Realm Breaker

by Aveyard, Victoria

  She took her daughter by the arm, urging her to walk. “I did not know the Ibalets had need for fox and sable in the Great Sands.”

  Corayne didn’t blame her for the skepticism. Ibal was mostly desert. Fur from the north would certainly not fetch a favorable price. But she had her reasons.

  “Their royal court has taken a liking to their mountains,” she said lightly, pleased with herself. “And with all that desert blood, well, they’re not likely to stay warm without our help. I’ve made my inquiries; it’s all arranged.”

  “I suppose it won’t be terrible to have contacts within the royal family of Ibal.” Meliz’s voice dropped. “Especially after that misunderstanding in the Strait last winter.”

  A misunderstanding that left three sailors dead and the Tempestborn near sinking. Corayne swallowed back the bitter taste of fear and failure. “My thoughts exactly.”

  Meliz pulled her closer. After nearly two months left behind, Corayne basked in the attention. She brushed her head against her mother’s shoulder, wishing she could embrace her properly. But the crew were all around them, busy in their work, dedicated to the ship and her needs, with Galeri observing from the edges, more nosy than official.

  “You know you have some of that desert blood,” Meliz said. “On my side, of course.”

  Despite the warmth of her mother’s arm, Corayne felt a cold ripple of unease in her belly. “Among others,” she muttered. There were many conversations she wanted to have with her mother. My bloodline is far from one of them.

  Meliz looked over her daughter again. It was a poor subject to return home to, and she navigated away from it. “Very well, what else have you lined up for me?”

  Corayne heaved a breath, both relieved and eager to impress. She held her ledger open to show pages cramped with delicate, deliberate writing. “The Madrentines will be at war with Galland soon enough, and they’ll pay best for weaponry.” She allowed herself a small smile. “Especially Treckish steel without entanglements.”

  The metal was valuable, both for its durability and the close control Trec kept over its export. Meliz shared in her delight.

  “All this you learn in Lemarta?” she mused, raising an eyebrow.

  “Where else would I learn it?” Corayne said sharply, her skin growing hot. “We’re a port city as much as any. Sailors talk.”

  Sailors talk; travelers talk; merchants and guards and the tower watchmen talk. They talk loudly and often—lying, mostly. Boasting of lands they’ve never seen or great deeds they’ll never accomplish. But the truth is always there, beneath, waiting to be sifted free, specks of gold among sand.

  Captain an-Amarat chuckled in her ear, her breath cool. Her mother smelled of the sea; she always smelled of the sea.

  “Do any talk to you?” she needled, intention clear. She glanced at the old sailor who spent his days guarding her daughter. “Kastio, how fares my daughter with the boys?”

  A jolt of embarrassment licked down Corayne’s spine. She slapped her ledger shut with both hands and drew away, flushing red. “Mother,” she hissed, scandalized.

  Meliz only laughed, unbothered and accustomed to her daughter’s discomfort.

  “Oh, come now. I was your age when I met your father,” she said, putting a hand on her generous hip, fingers splayed over her sword belt. “Well, a year older. I was your age when I met the girl before your father. . . .”

  Corayne stuffed her ledger away, returning the precious pages to her satchel. “All right, that’s more than enough. I have a lot of information to keep straight, and this is certainly not worth committing to my memory.”

  Laughing again, Meliz took her daughter’s face in her hands. She stepped with a swaying motion, her heart still aboard the deck of a ship.

  Though she loved Meliz, Corayne felt small and young in her grasp. And she hated it.

  “You’re radiant when you blush,” Meliz said, all the truth she could muster in her words.

  Such is the way of mothers, to think the sun and the moon of their children. Like the Long Sea on a clear morning, Corayne held no illusions. Meliz an-Amarat was the radiant one, beautiful and magnificent. Lovely as any queen, but Meliz was common-born of the Ward, a smuggler’s daughter, a child of the Sea and the Strait and every country they touched. She was made for the waves, the only other thing in this world as fierce and bold as she was.

