Realm Breaker

by Aveyard, Victoria

  “I see we’re using the word letter lightly,” she muttered before putting it aside. A low chuckle passed around the table. “Have the pelt sent to my residence in the Castlewood, and a letter of thanks sent to the Jyd.”

  “The Crown Prince of Madrence, at least, has given up his hopes,” Harrsing offered. She put a hand to her necklace. Her skin was paper thin, near translucent, showing blue veins beneath. “Orleon weds a Siscarian princess at the turn of the month. We can cross him off.”

  The small victory was bittersweet. Erida grit her teeth, loath to say what she must. “Can I not dangle myself a bit longer? I’d like to give our soldiers enough time to rally along the Madrentine border. As soon as the pretense of marriage is gone, we begin our push to the ocean. And I’d rather not fight both Madrence and Siscaria if I don’t have to.”

  “I can try.” Harrsing bowed her head. “I’ll send word of your . . . renewed interest to the court at Partepalas.”

  Thornwall scratched his beard. “I’ll do the same and alert our encampments near Rouleine.”

  “Good,” Erida said. The Third Legion was already nearby, stationed among the forts and castles of the tumultuous border. Twenty thousand men will be ready to fight before the autumn sets in. “How long will they need?”

  “The First Legion dispatched from the capital forts two weeks ago.” The old soldier leaned back in his chair and blew out a breath, counting out the days on his fingers. “Riding hard, on the Cor roads, without incident, I’d say the knights and cavalry would arrive in less than four weeks’ time. The infantry—swords, pikes, archers, and whatever peasant we press into picking up an ax—another two months.”

  The Queen nodded. “Then buy us three, Bella.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “I’d rather be bait than a prize,” Erida said. If I am to be dangled on a hook, I’d like to do so under my own terms, for my own ends. “Well, if there are no more suitors to discuss . . .”

  “There are plenty,” Konegin ground out.

  Talk of war always emboldened her, and Erida put a hand down on the table. She leaned toward her older cousin, careful to keep her temper in check. Though women have more right to anger than men.

  “And none who tempt me, or Galland,” she told him. To her delight, he drew back in his seat. “If I am to marry, I will do it for the good of my crown. To strengthen my throne instead of selling it. We are the successors to Old Cor, the rightful empire, the glory of the Ward. Find me a husband worthy of that destiny, of my father’s and grandfather’s dream. Find me a champion.”

  A high bar to clear. Impossible, perhaps. And that was her aim. Set a target so small none could hit it. If the Crown Council guessed as to Erida’s true intentions, they did not say so or show it. They would not call their queen a liar, young as she was. Nor am I lying, she thought. If such a man exists, I will marry him, and wield him like the sword I cannot carry. To carve out an empire like the days of old, from one edge of the map to the other, uniting all beneath the Lion. Beneath me.

  “There are the funerals to see to,” Ardath said softly, drawing Erida back from her musings. “Though we’ve had no word yet. It’s possible they never find the bodies.”

  Erida nodded. She’d selected the riders herself, from the ranks of the Lionguard. To look for the corpses of Tyr and the Norths. And the army of ruin, should it exist at all.

  “Body or not, they shall be buried in honor, with all the glory they earned in life. Sir Grandel, Sir Raymon, and Sir Edgar will long be in our memories,” she said, and it was the truth. The knights had guarded her since the coronation, and her father before. While she would not weep over their loss, she was upset to lose them still.

  Konegin nodded in agreement, but his eyes were sharp. “What of the squire?”

  The mention of Andry Trelland sent lightning through the Queen, down her spine and into her fingers. If what he said comes to pass, if what he saw in the hills was real, if a Spindle is torn, if the stories and fairy tales are true . . .

  But Erida forced an uninterested shrug. “I’m sure another knight will take him on. He’s a fine young man; it should be no trouble to find a place for him.”

  “He said nothing of his plans when he returned? Bloody and alone in the middle of the night?” Konegin pressed. Now it was his turn to lean over the table. “Again, I ask, what did he tell you?”

