Realm Breaker

by Aveyard, Victoria

  At least Dom is with her, Sorasa thought again, her teeth clenching together. Six knights against an Elder. Good odds. He’s survived worse. Her heartbeat raced. Unless he doesn’t. And then it’s just the squire, a boy. She’s as good as dead.

  And the Ward as good as destroyed.

  Frustration ate at her fear, warring for dominance. This was not in the contract, she snarled to herself, wishing she could scream. Wishing she could flee. But where? Not home, not even to the citadel. What Waits will devour them both, with Taristan at his side, fists to his fangs.

  “I must say, I’m still shocked she agreed to this.”

  Taristan’s voice grew closer, his steps quiet, but thunderous to Sorasa’s ears. He tapped the hilt of his sword, clinking a single ring against the metal like a small, hateful bell.

  She sank, bending her knees, shifting her weight to the balls of her feet. I can sprint for the stairs, vault over the gallery, break my fall on a nobleman’s head. Her options spun.

  The Spindlerotten traitor and his pet wizard closed the distance at a steady, almost lazy pace. “Ambition is in her blood,” Ronin answered serenely.

  His voice took on an odd quality: another layer of sound, as if someone else spoke with him, forming a deeper harmony. It echoed, even when the wizard fell silent.

  “It’s good we reached her first, before the other could.”

  “A choice we did not need to make,” Taristan scoffed. “I see no witch with my niece.”

  The wizard’s robes hissed over the carpet like a snake. The double voice was gone, leaving only his own. “Even so, we have a strong ally in the Queen of Galland. Corayne of Old Cor will be dead soon, and of no consequence any longer.”

  Sorasa took her chance, peering around her column with one narrowed eye. The pair stood at another stairwell, the steps leading down into the great hall. Taristan looked back at the chandeliers, light splaying across his hard features. She does look like him.

  “If she has my brother’s blade, we need only take it and lock her away,” Taristan said, again tapping his sword. The sheath was silver-and-black leather, the steel hidden while jewels flared at the hilt, red as ticks swollen with blood.

  Ronin shrugged. “To die when What Waits comes and sets this world to ash beneath your feet?” he said, guiding Taristan through the arch. “Trust me, my friend, dying now is a mercy to her. As for the Elder, let him live, let him watch . . .”

  Their cruel laughter echoed with every step down the curling stairwell.

  Run run run run.

  Sorasa allowed herself five more seconds of fear and indecision. Five only.

  Her breath hissed through her nose, coming out hard between her teeth. One. Taristan was the Queen’s chosen. Two. Her army would protect his Spindle, the passage spewing a sea of corpses. Three. No kingdom could stand against Taristan and Erida, not alone. Four. Sorasa Sarn was no one. There was nothing she could do about the great dealings of the world. Five.

  She stood and moved quickly, a cat among the columns, before dropping to her knees at the end of the gallery. Below was the high table. Across was the doorway, set ajar, leading off to wherever the Queen and Corayne had gone.

  There is something I can do.

  The gown tore again as she cut a square from the wine-colored cloth. She’d exhausted her common powders back in Byllskos, but the black remained, tucked at her belt in its triple-wrapped packet, a square smaller than her palm. With careful hands, she tore it open, sprinkling small, dark grains onto the center of torn fabric. The writing on the packet was nearly worn away, the language of Isheida barely recognizable. Worth five times its weight in gold.

  She made a pouch, tying the corners together tightly, but careful to leave one length of cloth free. She hoped it was long enough. She hoped it was short enough.

  Below, she watched two knights emerge ahead of Corayne and the Queen, and then Dom and the lanky squire, flanked by the remaining four knights. Sorasa looked at Dom first, searching his face for any sign of worry, any indication he knew what was coming.

  She nearly cursed aloud. Of course he doesn’t.

  “I know my betrothal has been long in the making, perhaps too long for some of you,” Queen Erida said below, and her court laughed like hyenas.

  There were no candles within reach, not even the chandeliers, so Sorasa made do with a corner of flint and the steel of her dagger, striking them together to produce a spray of sparks.

  The cloth caught light, the edge burning.

