Realm Breaker

by Aveyard, Victoria

  “It’s a few months only. I promise you that,” Meliz finally said, and a door slammed shut inside Corayne. A bridge collapsed. A rainstorm broke. A thread unwound.

  And another doorway yawned open.

  “Farewell,” Corayne forced through gritted teeth, tears stinging her eyes.

  Meliz already had her in hand, pulling her daughter tight to her chest. Into the cage of her arms. “Farewell, my girl,” she said, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Keep your feet on the shore and your face to the sea.”

  Corayne inhaled deeply, taking one last gasp of her mother. “How fare the winds?” she whispered into her coat.

  Her mother breathed the smallest sigh. “Fine, for they carry me home.”

  The Tempestborn disappeared over the horizon, her sails eaten by the sun. Corayne continued to watch, one hand raised to shade her eyes. Heat rose with the day, and a bead of sweat rolled down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her long cloak. She worried her lip between her teeth.

  “Kastio,” she said sharply.

  At her side, the old sailor turned his head. “Eh?”

  She gestured to the city streets winding up the hill. Already Lemarta clamored with noise. “I hear Doma Martia has just received a few good barrels of Tyri red.”

  “Seems a bit early for sampling Martia’s wine,” Kastio replied. “Even for me.”

  The coin was cold in her hand, winking silver between her fingers. Enough to buy many strong glasses. Corayne held the penny out to her guardian.

  “You must tell me how it is.”

  Kastio glared at the money but put out his hand all the same. “This is a bribe.”

  She smiled weakly. “Just a few hours, please. I need to be alone.”

  Once, the old man had been an officer in the Siscarian navy, an oarsman before that, and a ship’s boy long ago, though Corayne could hardly picture him without gray hair and wrinkles. She remembered his stories. Great battles on the sea, the wars with Galland and Tyriot. How bright the stars seemed in the middle of the water. How endless the world felt when the land fell away. All things she wanted and more.

  He studied her for a long moment, enough to make Corayne nervous. No matter how old or drunk he might be, Kastio was no fool. He was charged to guard her for a reason.

  “She was wrong not to take you, Corrie,” he murmured, giving her shoulder a squeeze.

  Corayne only stared as he walked off with his toddling gait. She tracked him through the blossoming crowd at the dock edge, then winding his way up to the Sea Queen and Martia’s wine cellar. Only when he disappeared around a corner did she exhale, surveying the port.

  No ship that will take me, no captain who will cross my mule- stubborn mother. The dock planks passed beneath her feet, echoing with heavy footsteps. The cloak felt heavy around her shoulders, far out of season. Perfect for travel.

  She leaves me no choice but one.

  The wood planks turned to stone as she stepped off the docks onto the long plaza lining the wharf. Corayne raised her eyes to search, scanning the familiar faces of Lemarta as they went about their lives. Her heartbeat rose in her chest, beating a wild rhythm.

  Corayne an-Amarat liked plans. And her first had sailed away without so much as a backward glance. Luckily, she had another.

  The sudden voice at her ear was lovely, a soft hiss.

  “Three days,” a woman whispered.

  Corayne did not flinch, turning to face Sorasa Sarn. Behind her, in a shadowed alcove at the edge of the square, she caught a flash of gold and green.

  “Three days,” Corayne replied.

  The assassin was not hooded today. For the first time, Corayne looked on her fully. She ran her eyes over Sorasa’s lean frame, agile even beneath her light, sand-colored cloak. The Amhara could not be older than thirty, with jet-black hair and skin like glowing topaz, golden and rich. Though she was clothed from neck to wrist, Corayne noted the tattoos she could see—the lines on her fingers, the snake behind her ear, the unmistakable wing of an eagle and sting of a scorpion peeking out at her neck. Each was an artistry, a masterwork of ink, a testament to her skill and her Amhara training. They drew her eye more than Sorasa’s dagger or sword.

  Sorasa sniffed. “There’ll be time for examination later, Spindlerot. We don’t want to keep the immortal annoyance waiting, do we?” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. In the alcove, Dom shifted his broad form.

  “Certainly not,” Corayne said. “Are you going to call me Spindlerot the entire time or just today?”

