4 IMMORTAL COWARD

4

IMMORTAL COWARD

Domacridhan

The horse was dying beneath him, foam blowing from her mouth. Her shoulder was scarlet, caked in blood. My blood, he knew. The wounds had barely closed despite the long days. He tried not to think about his face, clawed and cut open by those things, those abominations. An army of something, from a realm he could barely fathom. He still felt their fingers, broken nails and exposed bone beneath rusty armor. They were far behind him now, hundreds of miles away. But Domacridhan looked back, emerald eyes wide.

How he’d escaped, finding one of the Companions’ horses, he could not say. It was a blur of noise and color and smell, a ruin of memory. So the days passed as he raced on, one kingdom bleeding into another, hills into farm and forest and hills again, until the ground turned familiar. He cut through the mountains of the Monadhrion and the Monadhrian, the Star and the Sun, to the hidden glen. It stretched, filled with mist and yew trees, divided by the winding silver ribbon of the River Avanar. He knew this land as its son and prince.

Calidon.

Iona.

Home.

Not long,he told himself, willing the horse to last. Not long.

He could hear the horse’s heartbeat, thunderous and failing. He kicked her again.

It is her heart or your own.

Mist peeled back to reveal the Vederan city of Iona on a stony ridge, perched where the Avanar met Lochlara, the Lake of the Dawn. Rain and snow stained the castle city gray and brown, but it remained magnificent through the ages. It was home to thousands of immortals, hundreds of them Glorianborn, older than Iona herself. Tíarma, the palace, stood proudly at the knife-edge of the ridge, with only cliffs below.

The mossy walls of the city were well defended. Stoic bowmen stood the length of the ramparts, near indistinguishable in their forest greens. They knew him on sight, their vision perfect even at a distance.

A prince of Iona returned, bloody and alone.

The mare carried him up the ridge and through the gates, galloping as far as the Monarch’s palace. Dom leapt from her back when she fell to the ground. Her breath came heavy and slow, and then not at all. He flinched as her heart beat its last.

The guards flanked their prince without a word. Most were golden-haired and green-eyed, their faces stark white in the mist, their leather armor embossed with the crest of Iona. The great stag was everywhere—in wall carvings, in statues, on the tunics and armor of his fellow Ionians. It loomed over all things, proud and distant, eyes all-seeing.

My failure laid bare before it,he thought.

Ashamed, Dom entered the palace of Tíarma, passing beneath the yawning oak doors. Someone pressed a cloth into his hand, and he took it, wiping at the dried blood on his face. His wounds bit and stung, some splitting open again. He ignored the pain in the immortal way.

But he could not ignore the feel of his own torn flesh.

I must look like a monster.

After five hundred years living within Tíarma, Dom knew it well. He strode rapidly past halls and archways branching off to different wings of the palace and fortress. The feasting hall, the rose garden at the center of the palace, the battlements, and living quarters. They all blurred in his mind’s eye.

Only once had he wept upon these stones. The day he became an orphan and ward to the Monarch.

He did his best not to weep a second time.

Cortael, my friend, I have failed you. I have failed Allward, failed Iona. And failed Glorian too. Failed all things I hold dear.

He reached the throne room too soon. The doors were twice his height, carved from ash and oak, intricately made by immortal hands. The sigils of the many enclaves intertwined through the wood, fluid as water. There was Ghishan’s stoic tiger; the black panther of Barasa; a wheeling hawk for Tarima; Hizir’s lithe stallion with Sirandel’s clever fox underfoot; a Syrene ram crowned in spiral horns; Kovalinn’s great bear on its hind legs, the sand wolf of Salahae, and Tirakrion’s shark bearing rows of daggered teeth. Twin stags reared over them all, chests thrust forward, their antlers impossibly large. Dom had left these doors weeks ago, Cortael at his side, his stern face pulled in resolve, his heart still beating.

I wish I could go back. I wish I could warn them.His teeth ground, bone on bone. I wish I believed as mortals do and felt their spirits here with me.