  Though every instinct of etiquette told her to sit back, to make herself small, to smile demurely and placate her cousin with her feminine gentility, Erida did not. Her hand curled into a fist, the grand ring of state difficult to ignore. The rough-cut emerald gleamed sharply.

  “Andry Trelland’s words were for my ears and mine alone,” she said. After weeks of questioning, she could recite it in her sleep. “Rambling, mostly. The boy was traumatized by the slaughter of his lord and the others. But the specifics are known. I’ve told you as much.”

  “Killed by a horde of Jydi raiders, yes. All butchered but for the squire.” The lie had been an easy one to reach for, and an easy one to believe. “Seeking what we do not know, accompanied by a band of warriors without name, for a purpose we cannot fathom,” Konegin barked, slapping down a hand.

  Harrsing jumped in her seat.

  “Some decrepit Elder, some Spindlerotten witch calls and you send three knights without question, without even consulting us, without even telling us why. And now we must fill their empty graves!” The lord ran a hand through his hair, setting the golden strands on end.

  Erida watched him collect himself with a shrewd eye.

  “Your Majesty,” he added softly, an afterthought as much as a warning.

  The Queen held her tongue. She felt fire in her throat, and it would not do to loose it here, kindling that could turn into a blaze.

  Lady Harrsing was good enough to speak in her queen’s stead. “We have not heard nor seen the Elders in a generation,” she said primly. “Tell me, my lord, would you not have done the same? Would you not have sent men to answer a monarch’s summons?”

  Erida narrowed her eyes, knowing her cousin well enough to guess.

  He would have gone himself. Taken a retinue of knights and his own men-at-arms, a wagon of gifts, a parade of servants, and a pair of heralds to shout his titles and his bloodline. Make way for Lord Rian Konegin, grandson of Konrad the Great, King of Galland. He would have been a spectacle for commons and immortals alike, as close to an emperor of Old Cor as he could make himself, Erida thought. Her jaw clenched. And if I were not chained to this throne, I would have done it too.

  Konegin was undeterred. He glanced at Derrick and Thornwall, looking for support. “I’d like to summon the squire and hear his story for myself.”

  After four years of rule, Queen Erida was as skilled an actress as any of the pantomime players on the stages of the Ascal streets. Her strength flagged as she bowed inward, her shoulders drooping as she shut her eyes. She passed a hand over her face.

  “Trelland’s agony is my burden to bear, Lord Konegin. Mine alone,” she said wearily. “That is the cost of the crown.”

  A crown you will never claim.

  It was enough to placate even Konegin, who retreated like a shattered army.

  Erida dropped her hand, and her mask of sympathy. Her face turned cold as she stood from the table, dismissing them with her action.

  “Konegin still has not presented his son as a suitor.”

  Only Harrsing stayed behind. Even Erida’s Lionguard had retreated to the hallway, giving their queen a private audience with the old woman. The two stood by the largest window, watching the river as it carried on to Mirror Bay. Green freshwater swirled with darker salt. On the far bank, the famed Garden of Ascal stretched along its island, its trees and flowers manicured to perfection. Despite the heat, nobles and the wealthy merchants of the capital strolled the lawns and paths of the Garden, their shrieking children in tow.

  Erida contemplated the greenery across the water. She’d played there as a child, surrounded b
y a circle of knights. As the only heir of the king, her life was more precious than any treasure. I never even skinned my knees. There was always someone to catch me.

  With a sigh, she turned to face her advisor. The usual headache thrummed at her temples.

  “Because Konegin wants to take my country by force instead of marriage. He’d rather sit the throne himself than put a grandchild upon it peacefully,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “He’ll only push Herry at me when he has no other choice.”

  Heralt Konegin, the Prince of Toads. An apt nickname for Erida’s mean, squat, and croaking cousin, who did little but drink and stare, fog-eyed. Her stomach twisted at the thought of having such a person foisted upon her.

  “There are still suitable partners,” Harrsing said, gently guiding Erida away from the window. The Queen allowed herself to be led. “Easy to control, rich in land, gold, armies. Good men who will protect you and your throne.”