  She did not have time to fear losing a hand or worry about being seen. She thought only of her aim. The weight of the pouch, the flame traveling steadily up the dangling fabric. The thickness of the chain fixed to the wall beyond the balcony rail, a metal plate set deep into the smooth stone. The iron links traveled up at an angle, through the first great ring, then down to a chandelier, and up again. Again, again, again, the chain like a necklace strung with jewels.

  She leaned and swung her arm, all her focus in the tips of her fingers as the cloth left her hand. She refused to imagine failure—the flame snuffing out, the powder spilling, the pouch missing its mark. Below, the Queen wheeled in her bloodred gown and she tossed the bundle. It moved in a slow arc, rising as falling until it hit the chain and the wall, tipping, the flaming lead trailing, fabric crumbling to smoke and ash. And then it stuck home, lodged perfectly, wedged between the links of the great chain and the stone wall.

  Her steps were light and fast, carrying her back around the horseshoe of the gallery. When the knights tightened their formation, obscuring Dom and Corayne from view, she felt the familiar twist of defeat. Do they already know? Do they feel the noose around their necks? Corayne must. She’s not an idiot.

  Erida’s voice echoed up the stairwell, rising to meet Sorasa as she spiraled down. “It is with great pleasure that I introduce you to my prince consort, my husband, a son of Old Cor, heir to the bloodlines of the ancient empire, and father to the new world before us.” More applause and congratulations rippled through the great hall, cresting like a wave. “Prince Taristan of Old Cor.”

  Now, Sorasa thought, bending her will to the pouch lying in wait. As if she were a witch or wizard too, Spindletouched, and not just a mortal woman with a talent for killing things. Now, she pleaded, begging to Lasreen the Morning Star, to Syrek, to Immor, to Meira of the Waters, to every god and goddess worshipped upon the Ward.

  They did not answer.

  She slowed at the bottom of the stairs, easing her pace so as not to be noticed. Her eyes darted, drinking in the scene, hunting for any opportunity, no matter how small. All around, courtiers stood and clapped, calling out to their dear young queen. Sorasa grabbed a silver flagon of wine from the closest table, using it as a shield to move closer to the dais, never blinking.

  Dom was on his knees, his fingers uncurling and curling into a shaking fist, as knights held his shoulders. The courtiers could not see that he was wounded, kneeling in pain, not in deference to the Queen or her betrothed. His expression had not changed, his face dour, lips pulled into their usual grimace, but Sorasa saw the tightness in him plain as day. He is in great pain. Corayne was equally trapped, a single knight too close to her, a gauntleted fist tucked up against her side, certainly holding a knife. The sunborn daughter of Siscaria was white as a ghost, her eyes wide, staring past the far side of the dais, past the high table, past the Queen.

  Sorasa didn’t need to look to know who she gaped at.

  Taristan stalked across the dais at an easy pace, content in his victory. He leered with a crescent-moon smile as he stood over Corayne and tore her old blue cloak away. The sword on her back mirrored his own, a twin. The other Spindleblade.

  The squire did have it—and now Taristan will too.

  The Elder hissed something Sorasa could not hear, but she saw the lightning bolt of rage cross his face. Taristan muttered in return, amused, before putting his back to the court, his tall frame blocking Corayne completely.

  The dagger tucke
d against Sorasa’s wrist, eager and waiting. Her sword stayed beneath her slashed skirts, too conspicuous to draw yet. Now now now now, she prayed, cursing herself for having cut so long a wick. The pouch was still in place, the smallest spark still climbing. Sorasa quickened her pace, coming within feet of the high table, the wine still in hand. The knights didn’t notice another maid, even one with torn skirts. Nearly there.

  A howl split the great hall. Taristan fell back from Corayne, clutching one side of his face, blood welling between his fingers. His wizard bolted forward over the dais, mouth moving fervently, shouting a prayer or a spell or both.

  Sorasa heard none of it; the world narrowed in her eyes. It was time to act.

  She painted Lionguard armor red.

