Realm Breaker

by Aveyard, Victoria

  Sir Grandel scoffed. “Aid? What can this decrepit old witch think to demand of you?”

  Andry could hear the smile in Queen Erida’s voice. “Care to find out?”

  “Would that I had ignored their call, and my own curiosity,” she mumbled, still glaring at the page. If she’d had any Spindle magic in her, the letter would have burst into flames long ago.

  “How could anyone have known?” Andry whispered. I certainly did not. Even when they warned of danger and doom for the realm. It seemed a lifetime ago, though only a few months had passed.

  The days flew by in his mind, a blur. The road to Iona, the great halls of their ancient city, the council of Elders and mortals alike. Then the trail of heroes marching into the wilderness, all of them doomed.

  Andry blinked furiously to clear his eyes and head.

  The Queen lowered her eyes, running her thumb over the emerald ring.

  “I sent you to them, and into danger,” she whispered. “The blame for whatever befell Sir Grandel and the Norths is mine. Do not take this burden onto yourself, Andry.” Her voice cracked. “Give it to me.”

  The moments slid by like leaves in a fast current, but Erida waited with the patience of a stone. Andry fought to speak, the words slow and reluctant in his throat.

  “In Iona, the Elders—the Monarch—she told us a sword had been stolen from their vaults,” he forced out, the tale spilling from him in a torrent. He tried not to be pulled under. “A Spindle­blade, forged in a realm beyond the Ward, imbued with the power of the Spindles themselves. The one who took it, a man named Taristan, is a descendant of Old Cor, with Spindleblood in his own veins. With the blood and the sword together, he could rip open a Spindle long since closed, tear a doorway between our realm and another, to whatever lay beyond.”

  Queen Erida’s eyes widened, the whites like a moon eclipsed by blue.

  “He was headed for an ancient Elder temple in the mountains, some miles south of the Gates of Trec. The last known location of a Spindle crossing.” Andry gritted his teeth. “Thirteen of us went forth to stop him.” The first tear fell, hot and furious on his cheek. “And twelve died.”

  The throne room echoed with his voice, his rage and sorrow. His loss carried up the columns and into the chandeliers of wrought iron and flickering candles. Andry’s fists balled at his sides, his resolve threatening to crumble. But he pushed on, retelling the slaughter of his Companions, the failure of Cortael, the smell of immortal blood, and a burned realm spewing a corpse-like army. The red wizard, the sword through Taristan’s chest, and his leering white smile. How Sir Grandel stumbled and fell, never to stand again. How the squire could only watch and run away with little more than his own skin.

  Andry expected the cold whispers to rise with his memories, but there was only his own voice to fill his head.

  “I should have fought,” he hissed, glaring at his ruined boots. “It was my duty.”

  Erida slapped her hand against the throne, the noise jarring and slick as a whipcrack. Andry looked up to find her staring, her nostrils flared.

  “You came home. You survived,” she said firmly. “And what’s more, you’ve delivered a very important message.” With a will, she stood, her robe flowing around her. She stepped lightly, descending from the dais to join Andry on the stones. “I’ve spent more time studying diplomacy and languages than Spindle lore. But I know my histories. Allward was a realm of crossing once, subject to great magic and terrible monsters, we mortals warring with dangers we must never face again. That cannot come to pass. If what you say is true, if this Taristan can cut open Spindles long dead, then he is very dangerous indeed, and he has an army at his back.”

  “The likes of which none of us have ever seen,” Andry admitted, feeling the pull of their hands again. The creatures of Taristan’s army shrieked in his head, their voices like scraping metal and cracking bone. “I know it sounds impossible.”

  “I have never known you to be a liar, Andry Trelland. Not even when we were children, fibbing to the cooks for extra desserts.” She drew a breath and dipped her head. “I am sorry for what you have lost.”

  Though her junior by two years, Andry was much taller than the Queen. But somehow she was able to look up at him without seeming small.

  “They were your own knights, not mine,” he said.

  “That’s not what I meant,” the Queen murmured softly, looking him over again. Andry saw the same young girl in her eyes, set apart from the rest of the children. Eager to smile and laugh and play, but isolated too. Forever marked as a princess, without the freedoms of a page boy or a maiden or even a servant child.