  Not like me. Corayne knew herself, and while she was her mother’s daughter, she was not her mother’s equal. Their coloring was the same. Golden skin that went bronze in the summer, black hair that shone deep red beneath sunlight. But Corayne had thin lips, a short nose, a graver face than her mother, who smiled like a sunbeam. Her eyes were unremarkable, black all the way through, flat and empty as a starless night. Inscrutable, distant. As Corayne felt apart from the world, her eyes showed it.

  It did not bother her, to think such things. It is good to know your own measure. Especially in a world where women were as much what they looked like as what they could do. Corayne would never persuade a fleet patrol with a bat of her eyelashes. But the right coin to the right hands, the right pull of the right string—that Corayne could do, and do well.

  “You’re perfect when you lie,” the girl said, kindly pulling away.

  “I have lots of practice,” Meliz replied. “Of course, I never lie to you.”

  “You and I both know that is realms away from the truth,” Corayne said without accusation. It took all her resolve to keep her face still and measured, unaffected by her mother’s life—and the trust they could never truly share. “But I know you have your reasons.”

  Meliz was good enough not to argue. There was truth in admitting her lies. “I do,” she murmured. “And they are always, always, to keep you safe, my dearest girl.”

  Though the words stuck in her throat, Corayne forced them out anyway, her cheeks flushing with heat. “I need to ask you—” she began.

  Only for Galeri’s thumping boots to cut her off.

  Mother and daughter turned at his approach, false smiles donned with ease.

  “Officer Galeri, you honor us with your attention,” the captain said, inclining her head politely. Theirs was a pleasant arrangement, and small-minded men were quick to take slights from women, even imagined.

  Galeri basked in the glow of Captain an-Amarat. He drew close, closer than he had to Corayne. Meliz did not flinch, well accustomed to the leers of men. Even fresh from a voyage, dressed in salt-eaten clothes, she could turn many eyes.

  Corayne swallowed her disgust.

  “You came from Aegironos, your daughter told me,” Galeri said. He jabbed a thumb back at the crates piling on the dock. Runes marked the wood. “Strange, the Aegir usually don’t mark their crates in Jydi wolf scratch.”

  Sighing inwardly, Corayne began to count the coins left in her satchel and wondered if enough could be swept together to appease Galeri’s curiosity.

  Her mother’s smile only widened. “I thought that odd as well.”

  Corayne had seen her mother flirt many times. This is not that.

  Galeri’s face fell, the workings of his mind easy to read. His soldiers were few, unready, and mostly useless. Captain an-Amarat had her entire crew behind her, and her own sword at her hip. She could kill him and be off with the current before the officers on the next dock even noticed he was dead. Or he could simply move on with the coin already earned, with more to be earned again after the next voyage. His eyes trembled, just for a second, to pass over Corayne herself. The only thing in the world he could hold over Meliz an-Amarat, should things go ill.

  Corayne curled a fist, though she had no clue what to do with it.

  “Good to have you back in port, Hell Mel,” Galeri forced out, matching her grin. A bead of sweat rolled down his scalp as he stepped aside, bowing to the pair of them.

  Meliz watched him go, her teeth bared and lips curled into a frightful smile. Who she was on the waves never stood on land, not for long. Corayne rarely saw that woman, the fierc
e captain of a fiercer crew, who crossed the waters without regard for law or danger. That woman was not her mother, not Meliz an-Amarat. That was Hell Mel.

  That name held little meaning here, in the home port of the Tempestborn, where the galley glided in on soft winds with little trouble but curious officers. But on the waters, across the Ward, the ship was aptly named, and so was her captain.

  Corayne heard those stories too.

  Sailors talk.

  And Mother lies.

  2

  A VOICE LIKE WINTER

  Andry

  He’d traded away his chain mail for food a week ago. His green-and-gold tunic was little more than a rag, torn and crusted with blood, dirt, and dust from the long journey home. Andry Trelland knelt as best he could without collapsing, every limb trembling with exhaustion. It was well past midnight in the capital, and weeks of riding had more than taken their toll. A stone floor had never looked so inviting.

  Only fear of sleep kept his eyes open.