  “I’m still deciding.”

  The assassin set a sharp pace across the square, and Corayne followed neatly on her heels. She tried to keep her steps even, to walk instead of run. Still her heart thrummed, with both nerves and joy. Kastio will know I ran. Mother will be away for months. And even if she learns I’m gone, she’ll never turn back. Not for me.

  “It’s good she left you behind,” Sorasa murmured, taking her by surprise. “You’re better off this way.”

  A jolt went through Corayne. “Why’s that?”

  “Rhashiran civil wars are boring,” Sorasa drawled.

  Corayne blanched, following her into the shadowed corners of the market.

  The darkness did little to hide how out of place Dom looked in sunny, bronzed Siscaria. He bowed low, sweeping back his green cloak embroidered with antlers. The sword at his hip looked even more foolish than he did. Too big, too cumbersome, nothing like the light sabers or knives most sailors favored.

  “My lady Corayne,” he said. She pulled a face. “My apologies,” he added quickly.

  “I’ve met you twice and I’ve already lost count of how many times you’ve apologized to me, Domacridhan of Iona,” Corayne said, crossing her arms over her chest. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sorasa’s lips twitch.

  Dom kept silent. She could see the urge to apologize again written all over his magnificent face.

  “Well,” Corayne sighed. “You said you need me to save the realm.”

  He raised his eyes to hers. “I do.”

  Half of Corayne thought this stupid; the other half, impossible. But both sides were also in agreement. This is the best way out of here. To the horizon and beyond it. To whoever I am, in my bones.

  “So how do we . . . save the realm?” she said. It sounded ridiculous out loud.

  Dom smiled truly. His grin was a force to be reckoned with, white and wide, his teeth unsettlingly straight. Corayne wondered if all Elders were so offensively handsome. It felt unnatural.

  “Two things are needed to tear a Spindle, and the same are needed to close it,” he said, holding up a pair of long fingers. “Spindleblood—and a Spindleblade.”

  “I guess I’m the blood.” Corayne glanced down at herself, from her worn cloak to her old boots. She certainly did not look like whatever she was supposed to be. “Where’s the blade?”

  Dom did not hesitate.

  “The Royal Court of Ascal.”

  7

  THE QUEEN OF LIONS

  Erida

  The list of names never stopped growing. Erida wished she could burn it up or rip it apart, but she sat quietly instead, cursing every suitor asking for her hand. It’s to be expected, she told herself. She was nineteen years old, wealthy, beautiful, well bred, educated, and skilled in all the talents of a proper noblewoman. Not that any of my accomplishments mean much of anything. It’s the crown they want, the crown that draws hopeful proposals. Not my striking blue eyes or sharp wit. I could be a tree stump for all they care.

  The Queen of Galland had ruled for four years, since her coronation at fifteen. She was well accustomed to her duties and the expectations that came with her throne. But it does not make them any easier, she thought, adjusting herself in her seat.

  Though it had been only an hour in the council chamber, she was already sore, her back kept ramrod straight by an ornately carved chair and the tight lacing of her green velvet gown. The low ceiling of the round tower room did not help matters ei
ther, pushing down the oppressive heat of afternoon. At least today her head was bare; she did not have to suffer the weight of heavy gold or silver. Her ash-brown hair lay unbound, falling in waves over pale white shoulders. Behind her stood two knights of the Lionguard, in their ceremonial golden armor and bright green capes. How they stood the heat, she did not know.

  Erida always held Crown Council in one of the high towers of the keep, the fortress heart of the New Palace, even in high summer. It was a round room, stern and gray like a grizzled old guard. The windows of the chamber were thrown wide to catch the breeze off the water. The palace was an island in the delta of the Great Lion, surrounded on all sides by river channels and canals. Gates kept the water around the palace clear, but the rest of the delta was jammed with galleys, trade cogs, merchant ships, barges, and ships of the fleet, all coming and going throughout the sprawling capital.

  Her councillors listened in rapt attention, seated around their table with Erida at its head. Lord Ardath stood, leaning heavily as he read another letter aloud with a laborious wheeze. He paused every few moments to hack into a handkerchief. The old man lived perched on the cliff edge of death, and had done so for a decade. Erida didn’t bother to fear for his health anymore.

