Realm Breaker

by Aveyard, Victoria

The sand mare was named Nirez, the Ibalet word for a long winter wind that cooled the unforgiving desert. It blew for days on end, signaling the turn of the season and the dawn of the new year in the south. That wind flagged now, and Nirez’s fluid gait lost its rhythm. Only a half step off, but Ridha felt the shift.

  She was not her cousin. She would not ride the horse to death. Largely because she would never procure another sand mare in these parts, and Gallish ponies were dull, dumb, and fat. She passed many as the field of stumps gave over to farmland and pasture, gold and green as the lion flag. Hedges cut the landscape, lining the gentle hills to separate wheat from barley. It was a blue, clear day, the sun warmer than it was in the thicker forest. Her armor shone like a mirror, and many farmers stopped their work to watch her ride past. Though Ridha was prepared for bandits or highwaymen, her sword ready at her side, there were none to be found. The belly of Galland was a sleepy land, well patrolled and protected by the vast kingdom.

  The first village was small but had an inn and a passable stable. It was only noontime, so the yard was near empty when she trotted through, Nirez blowing hard, her black flank foaming with sweat. The stable hands, a boy and girl barely older than ten, were slow to act. They clopped heavily into the yard, their faces freckled and red with heat.

  The boy sneered at her, a woman in armor, but the girl gaped, her pale eyes going round.

  “It’s three pennies to stall your horse,” the boy spat, wiping at his nose. “Another one for hay and water, another for grooming.”

  “My lady—sir,” the girl added, jumping into a bow that was more a squat. Ridha guessed she had never bowed in her life.

  In reply, she tossed a round silver coin in their direction. The girl snatched and caught it first, turning it over in her grubby hands. She wondered at the image of the stag.

  “That’s not a penny!” the boy shouted, but Ridha was already walking toward the adjoining inn, her pack and saddlebags slung over one arm. She’d paid more than three times what they’d asked, in coin not diluted by a treasury in a city they would never see.

  Though a princess of an immortal enclave, Ridha was no stranger to inns. Unlike most of her kin, she’d seen many in her four centuries upon the Ward, across many corners of the northern continent. Tavernas in Tyriot, the brewhouses of Ascal, Jydi ale lodges, the wine-soaked sedens of Siscaria, Treckish gorzka bars with clear liquor that would blind you if given the chance. She squinted at the faded sign hung over the inn door, unmoving in the still air. The name was worn away.

  The interior was dark, the windows narrow and small, a fire barely embers in the hearth. Her immortal eyes swept over the inn quickly, needing no time to adjust. Most of the ground floor was the common room, set with a few tables and a long bar against the far wall. There were stairs to her left, marching up to the few cramped bedrooms, and a door to her right. Someone was snoring behind it—the innkeeper, perhaps. A single maid stood at the bar, most likely his wife. Ridha suspected the boy and girl were her children. They had the same freckled face, sandy hair, and curious disposition.

  Two patrons occupied the far corner, tucked between the hearth and the wall, well settled with pewter tankards before them. They had knives at their belts and steel-toed boots, but they were ruddy, beaded with drink sweat, missing hair and teeth. Of little threat.

  “What can I do for you . . . miss?” the barmaid said. Her eyes roved over Ridha’s face and armor. “I’ve got a room to let, six pennies for the night, seven with board. Ale’s more.”

  This time Ridha was careful to count out the pennies. Flashing silver before children was one thing, but the others were a risk. They might try to rob her, and then she’d have to waste time and energy roughing up farmers. She slid seven pennies across the bar top.

  “I’ve paid the stable hands to mind my horse,” she added, nodding toward the door.

  The barmaid dipped her head. “I’ll make sure they do the job. Little imps seem to wander more and more these days. Room’s at the top of the stairs, first on the right,” she added, gesturing. “I can draw you a bath for a few pennies more.”

  Though the road had been long, Ridha shook her head. She’d bathed last in Sirandel, in a pond lined with silver, attended by handmaidens with bowls of scented oil and lavender soap. She had no intention of souring the memory with a cramped tub bucket before a weak fire.