But the immortal Vedera did not believe in ghosts, and Dom was no exception. When the guards pushed open the doors, he entered the great hall alone, with nothing and no one but his grief.

It was a long walk to the throne, over green marble polished to a mirror shine. Columns rose on either side of the floor, framing alcoves and statues to the gods of Glorian. But their deities were far away, beyond the reach of any immortal left on the Ward. Any prayers whispered in this realm went unanswered, as they had for a thousand years.

And still Dom prayed.

His aunt and her council waited at the far end of the hall, seated on a raised platform. The two men, Cieran and Toracal, served as the Monarch’s voice and the Monarch’s fist. Scholar and warrior. While Cieran’s hair was long and ashen silver, Toracal kept his own short, braided at the temples in twists of bronze and gray. They wore robes of dark green and silver over fine silk clothing. Not even Toracal bothered with armor.

The last councillor was Dom’s own blood: his cousin, Princess Ridha, who was to be the Monarch’s successor. She was her mother’s opposite, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with broad shoulders and strong bones. Like always, she kept a sword at her side.

The Monarch herself sat quietly, clad in a loose gray gown, the edges embroidered with jeweled flowers. Despite the chill of the throne room, she didn’t bother with furs or a mantle. Most monarchs of the enclaves favored crowns, and her own was simple, little more than quartz pins set in her blond hair. Her eyes were luminous, near to pearl, and so far away. She had seen the light of strange stars and remembered Glorian Lost.

The living branch of an ash tree lay across her knees, its green leaves washed silver by the white light of morning. Such was tradition.

Her inscrutable gaze followed Dom as he approached, his head bowed, unable to look at her fully. She sees through me, he thought, as she has done my entire life.

He knelt before her throne though his muscles ached in protest. Even a Veder was not immune to pain, in the body or the heart.

“I will not ask how they died. I can see it weighs heavy on you, Nephew,” said Isibel, Monarch of Iona.

Dom’s voice broke. “I have failed, my lady.”

“You live,” Ridha bit out through clenched teeth, sorrow written all over her face.

I live where others have fallen, for no reason I can understand.The Companions of the Realm wavered before him, some already fading in his memory. But not the Vedera, and certainly not Cortael, who he had known all the mortal’s life.

Great heroes lost to slaughter, while Domacridhan walks on.

Toracal leaned forward in his seat, blue eyes searching the prince. He had trained Dom to the sword and the bow, centuries before, a gruff soldier then and now. Dom braced for interrogation.

“What of the Spindle?” he demanded, his voice echoing.

It was like being stabbed and beaten again. Dom weathered the shame. “Torn open before we arrived, the gate thrown wide. It was a trap.”

Toracal sucked in a breath. “And what came forth?”

“An army the likes of which I’ve never seen.” Burned and broken, but still living. If they could be called alive. Their hands tore him anew, clawing him to ribbons, shredding his Companions all around him. “They were flesh and blood, near to mankind but—”

“They were not of this realm,” Cieran offered, his eyes grave. He was searching for a memory or scrap of forgotten knowledge. His gaze darkened. Whatever he found, he did not like.

The Monarch raised her gray gaze. “The Spindle opened to the Ashlands: a realm burned and broken, full of pain and fury,” she said. Behind her, Cieran and Toracal exchanged cold glances, their pale cheeks going white. “It fell out of crossing before the other Spindles, when the realm beyond cracked, its Spindles torn apart. What remains there are beings half-alive, driven mad by torment. Little more than beasts, mortals unmade, splintered and burned to the bone.”

“It is as we feared,” Dom murmured, gritting his teeth against an even more horrible truth. “This is not the work of Taristan of Old Cor. He’s only a servant, a tool of someone else.” His breath caught. “This is Asunder. This is Him. This is What Waits.”

Even the names felt evil in his mouth, corrupted and poisoned, unfit to be spoken aloud. The others reacted strongly, Cieran and Toracal going wide-eyed while Ridha’s mouth dropped open in shock. They think I’ve gone mad.

“What Waits cannot cross to a realm unbroken,” the Monarch said softly, her voice placating. But her eyes shone with fear.

