Realm Breaker

by Aveyard, Victoria

  Tonight it felt both endless and far too short.

  My ladies are nervous, she knew. They trailed at a distance, letting Erida walk alone. Like all but the Crown Council, they did not know who she had chosen to wed, or why. Erida counted no confidantes among their number. It was too dangerous to share secrets with her ladies-in-waiting, let alone befriend any one of them. Three were daughters of Gallish nobles, and the other two came from the courts of Larsia and Sardos. Their allegiances were elsewhere, to ambitious fathers or distant kings.

  Not to me. There are no companions for ruling queens. The weight on my shoulders is far different, and far more. My mind is my own and no one else’s.

  She folded her hands together, falling into her well-practiced air of calm, though she was anything but. Her pulse quickened with fear and anticipation. She would present her consort tonight and marry him in the morning. It had been announced only a few days ago, and the court had not ceased its buzzing ever since. Only the council knew her choice, and they were sworn to secrecy. To her surprise, they seemed to have kept their oath, even Konegin.

  For that, at least, Erida could be thankful.

  Yet her heart pounded. He is the best choice, the only choice. And he could still be my ruin, a jailor with a rogue smile, a king in all but name, holding my jeweled leash. It was a risk she had to take.

  Lord Konegin aimed to catch her by surprise, but Erida expected him to find her before her entrance. She was not disappointed.

  “My lord,” she said as he approached, moving to cut off her train of ladies and guards.

  He was nearly alone, accompanied only by a pair of knights sworn to his service. Where her own wore green with gold, his two armored men wore tunics of gold with green, the lion roaring and reversed. Konegin himself favored emerald from the rich leather of his boots to his brocade mantle fastened with a jeweled pin beneath his throat.

  His bow was pitiful, barely a jerk of his golden head. “Your Majesty,” he said. His chain of office winked at his neck. “I’m glad to have found you before all this begins.”

  As if you were not crouched around the corner like a hound waiting for scraps, Erida thought, forcing her smile.

  “Indeed, it has already begun if my seneschal is true,” she replied, waving a hand to the stout little man who oversaw the palace and its doings. He cowered behind her ladies. Very few members of the royal court cared to step between the Queen and her cousin, for no amount of gold nor glory. “The barrels are flowing free, and I believe the wine is being passed by now. From Siscaria tonight, isn’t it, Cuthberg? Now that the Madrentines are bothering us at the border again.”

  “Y-yes, Your Majesty. Siscarian red and a Nironese vintage from Sapphire Bay for your table,” the seneschal answered in a halting voice, though the Queen had little true interest.

  She held her cousin’s piercing gaze as she held her smile. Forcefully, with all her focus.

  “I must confess, I wish I saw more of your betrothed,” he said, fishing poorly. “I’ve barely been able to speak to him.”

  Erida waved a hand, dismissive. “He spends most of his time in the archives, both in the New Palace and in the Konrada vaults.” It was the truth, easy to tell.

  Konegin quirked a blond eyebrow. “A student of history?”

  “After a fashion. He wants to know all he can of Galland before he joins me on her throne.”

  The lord curled his lip with distaste.

  “Cousin, I understand your misgivings.” She spoke as kindly she could. Konegin was a scale to balance. He needed to know her worth, her power as queen, but not feel threatened by it, lest he be spurred to action. “Please know I hold your counsel in the highest regard.”

  Konegin pursed his lips, his beard closing over his mouth. “And yet you ignore it so easily, if you allow me to advise you at all.”

  “You have not been ignored.” Only men can speak all day long and still think themselves silent. “But the choice is my own. You swore an oath to my father to see that through.”

  “I did,” he answered sharply. “And I regret it.”

  A spark of anger flared in Erida’s chest. Any word spoken against her father was a word against the crown, the kingdom, against the blood in her own veins. She wanted to throw him in the stocks for even daring it. But what good would that do? she warned herself. His son is pathetic, but his lands are many, his reach long. There are many more loyal to Konegin than they are to me. It is better to wait, to fortify myself, to grow strong before trying the snake pit.