  “And so, I am humbled—” He gasped and coughed again. Erida winced, feeling her own throat twinge. “To offer Your Majesty my hand in marriage, to join our lives and futures together. I pray you accept my proposal. May they sing of us from the Gates to the Garden. Yours unto death, Oscovko Trecovik, Lord of the Borders, Blood Prince of Trec . . . and so on with all the other titles that muddy troll likes to trumpet,” Ardath finished, dropping the letter onto the council table.

  An apt description, Erida thought. She had met Prince Oscovko only once, and that was enough. Covered in shit after passing out in a military camp latrine ditch. If he was handsome, she could not tell under the layers of fetid grime and wine stink.

  Lord Thornwall picked up the letter quickly. He was a small man, thin and shorter than Erida herself, with graying hair and a red beard as furious as the armies he commanded. Even in the council chamber, he insisted on wearing armor, as if a skirmish might break out at the table. He squinted at the untidy scrawl of the letter, then at the seal and signature.

  From her seat, Erida could easily see the mark of the crowned white wolf, the sigil of the Treckish royal family. She could also see the varied misspellings and cross-outs marring the page, as well as several inky fingerprints.

  “Written in the Prince’s own hand,” Erida surmised, twisting her lips.

  “Indeed it is,” Thornwall said gruffly.

  He slid the letter to Lady Harrsing, a veteran of many years in the royal court. She sneered at it, deepening the lines on her face. Bella Harrsing was just as old as Ardath, though far better preserved.

  At least she can breathe without losing a lung.

  “Don’t even bother putting his name on the list,” she said, refusing to touch the paper.

  Across the table, the fortress of a man named Lord Derrick scoffed. “You champion that infant still learning his letters in Sapphire Bay but won’t consider a king’s son on our own doorstep?”

  Lady Harrsing eyed him, and his flushed, round cheeks, with distaste. “I’d wager Andaliz an-Amsir knows his letters better than this pestering oaf, or you, my lord. And he is a prince too, of a nation far more useful.”

  Their bickering was endless and familiar. Though it felt like putting a spike through her own skull, Erida let Harrsing and Derrick carry on like rival siblings. The longer they argue, the longer I can draw out this distasteful process of selling myself like a prize cow, she thought. And the more time I have to think.

  It had been weeks since Andry Trelland had returned to Ascal alone, speaking of Spindle doom and a conqueror from nowhere. Taristan of Old Cor. The blood and blade of Spindles, with a rabid army hidden in the mountains, horrific beasts under his will.

  She sat in silence, her face still and unreadable. Like a scale, she weighed the squire’s words, as she had every morning and every evening since. Did Trelland speak the truth? Is there a devil on the horizon, meant to swallow us whole?

  She could not know for sure.

  The lie is the right choice, the better option. For me and my kingdom.

  Harrsing and Derrick continued their sniping, weighing their chosen candidates for marriage. Truthfully, Erida despaired of both Oscovko and the Ibalet princeling, as she did every other name on that wretched list.

  Lord Konegin remained as silent as the Queen, sprawled in his chair at her right hand. He was a cousin to Erida’s father, and he too had the piercing blue eyes and thoughtful manner of the royal line. The ambition too, Erida thought. While the rest sat on the Crown Council to advise the Queen, hand-selected for their value, she’d chosen Konegin to keep an eye on a potential usurper to the throne.

  He watched Harrsing and Derrick as one would a game of rackets played down in the garden. His eyes moved between them while they volleyed jabs back and forth. With his blond hair, striking glare, and strong, bearded jaw, Konegin looked too much like Erida’s father. He even dressed like him, done up in simple but fine green silk, with a gold-and-silver chain hung from shoulder to shoulder, wrought lions roaring its length. It made her heart ache for a man four years gone.

  “Put the name on the list,” Konegin eventually said, his voice flat and final.

  Derrick shut his mouth at once, an action Erida did not miss. But Harrsing drew herself up to argue, a foolish endeavor where Konegin was concerned.

  Erida reluctantly cut her off. “Do as my cousin says.”