“Then He will try to break it,” Dom spat. “He means to conquer us.”

The Monarch drew back on her throne. The ash branch trembled in her quivering hands.

“What Waits, the Torn King of Asunder, the Devil of the Abyss, the God Between the Stars, the Red Darkness.” She drew in a ragged breath. Each one of his names sent a chill through the throne room. “He is a demon, with no love but destruction, no nature but the abyss.”

With a will, Dom forced himself to his feet. His mind spun, imagining more Spindles torn, more armies, more blood and slaughter spreading across Allward. But he felt resolve too.

“The warriors of this realm, of the Vedera, can still push back the Ashlander creatures and Asunder too, and whatever else comes forth,” he said, raising his chin. “But we must act now. Cieran, send word to the other enclaves. Toracal, Ridha, your warriors—”

Isibel pursed her lips.

Dom fell silent.

“The Army of Asunder is of little consequence,” she said, looking at her daughter. “What Waits means to devour.” Her eyes softened, the world narrowing to her only child. “The Spindles are crossings, but they are also great walls between the realms. Find enough of them, tear them open, and they will crash together. It’s how He took the Ashlands. Destroyed its boundaries, uprooted the foundations of the realm itself.” Her grip tightened on the branch, knuckles bone-white. “Think of it. The Ward and the Ashlands, destroyed and enslaved to the will of What Waits.”

Ridha put a hand to her sword. “This will not come to pass.”

“I’m afraid it will,” her mother answered.

Heat flared in Dom despite the chill of the hall. “Throw down the branch and take up the sword,” he demanded. “You must send out word to the enclaves, to the mortal kingdoms. Summon them all.”

Cieran heaved a breath. “And do what?”

Desperate, Dom felt his teeth snap together in a near snarl. “Destroy the corpse army. Close the Spindle. Put Taristan in the ground. Throw What Waits back to His hell. End this.”

Isibel rose gracefully from her throne, her eyes dancing over Dom’s wounds. He froze as she crossed the floor to him, one hand outstretched. Her finger traced a gash from hairline to jaw; it tore through one side of his mouth and sliced his brow in half. It was a miracle he had not lost an eye.

“It is not like us to bleed,” she whispered, stricken.

Domacridhan of Iona went cold. For the first time in his life, he felt hatred for his own. It was so much worse than he knew.

“You’re afraid,” he said dully, glaring at her in accusation. “You’re terrified.”

She didn’t flinch. “We are already beaten, my dear. And I will not send my people to die. You will find no monarch who will.”

Gods damn you,he thought. Both fists clenched at his side. “We die if we do nothing. We are of the Ward as much as any other.”

“You know we are not,” Isibel said sadly, shaking her head. “Glorian waits.”

Dom found himself envying mortals. It was their way to rage and snap and curse, to lose control of themselves and retreat to raw emotion. He wished to do the same.

“Glorian is lost to us,” he forced out.

His aunt reached out again, but Dom shifted away from her touch like a petulant child.

He squared his body to the winged statue of Baleir. The warrior god was supposed to grant courage. Grant some to these immortal cowards, he cursed.

“The balance of Spindles is delicate. Our way back was lost to us, its location destroyed, and so we are doomed to remain here for our long eternity.” She pressed on, undeterred. “But as Taristan hunts his Spindles, tearing what he can, the boundaries will weaken. Spindles will cross back into existence, both new and old. I wish it were not so, but Allward will crumble, and her Spindles will burn. If we can find the realm of the Crossroads—or even Glorian herself—we can go home.”

Dom whirled in shock. “And abandon the Ward.”

“Allward is already lost.” Her face hardened, unyielding as stone. “You have not seen Glorian. I do not expect you to understand,” she said heavily, returning to her throne.

Dom saw his own frustration in Ridha’s eyes, but the princess remained silent, her hands knitted together. She moved her head slowly, an inch to either side. Her message was clear.

Don’t.

He ignored her. His control unwound.

“I understand the Companions were slaughtered in vain.” He wiped a hand across his face, scraping blood from his skin to the stone, spattering the green marble with crimson stars. “And I understand you are a coward, my lady.”