  Erida kept walking, her pace slow as to not be rude. But enough to keep her party moving, the feast close on the horizon. Balance.

  Konegin fell in next to her.

  “You think him too lowborn for me, I know that,” she said evenly. For not the first time, Erida wished she had inherited her father’s height so she could look her cousin in the eye. “I see that. But trust me when I say I’m thinking of Galland, of the crown, of our country, in every second I live and breathe. He is the right choice for all of us, for what we can become.”

  Konegin scoffed. “I believe in flesh and blood, in what is real, Erida.”

  Ahead, a door loomed. Sanctuary. The passage, the great hall, the future. Freedom from loathsome cousins and false betrothals, from dreams unrealized and impossible.

  “So do I,” Erida replied. More than you know. “But, Cousin, you’ve spent all these years sitting my council, naysaying every name upon my list. Blood princes of Kasa, Ibal, Rhashir, Trec, every kingdom upon the Ward. The wealthiest heirs of Galland, the great princes of Tyriot. Men of means and power. You’ve never favored any of them, nor supplied a name yourself.” She surveyed him with a stern eye. “Suggest a suitor, Cousin, if you have one. Or accept who I have chosen, for the good of us all.”

  Lord Konegin turned sour. He chewed his thin lips, resisting as long as he could. This was a corner he had long avoided, a card he didn’t want to play yet. But your hand is forced. Lay it down and let me see, Erida thought, almost greedy. She felt victory in her teeth.

  “My son is unwed,” he ground out.

  The Prince of Toads, Lord Troll, a thirty-year-old boy with his father’s temper, his mother’s weak constitution, and a walrus’s gut. I’d just as soon marry a corpse. It would smell better.

  Even so, it was a consideration. If only to keep the crown from her cousin’s head. I would not be the first woman to wed for spite.

  “Your son is a valued member of my family, a beloved cousin as you are.” Both the Queen and the lord nearly laughed at the bold, bare-naked lie. They shared a smirk, like adversaries smiling over crossed blades. “I would think he has an embarrassment of princesses and wealthy heiresses clamoring for his hand.” To their detriment, poor women.

  “He does indeed,” the lord said, offering nothing else. “But Heralt would put them aside to serve Galland, to serve our noble and majestic blood.”

  Ahead, her knights flanked the double oak doors, and then wrenched them open to show a passage of antechambers. They were all dark wood, lacquered and polished, carved to intricate perfection. Each archway was the mouth of a lion, fanged and snarling. Erida imagined them snapping shut as she passed, barring Konegin’s way. Or biting him in two.

  “It’s good he doesn’t have to make such a sacrifice,” she said as she stepped into the passage. Her knights pressed in, their armor jangling in the closer quarters. All of them were broad and muscular, chosen for their strength and skill. Not to mention their tact. Shoulder to shoulder, the knights kept formation, effectively pushing her cousin away.

  Lord Rian Konegin settled back on his heels, his cloak spilling over one shoulder. Framed by the doorway, by the passing flutter of her ladies, he seemed a rock in the sea, unmoving as the waves crashed all around. The Queen turned away, satisfied with her own performance. The sea will conquer even mountains, given the time. And you will grow old long before I do, your power dying as mine blooms.

  Her voice was light, musical, girlish, a costume
as much as her scarlet gown.

  “Enjoy the feast, Cousin.”

  13

  THE NOOSE

  Corayne

  Dom brushed dust and dirt from his cloak, cleaning himself off after the debacle with the tunnel gate. Even though his appearance should be far, far down his list of priorities, Corayne thought, watching him rework the braid at the back of his head, gathering half his hair into a severely neat plait as he walked the now-dry tunnel. At least he’s effective. The cracked gate far behind them was testament of that.

  Though it felt like an eternity, winding through the heavy darkness, barely twenty more minutes passed before Sorasa’s torch illuminated the bottom of a spiraling staircase.

  “Finally,” Corayne said. She drank in a gasp of fresher air, tasting the difference.

  Dom glared at the steps. “You first, Sarn,” he growled low in his throat.