  Wine for the closest, the flagon catching him hard in the chest. It spilled all over him as she pretended to trip, nothing more than a clumsy servant. Her sudden, deliberate weight made him stumble, and she was by him, blade close, focused on the knight above Corayne. His arm drew back, the glint of the knife keen and cold at the girl’s ribs. Sorasa’s was faster, jabbing between the joints of his armor, finding home in the veins of his neck. He sputtered and fell, grasping his neck, dripping crimson all over himself. It poured hot and wet over Sorasa’s hands even as she grabbed for Corayne. The girl was frozen, an odd scrap in her grasp, her legs unmoving, body like lead.

  If I have to drag this girl all the way to the docks, I swear to Lasreen . . .

  “Run, gods damn you, run!” Sorasa snarled, throwing her sideways into a sudden gap in the wall of knights. Three more were sprawled on the floor. Dom stood over them, a dagger protruding from his side, a swath of blood staining his tunic and trousers, dripping to his boots.

  Sorasa saw their predicament as an equation, her mind reducing to battle and circumstance, as she had been trained. Three on the floor, one still stumbling with the wine, this one dead. She vaulted over the knight choking on his blood, running after Corayne. She hoped Dom and the squire were smart enough to follow. Taristan and Erida’s knights certainly would.

  The rumble of an explosion set a rare smile to her lips, which widened with the sound of running chain. She paused at the passage door to glimpse the chaos. The chandeliers fell in succession, each one a hammer, splintering tables, sending plates and bodies flying. Courtiers tried to dodge, leaping over each other, while the dais dissolved quickly, the Queen’s advisors fleeing in all directions. Taristan fought to his feet, caught in the melee, one side of his face jagged with cuts, while Red Ronin cursed at the vaulted ceiling. The Queen found herself prisoner to her own knights, the Lionguard shielding her from debris.

  The Elder passed Sorasa first, his face a white sheet. Then came the squire, Trelland. Sorasa added them to her count.

  Four alive.

  She drew a long, ragged breath. Run, her instincts said, only a whisper now.

  It was easy to ignore.

  She drew the door shut and barred it with a heavy thunk of wood. In the great hall, the chandeliers continued to fall, thunderous. Her own heart beat in time, a steady rhythm. The danger fed something in her, enough to quell any fear for now.

  The other three did not share the sentiment. Corayne reached back to check her sword, her fingers shaking horribly, her eyes wide as dinner plates, black ringed by stark white. The Spindleblade was still there like a gash down her back, comical in size compared to her small body. Dom leaned against the wall beside her, his lips in his teeth, one hand testing the dagger still buried in his side. Only the squire seemed to be of any use. He ripped his blue-and-gray coat into rags, holding them against Dom’s wound.

  “Do I have to do everything around here?” Sorasa said, wiping her dagger clean. The red ending of the knight’s life disappeared with a few quick drags. She glanced down the long passage of branching rooms, antechambers of sorts for the Queen and her council.

  Corayne looked through her, as if the assassin were nothing at all.

  “That door won’t hold,” she murmured, stepping back. Already someone was banging on the other side. Many someones. It jumped on its hinges, straining against the bar. “She’s with him. The Queen is with him.”

  “Thank you. I also have eyes,” Sorasa bit out. “Can you run, Elder?”

  His left side was painted crimson. He only grimaced. There was blood in his beard too, turning the golden hair red. “It’s nothing,” he said, and batted Trelland away. “The Vedera heal quickly.”

  “Don’t—” Sorasa began, lunging for him.

  But the godsforsaken imbecile of an immortal was well past stopping. He drew out the knife in a single motion and tossed it away, smearing blood across the floor. More sprang from the wound in his ribs, gushing like a fountain, and he faltered, hissing, dropping to a knee.

  “Oh,” he gasped as he fell.

  Corayne caught him, slipping in the puddle of immortal blood. “For Spindles’ sake!”

  The copper tang was sharp on Sorasa’s tongue as she pushed the Elder to the floor.

  “I can’t imagine living for a thousand years and still being so stupid,” she said, tearing his tunic at the wound. “It’s almost an accomplishment.”

  “Five hundred,” Dom hissed through gritted teeth, as if it made any difference.

  “Immortal or not, you are still very capable of bleeding to death.”

  Somehow, he seemed surprised by the possibility.