  The room was narrow, with a sloped ceiling, single window, and a short, hay-stuffed bed. The blanket was threadbare, mouse-eaten at the edges. Ridha heard rodents in the walls, skittering back and forth from the garden to the roof. She didn’t plan to sleep that evening. It was Nirez who needed rest, not her. Instead she shucked off her armor and stored it in a chest with her sword and saddlebags. She kept her dagger, tucked beneath her long, charcoal-gray tunic, along with a boot knife, as well as her jewelry: a pendant and the hammered silver ring of Iona on her off-hand thumb.

  For a long moment, she considered sitting on the bed and staring at the wall until dawn. It would certainly be just as productive as returning downstairs. But her body drifted, her feet stepping without sound, until she found herself in the common room again. She claimed a table by the hearth, her back against the cool wall, one hand gesturing for a drink.

  Bitter ale, thin soup, bread surprisingly good, she thought, taking stock of her meal. She ate and drew with her finger on the tabletop, tracing the lines of a map only she could see. Where can I go next? she asked herself again, naming the enclaves. They were far-flung, a long journey in every direction, every choice a risk. Who might help, and who might turn me away?

  In the corner, the men gurgled back and forth, their Gallish accents thick and harsh. Ridha tried not to listen, but as an immortal Vederan, she had no trouble hearing their heartbeats, let alone their conversation.

  “Married, or getting married soon,” one of the mortal men grumbled quietly. He sucked down the last of his ale, tipping the tankard. Then he belched and smacked his lips. Ridha cut a glare at him, though he didn’t notice. “Can’t remember which.”

  His companion was lean, with strong forearms bared to the elbow. A woodcutter. He shook his head. “Come on, Rye, I’m sure we’d know if the Queen was married already. There’d be a ’nouncement. A rider.” The woodcutter flapped a hand at the doorway. “I dunno, a lion prancing down the lane to roar the good news.”

  Rye laughed harshly. “You think the Queen cares to tell us her doings, Pole?”

  “We’re her subjects—’course she does,” Pole said indignantly, puffing out his chest. Ridha felt the corner of her mouth lift. A mortal monarch barely has time to learn herself. She won’t be learning about you anytime soon, Master Pole.

  Rye shared the same opinion. He chuckled again, slapping a hand on his table. “She doesn’t even know the name of our village, let alone the people in it.”

  “I s’pose,” Pole muttered begrudgingly, his face flushed. “So to who?”

  “Who what?” the other replied. He grabbed for a hunk of bread, dipping it in his soup. He ate like a bear, messy and without regard. Brown water dripped from his graying beard.

  Pole sighed. “Who’s she marrying?”

  “D’ya think I’d know?” Rye said, shrugging. “Or you’d know the name if I said it?”

  “I s’pose not,” Pole said, embarrassed again. He scratched beneath his felt cap, at a scalp near to balding. “She might,” he added suddenly, jerking his chin.

  Ridha slowly pushed the ale away, freeing her hands.

  Rye did not notice, too occupied with his soup. “Who might?”

  “Her, the fancy one.” Pole dropped his voice to a whisper. She heard him clearly, as if he were shouting across the common room. He even pointed with a knobbled finger. “Came tromping in here like a knight in six feet of armor with a cloak to match.”

  It took longer than it should have for Rye to follow. But finally he noticed Ridha at her table, her chair braced against the wall, her eyes fixed on her plate. “Oh right,” he said, clear
he’d forgotten her completely. “Maybe she will.”

  And then Pole really was shouting across the room, picking a scab on his neck as he did so. “Hey, do you know who the Queen’s marrying?” he said, his voice shrill and hard.

  Ridha bit back the urge to cover her ears, remove herself, or remove him. I should have just stayed upstairs and stared at the wall.

  “I beg your pardon?” she said instead, her voice soft from days of disuse.

  The men exchanged a very patronizing roll of their eyes. “The Quee-een,” Pole said, drawing out the word. As if I’m completely stupid, even though I’m the one they’re asking for information. “Who’s she marrying?”

  “Which queen?” Ridha replied, in an equally slow voice. There was a host of queens, mortal and immortal, reigning and consort, this side of the mountains and the Long Sea. Silently, she willed Nirez to recover quickly, so she might be free of this inn.

  Rye blinked his mud-brown eyes. His mouth went a little slack and he looked to Pole in confusion. “There’s more than one queen?” he hissed under his breath.

  Baleir save me.

  Pole waved him off. “The Queen of Galland,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Queen Erida.”