  The young girl vanished with the tightening of her jaw. “You will speak of this to no one, Squire,” she added, turning back to her throne.

  Without thinking, Andry followed quickly on her heels, his gut churning. We were caught off guard. That cannot happen again. “People must be warned—”

  Erida did not falter, her voice stern and unyielding. She knew how to make herself heard.

  “The Spindles are myth to most, legends and fairy stories, as vanished as Elders or unicorns or any other great magic born of other realms. To speak of one returned, torn open, and a man who would wield it like a spear into our hearts? A man who cannot be harmed at the head of a corpse army?” She glanced at Andry over her shoulder, her gaze like two sapphires. “I am ruler of Galland, but I am a queen, not a king. I must be careful in what I say, and what weapons I give my enemies. I will not give anyone cause to call me weak-minded or mad,” she snapped, clearly upset. “I cannot move without proof. Even then, it would cause panic in my capital. And panic in a city of half a million souls will kill more than any army that walks the Ward. I must be careful indeed.”

  Ascal was a bloated metropolis, sprawling across the many islands in the delta of the Great Lion. The streets were crowded, the markets overrun, the canals dirty, and the bridges prone to collapse. There had been riots after King Konrad died: opposition to a girl assuming his throne. Fires in the slums, floods at the ports. Disease. Bad harvests. Religious upheaval between the dedicant orders. A criminal underbelly thick as smoke. Nothing compared to what comes, Andry knew. Nothing compared to what Taristan can do.

  He gritted his teeth. “I don’t understand” was all he could muster, running up against the wall of the Queen’s resolve.

  It was not to be climbed.

  “It isn’t for you to understand, Andry,” she said, knocking on the door to her apartments. It swung open to show her Lionguard knights waiting in the passage beyond, rigid in their armored rows. “You need only obey.”

  There was no argument to be had with the Queen of Galland.

  Andry bowed at the waist, biting back every retort rising in his throat. “Very well, Your Majesty,” he said.

  She paused, the knights shifting into formation as she took one last look at the squire. “Thank you for coming home.” Her face was bittersweet. “At least your mother won’t have another knight to bury.”

  I’m not a knight. And I never will be.

  His heart tightened in his chest. “A small mercy.”

  “May the gods protect us from whatever comes of this,” Erida murmured, turning away.

  The door slammed shut, and Andry all but ran from the throne room, eager to tear off his clothes and scrub away the last few weeks. Anger overtook his sorrow long enough to propel him through the passages of the New Palace, his feet guiding him down familiar halls.

  The gods had their chance.

  Asleep, Lady Valeri Trelland did not look ill. She was tucked in comfortably, a fine silk sleeping cap pulled over her hair. She wore no cares upon her face, the skin around her mouth and eyes relaxed. She seemed younger by decades, still a beauty despite the sickness burrowing in her body. They had similar faces, Andry and his mother. Her skin was darker, a polished ebony, but they shared the same high cheekbones and full lips, and their hair, thick, black, and curly. It was an odd thing for the squire to look into a mirror
and see his mother. Odder still to see what she’d been before the sickness came, reaching with wet hands for the candle burning so brightly inside her.

  She rattled a breath, and he winced, feeling the raw edge of her pain in his own throat.

  Sleep, Mother, he willed, counting the seconds as her chest rose and fell. He braced for a coughing attack, but it never came.

  Her bedchamber was hot, the air close, with the firewood piled high in the hearth. Andry sweated in his fresh clothes but did not move from his spot on the wall, wedged between a tapestry and a narrow window.

  Even with the fire, he felt the cold, the icy finger of dread running down his spine.

  It must be hidden.

  The whispers spoke with a voice like winter, brittle and cracking. They were a woman, a man, a child, a crone. Impossible to pin down. He shivered as they returned, rising to a howl inside his head.

  It is hidden! he wanted to shout, his jaw clenched tight. The cold played along his ribs.

  It must not be spoken of.

  His teeth gnashed. I said nothing of it. Not to anyone. Not even the Queen, he answered. It felt like madness. It could be madness, born of slaughter and sorrow.