  Protect me. Erida wanted to retch. There is no man upon the Ward who would not take my crown if he could, nor one who is worth the risk of losing it.

  “I decide who is suitable, Bella. And so far, I have seen none,” she said. Though the old woman returned her to the table, it was Harrsing who leaned heavily on the Queen’s arm. While her health was certainly better than Ardath’s, there was no denying the age that weighed on Bella. Erida winced at the thought of losing her, and she forced a smile instead. “No, not even your Ibalet princeling,” she said, winking at the old woman. “Who you so often forget to mention is your grandson.”

  Harrsing shrugged with a wry smile. “I just assume it’s common knowledge.”

  “Indeed,” Erida mused.

  The map wall of the council chamber flashed with light rippling off the river. It seemed to dance, the lines of rivers and coasts and kingdoms bending and changing. Erida watched and, for a moment, saw no kingdoms at all. None but her own, in every corner of the Ward. She stopped before the painting, her face raised.

  “Before his death, my father made his wishes known,” she said. “They are easy to remember. There were only two.”

  Harrsing bowed her head. “Erida of Galland chooses her own husband. None shall be forced upon her.”

  Again Erida ached in her chest, and wished her father were still alive. His decrees held weight, even in death, but they would not protect her forever. And while Erida was queen, she was a woman first, in the eyes of most. Untrustworthy, unfit, too weak to rule. History gorges itself on women raised high and then brought low by men grasping for their power. I will not be one of them. I will not lose what my father gave me.

  I will make it greater.

  On the map, the golden city of Ascal gleamed.

  “My father also said Galland is the glory of the Ward, Old Cor reborn, an empire to be remade.” The old Cor roads, straight and true, were stark against the map, inlaid with precious stones. They bound the great cities of the Ward, spreading over the old borders. “I do not intend to disappoint him.”

  Harrsing grinned in approval. “The Crown Council is with you.”

  Until they aren’t, Erida knew. Until they find someone else they’d rather stand behind. Even Bella Harrsing, who had known her since birth, who had served her father before her—even she would abandon Erida if the need came. If a better opportunity presented itself.

  “That poor squire,” Harrsing carried on, pulling them away from the map and the council table. “I can’t get him out of my mind. Having to watch his lords be slaughtered by those northern animals.”

  A sour taste filled Erida’s mouth. Usually Harrsing was far less obvious in her needling. Who has the boy been speaking to?

  “A tragedy, to be sure,” Erida said demurely, her eyes downcast.

  Heroes murdered, Spindles torn, a madman with an army. The entire realm in danger. Erida mulled over his harried ranting again. Truth or madness? Still she could not say.

  In the hall, the Lionguard waited, as did Erida’s ladies and handmaidens. All rose to her pleasure, ready to serve their young queen. In their many-colored gowns and flowing skirts, they looked like a school of fish moving as one. Toward food. Away from a predator. Both.

  “Send word to Lady Trelland and her son,” Erida said to her maidens. “I would like to visit them and pay my respects for our lost knights.”

  Harrsing nudged her shoulder. “After the petitions.”

  “Of course.” Erida sighed, already tired.

  Would that I could do away with this entire tradition, useless as it is. Petitions day meant hours upon the throne, hearing the complaints and demands of nobles, merchants, soldiers, and peasants alike. Mostly it meant keeping her eyes open, deflecting their troubles as best she could.

  “How many present themselves as suitors?” she asked wearily, looping her arm into the old woman’s. The record currently stood at twelve in a day.

  “Only one. I’m told he’s quite fetching.”

  Erida scoffed low in her throat, unamused. “Tell me something of use.”

  All thoughts of Andry Trelland faded, eclipsed by the demands of a crown.

  “Well, let’s get on with it.”

  8

  UNDER THE BLUE STAR

  Andry

  The water steamed, hot over the fire in their small parlor. He could have called for servants to bring tea from the kitchens, but Andry preferred to make it himself. He knew what Lady Valeri preferred, and it was best served piping hot. Their apartments, lovely as they were, were far from the sprawling palace kitchens. Besides, Andry liked to watch the water and wait. It gave him something to think about besides blood and slaughter. Besides the cold, crackling whispers waiting in the corners of his mind.