  “I can’t say I know much of her.” It was the truth. Ridha had not traveled far from Iona in twenty years, never riding west of the Monadhrion. The mortal lands changed so quickly, even in two decades. It was not worth recalling what she remembered of them.

  The two men scoffed in unison. Now Pole really did think her stupid, an overly tall woman playing at knighthood in borrowed armor. “She’s been queen of this here kingdom for four years yet—you certainly should,” he sputtered.

  A heartbeat in Elder time, Ridha thought. “I am sorry, but no,” she answered, dropping her eyes. “No idea who she might be marrying.” And no interest either.

  The innkeeper’s wife bustled out from behind the bar, wiping her hands on her apron. She put herself between Ridha and the men, smiling at them as she cleared their table. It was no small reprieve when she took up the conversation.

  “Must be a great prince. Or another king,” the woman said, balancing plates. “That’s how it works, don’t it? That lot always keep to each other. Keep things in the family, so to speak.”

  While the men blustered between themselves over subjects they had no knowledge of, Ridha sat back in her chair. She felt oddly warm in her skin, though the fire was barely lit, and the room was cool and dim. All this talk of royalty and marriage put her off balance, for she was a princess herself, with a duty to a throne and an enclave like any other royal woman. Elders might live long, seemingly endless years, but there was still a need for heirs. Isibel Beldane and Cadrigan of the Dawn had not wed for love, but for strength, and for a child to keep the enclave when the Monarch could not. At least I have time, where mortals don’t. At least my mother does not force me into choices I don’t want to make. She felt warm again, a cloying heat at her collar. She frowned, fingers pulling at her tunic. Or does she? Is that not what this is? The rule of another driving me forward, in acquiescence or opposition?

  She gritted her teeth, feeling the now all too familiar surge of anger in her chest. Cowards, she thought again. In Sirandel and Iona, where Elder warriors would rather sit and hide than fight. Dooming us with their fear.

  The flow of ale did not stop. The innkeeper’s wife filled the men’s tankards with a bright smile, then Ridha’s, though she had no intention of drinking any more of the poorly made crop water. Still, she nodded in thanks all the same.

  “So how about this proposition of Old Joe’s?” Pole was whispering again, raising a hand to hide his mouth. It did nothing to stop Ridha from hearing, though she wished she could not.

  “Joeld Bramble is a loon,” Rye said, dismissive. “It’ll come to nothing. Don’t bother.”

  Pole leaned forward on his elbows, too eager. He glanced around the room warily, as if the walls had suddenly grown ears. “Joeld Bramble has family on the coast. They said the Watchful’s been awfully quiet for this time of year. No Jydi, no raids. Not a single longboat spotted since last season.”

  Ridha kept her eyes low, on the table carved with crude initials and cruder words. But her focus homed in on the men. The marriage of a mortal queen did not interest her, but this was different. Odd. The hairs on her neck stood up.

  “So he thinks he can take their place, can he?” Rye sputtered. “In what, a canoe?”

  “I’m only saying. If the Jydi raiders aren’t raiding, someone else can do it. Make it seem like raiders. Smash up a shrine, rob a few churches, maybe take some goats. Disappear back across the Castlewood and none’s the wiser.” Pole ticked off each step of the poor and foolish plan on his fingers. But it was not the scheme that interested the immortal. She furrowed her brows, trying to think. “Raiders blamed, we come home rich.”

  Rye remained silent and pressed his lips together, looking over at his companion. Pole grimaced, preparing himself for another rebuke, but it never came. “Maybe Old Joe has an idea,” Rye finally murmured, winking an eye.

  Her chair scraped across the floor, shocking in the quiet. Both men jumped in their seats, looking up at Ridha as she stood. She wagered she was taller than both, in boots or bare feet.

  “Does your Old Joe have any idea why the Jydi have stopped raiding?” she said clearly, looking between them. They both gaped; then Rye turned sour, his face crinkling.

  “You listening to our private conversation?” he sneered.

  Ridha fished out a penny for the ale and left it on the tabletop. “I find it difficult not to.”

  Pole was less offended. In fact, he seemed enamored by the attention. “No, he didn’t say,” he replied.

  Ridha did not miss him shuffling in his seat, making room for her in the corner, should she feel so inclined. I’d rather sidle up to a troll than to scabby, bald Pole.

  “Didn’t know, you mean,” she sighed.