  The voices had first come on the road home, with the Elder stallion beneath him and the Spindleblade lashed to his saddle. He nearly fell from the horse but pushed on, trying to outrun what was already in his head. No matter how far or how fast he rode, they never left him behind.

  There was laughter and sadness in the whispers, both in equal measure. This you are bidden, they hissed, letting the words carry over him. Keep it hidden.

  Andry wanted to brush the voices away but remained pressed against the wall. He would not break his silent vigil, keeping watch over his ailing mother.

  And the Spindleblade concealed beneath her bed, a secret to all but Andry Trelland.

  3

  BETWEEN THE DRAGON

  AND THE UNICORN

  Corayne

  After two glasses of wine, Corayne’s head felt light. Her mind spun, already dreaming of lands beyond Lemarta. The palisade cities of the Jyd, raider country. Nkona and the Bay of Marvels. Almasad, the grand port of Ibal, home to the largest fleet in the realm. She shook her head and nudged her cup away, sliding it over a familiar, greasy table in the corner of the Sea Queen. The seden bar was named long before the time of Captain an-Amarat, but everyone liked to pretend it was named for her.

  Meliz looked the part, sprawled in the corner with her back to the wall and her smile to the room. The candlelight gleamed in her hair, crowning her with rubies. Kastio sat by the door to the street, surrounded by sailors and townspeople alike. With the captain returned, he had no cause to nanny Corayne. He swayed, his lightning-blue eyes lidded, a half-empty glass in hand. The crew were well into their cups of wine and flagons of ale. Their voices filled the common room, their bronzed and sunburned bodies crammed into the narrow space. Most needed a wash. Corayne didn’t mind. Stinking sailors were better than another lonely evening.

  She studied them. The Tempestborn picked up two new recruits on the voyage. White-faced twins from the Jyd, barely older than she, but tall and broad, of raider blood.

  Two gained, four lost, Corayne thought. Faces swam before her eyes, crew she would never see again.

  Four dead.

  She heaved a breath, the wine turning to courage in her belly. “Mother—”

  “Put out the word I’m looking for oarsmen,” Meliz interrupted, swirling her glass.

  Her demand caught Corayne off guard. She blinked, confused. “We’ve at least two weeks before we need to prepare for another run, and we can do that shorthanded if need be.”

  Short sails in easy water, running light and quick routes along the coast. Corayne knew the voyages of the Tempestborn too well and planned around them as best she could. The summer runs are without much danger. Good to learn on.

  Meliz’s grin slid, a mask coming undone. “Strong backs, good rhythm, no fuss.”

  “For what destination? For when?” Changes in schedule meant mistakes, greater risk. And it threw her own plans into disarray.

  “Are you my mother now?” Meliz teased, but her voice was sharp. “Just make sure they’re good recruits. I’ve no need for wide-eyed imbeciles looking for an adventure, chasing a Spindle story or a fairy tale or plain old glory on the Long Sea.”

  Corayne flushed. Her voice dropped. “Where are you going, Mother?”

  “They have a tendency to die, and die disappointed,” Meliz muttered, pulling at her wine.

  “Since when have you minded losing crew?” Corayne snapped, half to herself. The words tasted bitter in her mouth, unfair and unwise. She wanted to call them back as soon as they passed her lips.

  “I always mind, Corayne,” Meliz said coldly.

  “Where are you going?”

  “The winds look to be favorable.”

  “The winds will still be favorable in a month’s time.”

  Meliz looked to the windows, in the direction of the Sea, and Corayne felt lost.

  “The Jaiah of Rhashir has finally died, leaving sixteen sons to war for his throne. Some say he died of his age or illness. Some say he was murdered. Either way, the conflict makes things easier for us. It is a good opportunity,” Meliz said firmly and quickly. As if the words needed only be spoken to become true.

  A map ate up Corayne’s vision in a weathered swirl of blue, green, and yellow. She saw it clearly in her head, the familiar sea lanes and coasts, rivers and mountains, borders and kingdoms. All places she had never seen but still knew, had heard of but never set foot in. Miles flew past, racing from Lemarta to the Tiger Gulf, the Allforest, the Crown of Snow—the great wonders of distant lands. She tried to picture Jirhali, the great capital of Rhashir, a city of pale green sandstone and burnished copper. Corayne’s imagination failed her.