  The nightmares wait for me, he thought. The nightmares and the whispers both. They had haunted him since the temple, since the slaughter that left him alive and so many heroes dead. Red hands, white faces, the smell of burning flesh. He blinked, trying to force away the memory. And now a voice like winter stabbing me through.

  Two knights of the Lionguard flanked the empty throne, their golden armor glowing with candlelight. Andry knew them both. Sir Eiros Edverg and Sir Hyle of Gilded Hill. They were compatriots to the knights fallen, whose corpses were somewhere in the foothills, lost to the mud. They stared at him but did not speak, though Andry saw concern on both their faces. He looked at the stone beneath him, tracing the patterns of tile while he waited in blistering silence.

  Andry knew the sound of men in armor. They clanked and stamped in their steel, marching toward the throne room from the Queen’s own residence. When the door to her apartments swung open, spitting out a diamond formation of knights, Andry clenched his teeth so tightly they nearly shattered. His eyes stung; his heart sank. He braced himself for a fresh wash of pain.

  The others died and died poorly. The least you can do is hold your ground.

  It was no wonder so many vied for the Queen of Galland’s hand in marriage. She was young and beautiful, nineteen years old with fine bones, porcelain skin, ash-brown hair, and the silver-blue eyes of her late father, Konrad III. She had his steel spine too. Even though she seemed small in her robe and nightclothes, without a crown or majestic jewels, her presence was dominating. She peered sharply at Andry between the gaps in her Lionguard, never taking her eyes off him as she sank onto her throne.

  Her velvety green robe pooled around her, falling like a beautiful gown. She leaned forward on her elbows, fingers clasped together. She only wore the ring of state, a dark emerald set in gold, rough-cut and hundreds of years old. In the dim light, it seemed black as the creatures’ eyes, yawning like an abyss.

  “Your Majesty,” Andry murmured, bowing his head.

  Queen Erida looked him over, her gaze piercing. Her eyes snagged on his tunic, reading the stains like she would a book.

  “Squire Trelland, please rise,” she said, her voice gentle but echoing in the long, ornate room. Her blue gaze softened as Andry clambered to his feet, shaky on his legs. “The road has not been kind to you. Do you need a moment? A meal, a bath? My doctor can be called.”

  “No, Your Majesty.” Andry glanced down at himself. He felt unclean from head to toe, unfit to stand before the Queen of his country. “The blood is not my own.”

  The knights shifted, glancing among themselves with wary eyes. Andry could guess as to their thoughts. The blood belonged to their brothers, knights of the Lionguard who would never come home.

  Erida did not falter. “Have you seen your mother yet?” she asked, still staring.

  The squire shook his head. He looked at his boots, flecked with mud and stinking of horse. “It’s late, she’ll be sleeping, and she sorely needs whatever rest she can find.” He remembered the hacking cough that often woke his mother in the night. “I can wait until morning.”

  The Queen nodded. “Are you able to tell me what happened to you?” Andry felt the question like the cut of a knife. “And to our dear friends?”

  White faces, red hands, black armor, knives dripping blood, ash and smoke and rot—

  His mouth worked but no words came, his lips parting and closing. Andry wished to turn and run. His fingers trembled and he tucked them away, folding his hands behind his back in the typical pose of a courtier. He raised his head and set his jaw, trying to be strong.

  The least you can do is hold your ground, he thought again, the admonishment searing.

  “Leave us,” Erida said suddenly, looking around at her flanking knights. The young woman went fierce as the lion on her flag, both hands curled on the arms of her throne. She bore the ring of state like a shield.

  The Lionguard did not move, stunned.

  Andry felt the same. The Queen went very few places without her sworn knights, guardians to the death. His eyes snapped back and forth, weighing the will of the Queen against the will of her warriors.

  Sir Hyle sputtered, his pink face going pinker. “Your Majesty—”

  “The boy is traumatized. He doesn’t need nine of you looming over him,” she answered swiftly, without so much as a blink. Her focus shifted back to the squire, her sharp eyes pressing into him. A sadness pulled at her pale face. “I’ve known Andry Trelland all his life. He’ll be a knight alongside the rest of you in a few years’ time. Leaving me with him is the same as leaving me with any of you.”