  Sorasa ignored him so she wouldn’t kill him herself. Instead she ripped and ripped his clothing, grabbing for anything that could be a bandage. Trelland offered his rags and she crammed them into the gaping hole, his ribs glossy white between hard red muscles. At least Dom didn’t flinch as she plugged him up like a bucket with a leak.

  “Any more brilliant ideas, Elder?”

  He was on his feet quicker than she would have thought possible, standing over her in his tattered clothes, chest bare to the torchlight of the hall. His skin was like his bones, gleaming and pale.

  “Run,” he rattled.

  “We won’t make it back the way we came in. And the kitchen bridge, the Bridge of Valor, the garrison docks . . .” Sorasa faltered, ticking off every path, every escape route she knew. Each one shuttered before her eyes. “I can get myself out of here, but not the rest of you.”

  “Well, that’s helpful,” Corayne snapped.

  The door banged again as something large and heavy collided with the wood. Probably a table being used as a battering ram. It wouldn’t be long until the door fell, or Erida’s guards approached from the other side. They had minutes, maybe.

  Seconds.

  Trelland crossed to the windows, looking out into manicured gardens. Torches leapt up all over as guards were roused and dispatched. A maze stood beyond the green lawns, shadowed in its spirals, a labyrinthine design of hedges. The palace cathedral sneered over it, proud and daunting, a grand wonder. Its columns arched like a rib cage. The squire’s face tightened.

  “We should try Syrekom,” he said in a low voice.

  “The cathedral?” Sorasa scoffed. The knight’s blood and Dom’s dried on her face and hands, crusting over. There was no difference between them, mortal and immortal. They tasted the same. “Claiming sanctuary only works in the stories, Squire. This isn’t one of them.”

  A few knights were in the gardens, their torches bobbing, but none entered the maze. Sorasa tried to remember Syrekom Cathedral beyond it, a monster of gray marble and glass, a crown jewel of Ascal, built to honor their greatest and most terrible god.

  “Syrekom,” Trelland said again, firmer this time.

  His hand twitched, reaching for a sword that was not there. He had no armor, not even a knife that Sorasa could see. Only his trousers and torn coat, a bit short at the wrists. He was still growing, a boy even now, after all he’d seen. But he does not sound like a boy now.

  “I’ll take us through the maze and then . . .” His gaze hooked on Dom’s blood. “I hope you can all swim.”

  Sorasa eyed Dom. His breath came in
short, beleaguered gasps. He glared back at her.

  “I learned to swim before your bloodline began,” he growled, setting off with a stormy glare and a furious pace. She almost expected him to walk straight through a wall. Instead he kicked a door open, leaving it dangling on gold hinges.

  Maybe he’ll drown, Sorasa thought idly, half a wish.

  17

  FOR THE REALM

  Andry

  The New Palace had been a home, a sanctuary, a school, a training yard. Now it was a prison, a hunting ground, an executioner’s block.

  Andry felt the ax hanging over his head as he led the others into the maze, sprinting as fast as his long legs would carry him. In the barracks, he’d learned to run in armor. It had made him strong in steel, and even faster without it. But he felt bare now, vulnerable. I don’t even have a knife, he thought in frustration. Not that he could blame himself. How could he have expected Erida to turn on them, on him, on the Ward?

  But she didn’t turn tonight, he told himself. His body shook all over, unmoored as the realization swept him out to sea. She’s already been against us, for gods know how long.

  She’s been with him, Lord Cortael’s twin. That rogue bastard. The curse smarted in his head. Andry Trelland didn’t care for foul language, even running for his life.

  Shouts rose all over the palace grounds, and torches flared through the gardens as the Queen’s knights gave chase. But they only existed on the edges of his mind. To Andry, there was only the maze—and his mother.

  At Wayfarer’s Port by now, he told himself. It felt like a prayer waiting to be answered. On a ship already, safe with her carers, tucked into her chair. Sails raised, with a captain bound for her home. His heart tore inside him as he pictured Valeri Trelland at the rail of a ship, waiting for her son. I should have gone with her. This is no place for me. The maze pressed in, the rows perfectly manicured, not a leaf out of place. He wanted to burn it all to ashes. I just need to get off this island. That’s all I have to do. Get out of the palace, and get to the docks. He breathed hard, in through his nose, out through his teeth. Get off the island. Get to the docks.