  He stared into the pot over the fire, the surface of the water rippling with slow bubbles. Herbs swirled with an inner current, peaceful and predictable. Andry tried to lose himself in the pattern. Even so, the cries of fallen heroes found him. He wrenched his gaze to the fire, willing their screams away. But the coals cracked and burned, split with flame and ash.

  White hands, red eyes, skin like charred wood.

  “Ambara-garay,” said a weak voice. Have faith in the gods. His mother put a hand on his shoulder and Andry turned, pulled from his waking nightmare.

  She hovered over him, her smile thin but bright. Without thought, Andry took her fingers and kissed them. He jumped to stand.

  “Sit, Mama,” he urged, all but lifting her into his chair by the hearth.

  Valeri Trelland did not argue. She was a tall woman, but wispy, and she curled into herself when she took the seat. Andry tucked her shawl around her narrow shoulders, focused on keeping her covered and comfortable. Despite her illness, the cold that seemed to live in her chest, Lady Valeri was still striking in her beauty. She was not called the jewel of her kin for no reason. Andry saw it even on her worst days, the way a light seemed to glow in her skin, like a dark garnet filled with sunshine. Her hair was short now, braided tightly to her head, the ends set with gold rings. Her eyes seemed larger in her drawn face. They were the rare green of young wheat, hesitant to give over to gold. Andry envied her eyes. His own were a muddy brown. My father’s. But the rest of him looked like Valeri, with his black hair and high cheekbones.

  “Here you are,” he said, preparing her cup of tea with sure, quick movements. Lemon, cinnamon, clove, sweetsalt, honey. The bounty of summer in the Gallish capital, when all the Ward seemed to cross from Rhashir to the Jydi snows.

  Valeri took the cup and breathed in, smiling. The wet rattle in her chest loosened. Andry pulled another chair to the fire and sat, content to watch her sip her tea.

  Andry and his family had never lived in a house of their own. His father had been a knight in the king’s service, his mother a lady to the old queen and then Erida. His home was these rooms, generously given to them to use even after his father was long dead and his mother too sick to serve. Sometimes he wondered if the Queen’s administrators had simply forgotten them. The New Pala
ce of Ascal was a monstrous place, walled onto its own island, a city unto itself, where thousands lived and worked at the Queen’s pleasure. It would be easy to overlook a squire and his ailing mother. Before, when he’d served Sir Grandel, Andry slept in the barracks or the Lionguard quarters, close at hand should his lord have need of him. Not anymore. He did not lament leaving the narrow cot in a room crowded with boys of varying ages and odors. But the circumstances by which he had returned to tend his mother were a price he wished he did not have to pay.

  The palace around them was two hundred years old, built of pale gray and yellow stone. They lived in the east wing, a long hall of apartments broken by courtyards, with the majority of the Queen’s courtiers. Their own were at the base of a tower, rounded slightly, its windows like narrowed eyes. Colorful tapestries decorated their walls, scenes of hunts and jousts and battles and feasts. They used to make Andry excited, eager to begin his life as a knight. Now the bright threads were dull, their scenes false.

  There is no blood, he thought, his eyes lingering on a woven depiction of the Battle of the Lanterns. In it, the armored legions of Galland fell upon the cities of Larsia, their great green-and-gold flag held high. Though swords and spears glinted in silver thread, they were clean, and the Larsians fell to their knees in surrender.

  We were never even given the chance. There was no mercy in that army, or that man. Andry squeezed his eyes shut and turned away even as the cursed image of Taristan rose in his mind. Corblood in his veins, a Spindleblade in his fist. Made of stone, made of flame, made of mortal flesh. Red blood, black armor, white hands, white ash, white-hot pain and anger and loss—

  “How go your petitions?”

  Andry blinked furiously, clearing his head. The hot sting in his eyes faded with his mother’s voice. “Sorry—what?”