  “It’s near four thousand miles to their shores, as the crow flies,” she breathed, opening her eyes. There was only the map. Her mother was already far away, well beyond her reach. “With a good wind, favorable current, no storms, no trouble . . . you’ll be gone for months at best.” Her voice caught. “If you return at all.”

  A dangerous voyage, far from what we planned.

  Meliz did not move. “It is a good opportunity. Have the ship prepared. We leave in three days.”

  So soon, Corayne cursed, her fingers curling on the tabletop. “I must ask—”

  “Don’t,” Meliz said without blinking, raising her glass to her lips again.

  An angry spark flared in Corayne’s chest, chasing off her fear. “In winter you said—”

  “I made no promises in winter.”

  Her word was so terribly final, like the closing of a door.

  Corayne clenched her jaw, using all her will to keep her hands on the table and not slap the wine from her mother’s grasp. Something roared in her ears, drowning out all sound but her mother and the refusal.

  You knew what she would say, she thought. You knew and you prepared. You’re ready to earn this.

  “I’m a year older than you were when you went to sea.” Corayne willed herself to look part of the crew. Determined, confident, capable. All things she was to so many people. So many but for Mother.

  Meliz clenched her jaw. “It wasn’t my choice then.”

  Corayne’s reply was quick, the arrow already nocked and aimed. “I’m more use on the water. I’ll hear more; I can bargain; I can guide. Think of what the Tempestborn was before I started helping. Aimless, disorganized, barely scraping by, dumping half your cargo for want of a buyer,” Corayne said, trying her best not to beg. Her mother did not move, did not blink, did not even seem to listen. “I know the charts almost as well as Kireem or Scirilla. I can help, especially on a voyage so long and so far away.”

  You sound stupid. You sound like a child pleading for a favorite toy. Be reasonable. Be logical. She knows your value; she knows and cannot deny it. Corayne took a breath, quieting her thoughts even as she spoke aloud.


  “With me on board your profits will triple, at the very least.” Corayne clenched her fist on the tabletop. “I guarantee you that. And I won’t even take payment.”

  There was more to say: more lists to rattle off, more hard truths her mother would not be able to brush aside. But Meliz only stared.

  “My decision is made, Corayne. Not even the gods can change it,” the captain said, her voice shifting. Corayne heard some begging in her too. “My love, you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

  Corayne narrowed her black eyes. “Oh, I think I do.”

  Something crumbled in Meliz, like a wall tumbling down.

  “I’m good at my job, Mother,” Corayne said, stony. “And my job is to listen, to think, to connect and anticipate. You think the people here don’t talk about you and your crew?” She pointed with her chin to the rest of the room, carrying on in their loud manner. “About what you do out there on the open water?”

  Meliz leaned forward so quickly Corayne nearly fell from her seat.

  “We’re criminals, yes,” the captain hissed. “We move around crown laws. We transport what others won’t or can’t. That’s what smuggling is. There’s a danger to it. You’ve known that your entire life.” The explanation was expected too, another lie of Meliz an-Amarat. “My operation is dangerous, that’s true,” the woman pushed on. “I’m at risk every time we set sail; so is every person in this room. And I will not risk you with the rest of us.”

  “The Jydi recruits. They survived, didn’t they?” Corayne asked, her tone flat and detached. At the bar, the pale-skinned twins looked as jumpy as rabbits in a snare.

  Meliz scowled. “They joined up in Gidastern. Fled some godsforsaken clan war.”

  More lies. She fixed her mother with a dark stare, hoping to see through her. Hoping Meliz knew she was seen through.

  “They survived whatever ship you found in the Watchful Sea, whatever ship you attacked, emptied, and sank,” she said.

  “For once that isn’t true,” Meliz snapped back, near to spitting. “You with all your charts and your lists. That doesn’t mean you know what the world is really like. The Jydi aren’t raiding. Something is wrong in the Watchful. Those boys were running, and I gave them a place to go.”