  Despite all he had seen and suffered, Andry could not help but feel a swell of pride in his chest, albeit short-lived. Knights do not fail, and I have certainly done that, he thought. The Lionguard must have shared the same opinion. They hesitated as one, unmoving in their golden armor and green cloaks.

  Erida was undeterred and undeniable. Her ring hand curled into a fist. “Do as your queen commands,” she said, her countenance stony.

  This time, Sir Hyle did not argue. Instead he dropped into a short, stilted bow, and with a twist of his gloved fingers beckoned the other confused knights to follow. They tramped from the room, a cacophony of steel and iron and swishing fabric.

  Only when the door to her apartments was safely shut behind them did the Queen drop her shoulders, curling inward. She waited another moment, then exhaled a long, slow breath. She seemed to shift back into herself, becoming a woman barely more than a child, not a queen with four years of rule behind her.

  For a split second, Andry saw her as she’d been in her youth: a princess born, but still without the burdens of a crown. She loved sailing, he remembered. All the children of the palace, noble cousins and page boys and little maidens, used to accompany her out into Mirror Bay. They would pretend to run the boat, practicing their knots and pushing around sails. But not Erida. She would sit at the helm and point, directing the real crew over the water.

  Now she directed the country, and she was pointing at him.

  “I answered the Elder call,” she said in a low, raw voice. Her eyes went oddly bright, shimmering with the candles. One of her hands slipped into her robes and drew back out, clutching a roll of parchment.

  Andry swallowed hard. He wanted to burn that infernal piece of paper.

  She unfurled it with shaking hands, her eyes blazing over the inked message. At the edge of the page, the ancient seal of Iona was still there, stamped in broken green wax. By now the sight of it turned his stomach, and the memory it brought forth was even worse.

  Sir Grandel and the Norths knelt before the Queen on her throne. She was resplendent in her court finery and dazzling crown. Andry knelt with them, some yards behind, the only squire to accompany the knights into the audience chamber. For what purpose, he did not know, but he could guess. The Norths were always a bit more . . . self- sufficient than Sir Grandel, who seemed to want a squire’s aid for every task big or small. If the Queen had a co
mmand for Sir Grandel Tyr, certainly Andry Trelland would be made to follow on his heels.

  The squire kept his head bowed, glimpsing the Queen only from the edges of his vision. She was as green and golden as her knights, with a strange parchment in her hands.

  In an instant, Andry saw the seal, the crude image of a stag stamped deep. He racked his memory, sifting through lords and great families, their heraldry well known to even a page boy. But none matched.

  “This is a summons,” the Queen said, turning the letter over.

  On his knees, Sir Edgar blanched. “Who would dare summon the Queen of Galland, the greatest crown upon the Ward? The glory of Old Cor reborn?”

  Queen Erida tipped her head. “What do you know of Elders?”

  The knights sputtered, exchanging bewildered glances.

  Sir Grandel laughed outright, shaking back brown hair flecked with gray. “A story for children, Your Majesty,” he chortled. “A fairy tale.”

  Andry dared to look up. The Queen did not smile, her lips pursed into a grim line.

  This was no joke.

  “Immortals, my lady,” Andry heard himself answer. His voice trembled. “Born of the Spindles, having passed into Allward from another realm. But they were trapped, the doorway to their home closing not long after they arrived. The Elders are stranded in our realm, if they even still exist here at all.” Impossible beings, rare as unicorns, never to be glimpsed by my own eyes.

  “A fairy tale,” Sir Grandel said again, shooting a glare at his squire.

  Heat flushed in Andry’s cheeks and he dropped his head again. It was not like him to speak out of turn, and he expected a sharp rebuke from both his lord and the Queen.

  It never came.

  “Stories and tales all have roots in truth, Sir Grandel,” the Queen answered coolly. “And I would like to know the truth of this.” The letter caught the candlelight of the throne room, aglow. “One who calls herself the Monarch of Iona bids us greeting, and humbly asks for aid.”