  The assassin sneered, ascending the steps. “An immortal Elder, hiding behind a woman and a child. How noble.”

  He didn’t rise to her needling, but a muscle feathered in his cheek.

  “I’m seventeen, hardly a child,” Corayne muttered under her breath, frowning at the stairs.

  Her legs were still sore from their days in the saddle. Just the prospect of the climb already had her thighs burning. And burn they did, after only a few minutes’ time. Her breath echoed, growing heavier by the second. Though she had run the cliffs of Lemarta since she was a child, mounting the steps of the port town without blinking an eye, this felt infinitely more difficult.

  She tried counting the steps, to pass the time and to keep her nerves level. Every step brings us closer to the palace above, to a sword that might not be there, to a queen who might not listen. Marching into the black unknown was like carrying a log across her shoulders. It weighted down every step, even the easy ones.

  “You said your squire is a lady’s son,” Sorasa said, her voice echoing down “He’ll be in the east wing, where the courtiers keep their apartments.”

  Corayne tried to check her labored breathing. She gulped down wet air. “Is that far?”

  “Not particularly.”

  That isn’t an answer.

  “You’ll go first. You can pass for a kitchen maid,” Sorasa added, looking over her shoulder. Without breaking stride, she ran her eyes over Corayne’s clothing. “Ask for his rooms. Simple.”

  Corayne looked down at her boots, her leggings, and a tunic dried stiff with salt spray. “I don’t look much like a maid.”

  Sorasa rolled her eyes so strongly Corayne nearly felt it. “You’re within the walls already,” she sighed. “Just keep your chin up, seem bored, speak plainly. And you’re a girl. Harmless. No one will bother looking at you twice.”

  Suddenly Corayne wished the steps were endless. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

  “It’s all right—” Dom began, but Sorasa cut him off with a click of her tongue.

  The assassin quickened her pace, as if in punishment for Corayne’s fear. “You’re the ship’s agent for one of the most notorious pirates of the Long Sea, and her daughter besides. I’m sure you’ve got steel in that spine somewhere.”

  Heat bloomed in Corayne’s cheeks, flaming against the cold, damp air of the stairwell. No spine, she heard her mother whisper in her ear. The memory shivered her and emboldened her in equal measure. I’ll show you spine.

  The stairs ended in a wide, flat room, dim but not dark, the ceiling supported by dozens of fat columns. An undercroft of some sort, very different in style from the ancient tunnels below. Sorasa led them through, picking out a path no one else could see, until they reached another set of stairs. Luckily, it was much shorter, and led to a single ancient door.

  Now Sorasa was quiet, and put her ear against it.

  With the slightest huff, Dom placed his hands on the Amhara’s shoulders. She tensed like a predator, a fist balled, one hand drawing her knife, even as he shifted her out of the way. Her eyes went wide, livid, her nostrils flaring as she sucked in a hissing, angry breath.

  Dom shot her a look of annoyance before laying his face against the door, his ear pressed up. Corayne nearly laughed aloud. Of course an Elder would hear better than any mortal, even an Amhara. It was simple logic.

  That didn’t calm Sorasa at all. “I’ve killed men for less,” she growled.

  “You’re welcome to try,” Dom said with disinterest, his focus elsewhere. He listened for a long second while the assassin seethed. “The room and passage beyond are empty. A guard is making his rounds above us, but moving away,” he said, drawing back to look down on them. “Perhaps let me do the spying from now on.”

  Sorasa dropped her torch. It spit embers across the stone. “About time you made yourself useful,” she hissed, reaching for the door.

  “About time you both shut your mouths,” Corayne muttered.

  The assassin paused, her teeth bared in a threatening smile. Her copper eyes darted, reflecting the weak light of the torch smoldering at their feet. “Well, I won’t burden you with my presence much longer.”

  Corayne wasn’t surprised. An assassin had no place in their quest; her road ended here. But still she felt the pang of loss. “You’re gone after we find Trelland.”

  “In the wind,” Sorasa said with a nod. Then she leered at Dom. “Until someone finishes his great task, and upholds his end of our bargain.”

