” the squire heard himself ask. Though exhaustion mounted, pulling at his edges, Andry claimed the boulder next to Dom.

“The Vedera do not dream,” he answered with a prim sniff. Andry only stared, an eyebrow raised. “Often.”

The squire shrugged. “If you want to talk, if you need someone to speak to—”

“The only thing I need is Taristan’s head on a spike,” Dom snarled to the stars.

His rage was obvious, but beneath it—pain. Andry felt it in himself, the anger and sorrow melding into one, until it held him together as much as it pulled him apart.

“I dream of it too, that day at the temple,” he murmured. “I see them die every time I close my eyes.”

The Elder said nothing, silent as the stone he sat on. His face went blank, his eyes like shuttered windows. Whatever Dom felt, he wrestled it away where no one else could see. But Andry perceived.

He inched closer.

“Had you ever lost someone, before all this?”

Certainly an immortal has seen things die before, but not so close. Maybe he doesn’t know how to grieve, or understand death at all. Perhaps he’s never had to.

The silence stretched like a blanket, Dom’s face still empty. Andry waited. He had learned patience as a page boy, an easy lesson in the halls of the New Palace. It was nothing to call on it now, when his friend needed it.

Finally the Elder roused, his eyes gleamed, oddly wet.

“I was a child when my parents were taken from me, called home to Glorian by the Elder gods,” he said slowly, each word a battle. “Some three hundred years ago. The last dragon upon the Ward was terrorizing the Calidonian coast. They rode from Iona, seeking glory.” His voice broke, his massive hands knitted together. “They never found it.”

Andry swallowed hard.

“My father died when I was a boy too,” he forced out. The pain had been dulled by the years, its edge long lost. But still his father’s absence was an ache, a hole he would never fill. “It was nothing as exciting as a dragon. Just a petty border skirmish. Men dead on both sides, for no real reason.”

The squire looked up to find the Elder staring, studying him as he would an opponent.

“Cortael’s death feels . . . different,” Dom said, searching for the right words. “Worse.”

Andry dropped his head again, nodding furiously. “Because we were there. Because we lived while the rest didn’t.”

Sir Grandel and the Norths rose up before him, their faces white in death, their armor rusted, their bodies going to rot. Lord Okran appeared too, the shadow of Kasa’s eagle passing over him. Andry squeezed his eyes shut to block out the images, only to find them staring behind his eyes. Inescapable.

“We survived, and some part of us regrets it. It doesn’t make sense, that I live while they are in the ground,” he forced out, eyes stinging. “A living squire, and so many dead knights.”

Dom’s voice rumbled, low in his throat, choked with emotion he did not know how to feel. “If I could, I’d make you a knight right here. You’ve certainly earned it by now.”

Another figure joined the dead warriors in Andry’s mind: a knight of Galland with an easy smile and a blue-starred shield. Father, Andry thought, calling for someone who would never answer. I can’t even remember his voice.

He forced himself to look at Dom again, letting reality chase the visions away. He stared at the Elder, green as the forest, gray as stone.

“I don’t think that’s a path I can walk anymore,” he muttered. It felt like letting go of an anchor and drifting out to sea. Unbound but without direction, free but on treacherous ground. “The Battle of the Lanterns was fought on this land,” he said suddenly, looking back and forth along the willows crowding the riverbank. “Galland and Larsia, warring for a barren border.”

“I don’t know much of your recent histories,” Dom answered, sounding apologetic.

Andry nearly laughed. The Battle of the Lanterns was a century ago. “My mother had a tapestry of it in our parlor. The great legions. Galland standing golden and triumphant over the Larsian surrender. I used to stare at it, try to see my own face among the knights, the Lion across my chest, a victory in my hands.” He saw the woven image in his mind, the colors too bright, the soldiers of Galland suddenly hateful, their visages sharp and menacing. “Now I stand against them. Everything I’ve ever known, everything I’ve ever wanted. It’s gone.”

“I feel the same,” Dom said, to Andry’s surprise. “Let someone else be a prince of Iona. I want no part of that place, a haven for cowards and selfish fools.” The Elder sucked in a breath, chest rising and falling. He glanced at the willow where their great hope slept, small beneath her cloak. “Cortael never told me about Corayne.”

Andry followed his gaze. “To keep her safe?”

Dom shook his head. “I think he was ashamed.”

The squire felt his teeth gnash together, both in anger and to bite back a curse. I will not insult a dead man. “Then he never knew her,” he replied instead, eyes still leveled on the willow. A wind rustled the branches, revealing Corayne nestled among the roots. Brilliant, brave Corayne. “No parent could be ashamed of a daughter like that.”

“Indeed,” Dom answered, his voice oddly thick.

“It’s all right to miss him though. It’s all right to feel this hole.” The advice was as much for himself as it was for Dom.

As before, the Elder sniffed, turning to stone. “Sorrow is a mortal endeavor. I have no use for it.” He jumped up from the boulder, his face wiped clean of any emotion.

Andry joined him, standing with a shake of his head. “Sorrow touches us all, Lord Domacridhan, whether we believe in it or not. It doesn’t matter what you call the thing ripping you apart. It will still devour you if given the chance.”

“And how do I defend against such a thing, Squire?” the Elder demanded, his voice rising. Luckily, Corayne did not stir. “How do I fight what I cannot face?”

In the training yard, the knights would bash their gauntlets, clutch hands, pull each other up after a particularly nasty blow. Without thinking, Andry raised his own fingers, palm open, an offer as much as a plea.

“With me,” he said. “Together.”

Dom did his very best not to crush the squire’s fingers as they locked hands.

“It’s your turn for watch,” Andry muttered, wincing under the strength of Dom’s grips.

But it was worth the pain.