Toracal rose, his teeth bared, but the Monarch waved him down. She needed no one to defend her in her own hall. “I am sorry you think so,” she said gently.

Voices and memories roared in Dom’s head, fighting to be heard. Cortael’s dying breath, his eyes empty. The Vedera already fallen. Taristan’s face, the red wizard, the Army of Asunder. The taste of his own blood. And then, further—tales of Glorian, the legendary heroes who journeyed to the Ward, those courageous, noble men and women. Their greatness, their victories. Their strength above all others upon the realm. All lies. All nothing. All lost.

The floor seemed to move, the marble rippling like a green sea as he stalked from the throne, from the Monarch, from all hope he’d had for the world and himself. His only thoughts were of Cortael’s twin and cutting the wretched smile from his face. I should have ended it at the temple. Ended him or me. At least then I would have saved myself from this disaster and disappointment.

Isibel called after him, a thousand years of rule in her voice. And some desperation too. “What will you do, Domacridhan, son of my beloved sister? Have you Corblood in your veins? Have you the Spindleblade?”

Dom kept silent, but for the slap of his boots on stone.

“Then you are already defeated!” she called. “We all are. We must leave this realm to its downfall.”

The prince of Iona did not falter or look back.

“Better men and women than me died for nothing,” he said. “It’s only fair I do the same.”

Later, Princess Ridha found him in the Tíarma stables. He blundered fiercely through his labors, mucking out stalls and scattering hay, a pitchfork in his fist.

It was easy to lose himself in such a mundane activity, even one that smelled so horrible. He hadn’t bothered to change his clothes, still wearing his ruined tunic and leather pants. Even his boots had mud on them from the temple, and perhaps some gore too. His hair had come undone, blond strands sticking to the bloody half of his face. A wineskin hung from his belt, drained dry. Dom felt as wretched as he looked, and he looked truly wretched.

He sensed Ridha’s judgment without turning to her, so he did not bother. With a grunt, he stabbed a bale of hay and tossed it easily into the stall before him. It exploded against the stone wall. In the corner, a stallion blinked, unamused.

“You always did know when to keep your mouth shut, Cousin,” he sneered, thrusting the pitchfork again. He imagined the next bale was Taristan’s body, the tines running him through.

“I believe you missed that lesson,” she replied. “Just like the one on tact.”

Dom bit his lip, tasting blood again. “I’m a soldier, Ridha. I don’t have the luxury of tact.”

“And what do I look like?”

Sighing, he turned to face the closest thing he had to a sibling.

Gone was her gown. The sword still hung at her side, but the rest of the princess was changed, having traded silk for steel and jeweled locks for tightly wound braids. She rested her hands on her sword belt, letting him look. A green cloak of Iona poured over one shoulder, shadowing her mail, breastplate, and greaves. Ridha was the heir to the enclave, the Monarch’s successor, and she had been taught to fight as well as any other. Better, usually. Her armor was expertly made, well fitted to her form, emblazoned with antlers, the steel tinted green. It gleamed in the dusty light of the stables.

The smallest bit of hope sparked in Dom’s chest. His first instinct was to smother it.

“Where are you going?” he asked, wary.

“You heard my mother: she won’t send her people to die, and neither will any other monarch,” she said, adjusting her gauntlets. Her thin smile took on an edge of mischief. “I thought it best I make sure she’s right.”

The spark grew in leaps. The pitchfork fell from his hands, and Dom moved to embrace his cousin. “Ridha—”

She ducked his arm, her steps light and agile even in full armor. “Don’t touch me—you stink.”

Dom didn’t mind the jab in the slightest. She could have said anything to him, asked anything of him, a dangerous thing to know. I would dance naked through the streets of Iona or marry a mortal womanif it meant she would help me. But Ridha demanded nothing in return. In his heart, Dom knew she never would.

“I’ll ride to Sirandel first,” the princess said. She set a quick pace down the aisle, and Dom was forced to follow. With a practiced eye, she noted the horses, surveying each stall for a steed fast enough to suit her needs. “They lost three of their own to those monsters. And the foxes can be so hot-blooded. Something about the red hair.”