  Dutiful Ardath dipped his quill in a pot of ink and scratched the Prince of Trec’s name onto the long parchment that would decide her fate. She felt every letter carved into her skin.

  “But we must have a care for his position,” she added sternly.

  “He is a second son, yes, but this would secure our northern border,” Thornwall began. He was never without his battle maps and was quick to point to the Gates of Trec, a gap in the Mountains of the Ward that cut the northern continent in two.

  Erida resisted the urge to tell her military commander that she knew geography better than he did. Instead she stood and walked slowly to the massive, magnificent, painstakingly made map of Allward hung on the wall. It filled her vision, and she stood close enough so that all she could see was Galland, her birthright and her destiny. She looked over the familiar rivers and cities, their detail exquisite in the curved painting. Ascal itself stood at the center, her wall of yellow stone picked out in real gold leaf and chips of amber. Even the trees of the great forests of the Ward were drawn. It was the work of a master cartographer and master artist both, using swirls of paint and flecks of stone to create the realm of Allward.

  “Our army is five times the size of their own, by a conservative count. If the butchers of Trec wish to try the Gates, let them. But I will not wed myself to a kingdom that needs me more than I need it. And, you’ll notice,” she said, reaching up to trace her fingers along the map, “Trec has quite an unfortunate border of its own. Wedged between the glory of Galland and the wolves of the Jyd, not to mention the Temur emperor.” She pointed to each nation in turn, gesturing from the frozen wastes to the western steppe.

  Thornwall leaned back in his seat, looking thoughtful. “Bhur has not conquered in two decades. The Temurijon lies quiet and flourishing. His armies maintain the borders already drawn, nothing more.”

  For now. The peace held across the west by the might of Temurijon was near legendary, stretching for decades. Bought in blood, Erida knew. But such is the price of peace and prosperity.

  “The Emperor will not live forever, and I am far younger than he is,” she replied, returning to her chair. “I’m not willing to gamble on his sons, who might hunger for conquest as their father did in his youth. And I will not form an alliance that will send my soldiers across the mountains to fight and die for another throne, to save Treckish throats fro
m Temur blades.”

  Harrsing raised her chin. The apple-sized emerald at her neck gleamed. Along with being a shrewd counsellor, Lady Harrsing was the wealthiest woman in Galland. After the Queen, of course. “Well said, Your Majesty.”

  “Indeed, you see better than most of my generals,” Thornwall said. His gaze lingered on the smaller map still in hand. “Though I admit, I have wished to test the knights of Galland against the Temurijon’s Countless. What a war that would be.” His tone was wistful, almost dreamlike.

  “What a war,” Erida echoed.

  She saw it in her mind as clear as day. The Countless, the great army of the Temurijon steppes and Emperor Bhur, had never been defeated in battle. And none had tried them in decades. She wondered if the horse archers were still formidable, if Gallish steel and Gallish castles could weather such a storm if it came to break. And what kind of empire could rise from such a clash. With myself at its head, alone without equal. Without need for any other.

  “Our armies are prepared to fight and defeat any kingdom upon the Ward,” Konegin said sharply. “And any conflict with the Temurijon would be long in coming. It does us no use to dwell on it now. We have a different task close at hand.”

  “You are good to keep us on track, Cousin,” Erida muttered, feeling the opposite. He offered a false smile in return. “Keep Oscovko in contention. Are there any names to add? Or to remove?” She did her best not to sound hopeful.

  “Duke Reccio of Siscaria has offered his son and sent a portrait of his likeness,” Ardath wheezed. “I know you’d prefer not to wed so close a cousin, but I’ve had it put with the others. A Jydi clan leader also sent a bear pelt and her letter of intention.” He drew out a battered page from his folio and passed it to the Queen.

  “Her?” Lord Thornwall balked.

  Erida took it in stride. While the lower peoples of most kingdoms were free to wed as they chose, man or woman, between or neither, a ruling queen was bound by the possibility of children. “She would not be the first. And the Jyd don’t birth their heirs, they choose them. I cannot say the same.” The letter was not parchment but treated skin. Animal, I hope. There were only three words on it, poked in. You, me, together.