  Pole shrugged. “Same thing.”

  “What’s it matter to you, lady knight?” Rye spat, trying to insult her with a compliment.

  Though she had little cause to explain, Ridha heard herself do it anyway. Even the barmaid listened, leaning forward as she pretended to clean a glass with a dirty rag.

  “Jydi raiders are fine sailors and finer fighters,” the Elder said. “Cutthroats, warrior pirates, borne of summer snow and winter storms. They’re hard people. If they aren’t raiding, there’s a reason. A good one.”

  Even immortals knew the sting of a raider blade, or they had in centuries past. The Jydi were not afraid of the Vederan nor had they forgotten them like the other mortal kingdoms. The lure of their riches was too great. Ridha herself had fought a raiding party with her kin, on the northern shores of Calidon some decades ago. She had not forgotten it.

  “I suggest you tell your friend that,” she warned, heading for the stairs.

  Though the sun was still high outside, with dusk hours away, Ridha shut herself up for the evening, for there was work to do and plans to be laid out.

  Her decision was made.

  Sometime past midnight, the two men did try to rob her. She sent them both out the open window. Judging by his limping retreat, poor old Pole broke an ankle in the fall. The innkeeper and his wife tried an hour before dawn, though the wife seemed reluctant. Ridha let the blow of his rusty ax glance off her armor before warning him not to harangue travelers, especially women. This time she made sure to close the window before shoving him through it, spilling glass all over the yard below.

  At least the children had done their part. Nirez was groomed and watered, well rested and ready for the long road to Kovalinn, the enclave deep in the fjords and mountains of the Jyd. Something was wrong in the north, as it was wrong at the temple.

  Perhaps it was already knocking at the door, or beating down their walls.

  Ridha of Iona intended to find out.

  15

  THE PATH CHOSEN

 
; Corayne

  Somewhere in the palace, a bell tolled. It was full dark outside, the stars like pinpricks in the windows. Dom slowed in his steps, faltering for the first time since Corayne had met him. She glanced his way, concerned. To her surprise, it was the squire who waved her off.

  “He’s fine,” Andry said, sharing a look with the Elder. “Let’s keep moving.”

  The Spindleblade was a nuisance. It was too long and cumbersome to wear at the hip, at least not without hitting a wall or person every time she turned, so Dom and Andry had rigged her sword belt to lie from shoulder to hip instead. She fastened her blue cloak to hide most of it from passing eyes. The sheath dug into her back, reminding her of the sword with every step. It wasn’t so difficult to carry this way, but it would be impossible to draw should she need it. Not that Corayne expected to be dueling any time soon, with the Spindleblade or anything else.

  The guards knew Andry and nodded at him as he led their small group through the palace, toward the Queen’s feast. The passages became a long hall of vaulted ceilings and soaring columns supporting pointed archways. In the daylight, it would be magnificent; the windows all made of intricate stained glass. Now they were dark, the panes dull as dried blood. Some courtiers milled about the columns—couples, mostly, dancing around each other like circling predators and prey.

  At the end of the long hall was a tall oak door bound in iron, cracked ajar, the sounds of music and conversation spilling out. Andry pulled it open, his smooth face set with determination. He met Corayne’s eye as he waved her through, offering her the smallest nod.

  “She’ll listen,” he murmured, an assurance to both of them.

  For some reason, it calmed her nerves a little, enough to keep a tremor from her hands.

  Dom followed, massive and looming, his cloak thrown back to show his fine tunic and broad form. More than a few courtiers eyed him with interest as they entered the great hall, a canyon of marble and glass and candlelight. But any interest the small band conjured was fleeting. Queen Erida’s betrothal feast was well into its courses, the servants roving between tables with platters of roast meats and fresh summer vegetables. Dom dodged them all, dogged in his focus, his eyes flying to the curved wall at the far end of the room. Corayne did the same, looking up to a raised dais backed by vaulted windows and lion banners. Chandeliers dangled from the ceiling of the hall in two rows, their iron hoops as wide around as a carriage, hanging from chains of heavy link. There was a high table set with a long green runner embroidered in gold, a parade of silver plates and goblets marching the length of it. A dozen men and women sat in their raised seats, grinning and talking among themselves, most of them fair-skinned and pale-eyed. Even though Corayne had never seen her before, there was no mistaking who was the young queen.