Eager, the prince crossed to the tack wall and heaved a saddle onto his shoulder. The fine oiled leather gleamed. “I’ll start with Salahae. The sand wolves do not run from a fight.”

Ridha snatched the saddle from him. “Leave the enclaves to me. I don’t trust your powers of persuasion.”

“You’re mad if you think I’m staying here,” he said, moving to bar her way. Again she dodged. At the far end of the aisle, the stable hands gathered to watch their bickering. Dom could hear their whispers, but he gave them little thought.

“I didn’t say that,” Ridha said in a chiding voice. “Raising an army to fight the Spindles is one thing—impossible, perhaps. Closing them is another entirely, but it’s something we must do if we have any hope of maintaining Allward.”

Her search ended at a familiar stall, where her mother’s own mount stood waiting. The horse was coal black, bred for speed in the deserts of Ibal. A sand mare. A rare flash of greed gleamed in Ridha’s eye before she turned back to her cousin. She took his hand.

“You need Corblood and Spindleblade.”

A young face rose up before him, his eyes kind and warm, a green-and-gold tunic cast over his coat of mail. The squire. Andry Trelland. A son of Ascal.

“The blade I can find,” Dom said grimly. I hope.

Ridha’s dark brow furrowed. “How? There were only two in the vault, and Taristan has them both. The other enclaves have none—”

“The blade I can find,” he said again, his voice deep with resolve.

Ridha searched him a moment, then nodded slowly. Dom could only pray she was right to put faith in him.

“But the blood,” he sighed, leaning back against the wall. The Veder scrubbed a hand down his face, forgetting his wounds for the first time since leaving the temple. He did not forget long. His face stung and he cursed lightly. “Cortael was the last of his line. The others, if there are others . . . we have no means of tracking them. It will take months, years, to find another branch of that tree. The sons and daughters of Old Cor are all but spent.”

“Sons and daughters,” Ridha mused, her lips twisting in the echo of a smirk. She stepped into the sand mare’s stall, running a hand down the slope of the creature’s back. It whickered at her in greeting. “Their numbers are few, that is correct. But Cortael’s line ended? There are things he did not tell even you, Cousin.”

In spite of the circumstances, Dom loosed a rare grin. “Oh, believe me, I know about your tryst with the mortal. So does half of Iona.”

“I’m not the only woman, Veder or mortal, to have lain with Cortael of Old Cor.” She laughed, though the sound was hollow. Cortael’s death was not only Dom’s to bear. He could see that clearly: the weight of loss hanging oddly about her shoulders, like an ill-fitted suit of armor. She was not accustomed to it. Most Vedera weren’t. Most Vedera did not know what it was to die or to lose the ones they loved to death.

He jumped when her hand touched the unmarked side of his face. Ridha’s fingers were cool and gentle, despite the calluses born of centuries. He felt another pang of sorrow, not for his plight, but for his cousin, who would be riding the Ward alone.

“Take heart, Domacridhan,” she said, misreading his woe. “The Vedera are not the only ones who trace the lines of Old Cor.”

Ridha had always been quicker than he in the library, beneath the tutelage of scholars and diplomats alike. He stared into her dark eyes for long seconds before the wave of realization crashed over him. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, feeling his stomach churn at what she was implying.

“That’s idiotic,” he crowed.

She held firm, her back to the mare. “Well, then it’s a good thing we aren’t idiots. Or at least I’m not.”

“I won’t do it.” He shook his golden head. “I don’t trust them.”

Her eyelids fluttered in exasperation.

“We didn’t know about Taristan, and look where that left us,” she muttered through gritted teeth. “You can search every scroll in the library, you can crack Cieran’s own head open and pour through the contents, but you won’t find another Corblood in time. And you won’t find Cortael’s child. He made sure of that.”

Dom’s stomach churned again.