  The shadows moved over his face, sharpening his features. He seemed old for a moment, as though the long years of immortality were finally catching up to him. “It will be upheld.”

  “Unless you die,” Sorasa said airily, pulling hard on the door.

  “Gods willing, if it means never seeing you again,” Dom muttered as it opened.

  Corayne blinked fiercely in the sudden light, her body tensing. She braced herself for shouting, a guard or a maid, someone to raise the alarm. But Dom had heard truly. There was no one on the other side, just a half-empty storeroom. The air was dry and stale. This room was forgotten, barely used. From this side, the door was unremarkable, old wood threatening to splinter. It had no handle or doorknob Corayne could see.

  No one will be coming back this way.

  The passage was as empty as the storeroom. Tapestries hung from the walls, and fine rugs carpeted the floor, muffling their footsteps. Most were Gallish-made, by weavers without much skill or artistry. Green and gold, again and again. Do they ever get sick of those colors? Corayne wondered, as they passed a woven image of a lion with a squashed face.

  She told herself not to be afraid. She walked with an Elder prince, a witness to a great terror. If they were waylaid before finding Andry, they would simply be brought to the Queen first. They could warn her all the same. Or be thrown directly into the dungeons for trespassing.

  She pushed the thoughts from her mind and focused on trying to look the part of a maid. A servant in the palace would keep her eyes down, not gape at tapestries she saw all day long. You work in the kitchens, in the kitchen garden specifically. That would explain the dirt on her hands and knees from their long journey. You tend the . . . what’s in season right now? Tomatoes? Cabbage? Her mind spun, grasping for a good story to tell. A courier came in from the stables; he had a letter for Valeri Trelland. Sent me to run it to her. Though Corayne had spent years negotiating on her mother’s behalf, trading stolen cargo and illegal goods, she was never alone in her lies. The Tempestborn always had her back.

  The Tempestborn is far away now. I’m on my own.

  Sorasa and Dom navigated well, avoiding the clank of armor that meant guards or knights. It was only a few minutes, but the seconds dragged and Corayne’s heartbeat thundered.

  “Servants,” Dom breathed at her shoulder. “Through the archways.”

  Corayne’s jaw clenched and she felt herself nod. Up ahead, the passage widened, one side scalloped with columns and arches opening onto a flourishing garden of roses. Steeling herself, she walked forward while the others hung back. You work in the kitchens.

&
nbsp; A pair of women knelt among the roses, filling their baskets with scarlet flowers. Their faces gleamed with sweat, and they wore thick leather gloves to defend against thorns.

  “Please tell us Percy sent you to help,” one of the women said with a gasp of breath. She wiped her brow with the back of her hand. “We’ll be cutting flowers all night at this rate.”

  Corayne’s voice faltered. “I—”

  The other maid, older than the first, waved a fistful of roses in her direction. “Hope you brought gloves, dear.”

  “No, sorry—” Corayne said, speaking around the lump in her throat. She swallowed, eyeing the two. “I’ve got a message for Lady Valeri Trelland. A letter, from a courier—”

  “Trelland?” The young maid blanched. “Isn’t she dead?”

  Corayne’s stomach plummeted to her feet.

  “She’s not dead,” the other answered, still wagging her roses. “She’s just sick is all. Sick the long, slow way. Doesn’t leave her chambers much anymore. But she’s still kinder than all the rest put together.” Then she pointed with the flowers. “Keep on the way you’re going. Her quarters are at the bottom of Lady’s Tower. Look for the painting of King Makrus.”

  Corayne bobbed her head in a grateful nod. “Thank you.”

  The older maid screeched as she moved on. “And tell Percy we need more hands if we’re to cut enough flowers by morning!”

  “I shall,” she replied, though she had no idea who Percy was and even less inclination to seek him out.

  The tightness in her chest unwound and she turned back to the passage, only to find Dom and Sorasa waiting idly on the far side of the arches. Both had passed by without the maids, or even Corayne, noticing. Sorasa jabbed her thumb over her shoulder, her lips forming words with no sound. This way.