“A child,” he forced out in disbelief. A bastard, he realized. Cortael was unwed—or was he? Is there more I did not know about my friend? More he did not see fit to tell me, either for abundance of shame or lack of trust? Though the mortal was dead and gone, left to rot, he felt a new wave of sadness, and bitter anger too.

“None of that—we don’t have time for your brooding,” Ridha said sharply.

He pulled a painful scowl. “I don’t brood.”

“You brood for years,” she snapped. “Cortael was working his way through the wine cellar when he told me. And it happened when he was little more than a child himself.”

“I wish I had known.” Again, Dom wanted to believe in ghosts.

Ridha bit her lip. “You remember how he—was,” she said, struggling to name him dead. “A man who thought himself a Veder and did all he could to convince the rest of us. It was not in him to admit such mortal mistakes. He wanted to be like us so terribly.”

Indeed, Dom did remember. Even as a boy, Cortael set against his own nature. He would try to ignore wounds or cold or hunger. Refuse to sleep, because Vedera often did not have the need. He spoke Vederian as well as any in the enclave. So much so that he’d once told Dom he dreamed in their language and not his own. We were brothers, mortality aside.But for his blood, his cursed blood, which was his ending.

“That’s all I know.” Ridha laid a hand on his arm, drawing him out of his memories. “But rest assured, they will know more.”

Like a child scolded into eating something good for him, Dom acquiesced. “Very well. I’ll do it.” Already I tire at the prospect of such an endeavor.

She angled an eyebrow, examining him as she would a century adolescent taking his first turn in the training yards. “Do you have any idea where to start?”

Dom drew himself up to his full, menacing height. His bulk filled the stall door. “I think I can track down a single assassin and beat an answer out of him well enough, thank you.”

“Good, but perhaps visit a healer first,” she said, picking at his shirt in disgust. Then she sniffed for good measure. “And have a bath.”

He replied with a wry smile, allowing her to attend to the sand mare. Ridha had her saddled and ready in what felt like a blink of an eye. Too quick for Dom’s taste, even now. He watched his cousin through it all, and she stared back, determined beyond measure. He did not ask if she was riding off on her mother’s secret orders, despite the proclamation in the throne room. Or if this was disobedience, if not betrayal. He did not want to know either way.

“Ride well, Cousin,” he said. All the horrors of the world, all he had seen just days before, rose up in his mind, their hands and jaws reaching for dear Ridha. She will not fall as the others did. I won’t lose another, he promised himself.

But you won’t be with her,his own voice answered. It shuddered through him.

Either Ridha did not notice or was good enough to ignore his fear. She swung herself onto the antlered saddle with ease, the sand mare shifting beneath her, eager to run.

“I always do,” she answered, her dark eyes bright with the prospect of her journey. And their great purpose.

Again Dom wished he could express himself as mortals did. Embrace his cousin, tell her how much her belief and action meant. Emotion rose up in his throat, threatening to strangle him dead. “Thank you” was all he managed.

Her response was as sharp as her sword. He expected nothing less. “Don’t thank me for doing what is right. Even if it is quite stupid.”

Dom bowed his head and stepped out of the stall, leaving the way clear for her.

But she paused, one foot in the stirrup, her eyes on the horse’s neck. Her gaze wavered. “I did not realize he had a twin,” she murmured, almost inaudible. “I did not know—my mother separated them.”

“Nor did I,” Domacridhan answered. Like Ridha, he scrambled for some understanding but found none. “Nor did he, until that monster appeared out of the mist.”

“I’m sure she thought it was the right thing to do. Raise one, protect one. Create only a single heir to Old Cor. Leave no room for conflict. For the Ward.”

Though Dom nodded, he could not agree. Not in his heart. She did it for herself, for Glorian. And no other.

With a steel will, Ridha leapt into the saddle. She looked down on him, a picture of a fierce warrior proud and true. “Ecthaid be with you.” The god of the road, of journeys, of things lost and found.

He nodded up at her. “And Baleir with you.”

On Baleir’s wings, she rode west.

After changing his clothes and scrubbing the muck from his body, Domacridhan of Iona rode south. No one stopped him, and no one bid him farewell.