Realm Breaker

by Aveyard, Victoria

  Corayne panted next to him, fighting to keep up. Back in the apartments, she had not seemed so small, but now, with the sword on her back, with the world on her shoulders, Andry thought she might fade into nothing. Only her eyes were unchanged, somehow blacker than the sky above them. She looked back into the maze, trying to see through the hedges as they spiraled. Lord Domacridhan and the Ibalet woman kept up behind them.

  A horn blast echoed and Andry flinched. The sound, heavy and proud, sent a shudder through the air.

  “What was that?” Corayne asked, breathless. The horn sounded again.

  “The palace garrison,” he replied, quickening his pace. His jaw set painfully.

  He’d never seen the garrison summoned before, not for battle. As a boy, he’d always wished for them to be called forth in their armored splendor, to defend the Queen and her court. Well, I suppose I’ll get to see it now.

  Domacridhan limped, forcing each step, one hand pressed against his ribs. Blood welled between his fingers, black in the dim light. The last time I saw him, he was being swallowed by corpses, Andry thought. He survived the temple—certainly he can survive this.

  The Ibalet woman shoved the Elder onward when he flagged, her teeth bared. “How many in the garrison, Trelland?” she called, her voice sharp with worry.

  Though chivalry and etiquette demanded it, Andry doubted asking for the lady’s name would be wise under the circumstances. “Two hundred. Enough to withstand a siege.”

  “I’m flattered,” the woman answered.

  Two hundred soldiers. Two hundred swords. Two hundred shields. Two hundred men I’ve known and trained with, seen every day in the barracks. Two hundred oathed and sworn, loyal to the Queen, to Galland, to the Lion. Andry did not doubt their resolve, even the ones he counted as friends. They’ll kill me the same as any other enemy. It’s what they were trained for.

  And I would do the same, in their place.

  “This way,” he hissed, angling his body for what looked like a solid wall of leaves. He slipped easily through the hidden gap in the hedges.

  Where the rest of the maze was artistry, with stone pathways and gurgling fountains, this was narrow and scratching, unattended, barely a dirt trail between the towering plants on either side. It was an open secret. Many of the squires, knights, court ladies, and even some royals, brought companions here for a few moments away from prying eyes.

  The wind blew cold, sending shivers over Andry’s exposed skin. He gritted his teeth, bracing for the voice that came with the cold, the whispers old and young. The voice he could hardly remember and never forget.

  The road runs in one direction, dutiful squire, the voice groaned, splintering.

  Andry growled low in his throat as the whispers shattered in his head. He staggered, losing speed but fighting onward.

  “Are you all right?” he heard Corayne call, but the whispers gobbled her voice up.

  Burn the life behind you, save the realm from the fire.

  And then the voice was gone again, receding with the wind, falling to nothing as the shouting outside the maze grew. The spire of Syrekom Cathedral rose ahead, its arches taunting. The shouting grew, and flames flickered in the leaves, bleeding through from pathways, closing in.

  Corayne still watched him intently, slowing her pace to match. She reached out with a tentative hand. Without thought, Andry took it, her fingers warm in his own.

  “It’s nothing,” he said, his breath coming in uneasy pants. “I’m fine.”

  There was a moan behind them as Dom faltered again, falling to a knee. The woman growled a curse in her own language.

  “Keep going!” she called to them before either could break stride.

  Corayne turned to look back, but Andry tugged her on. “They’ll catch up,” he said, his grip tight. Was that a lie? he wondered. Does it even matter anymore?

  The hedge shadows were tall and strange, wavering between starlight and torchlight, white and red. One of them lurched, coming alive. A broad silhouette stumbled out onto the trail, his fine red-and-silver surcoat stained with wine.

  “Look at you, Trelland,” Lemon crowed, swaying on his feet. He leered, his face ruddy and sweating. A goblet gleamed in his hand. He waved it between Andry and Corayne, spilling dark red liquid. “Bringing a girl down the paths. I didn’t know you had it in you!”

  Andry dropped Corayne’s hand and tried to push her by the other squire. His palm brushed up against the sheath of the Spindleblade. It felt cold as ice.

  “Good night, Lemon,” he gritted out. Best to slip around him, leaving him spinning in the dark. “Enjoy the rest of the feast.”

  “Have a drink with me, Brother,” Lemon slurred. He caught Andry around the neck. “And introduce me to your maiden,” he added, putting out his other arm to bar the way. The goblet collided with Corayne’s middle, spilling wine on her shirt. His smile widened as he took her in. “Good evening, my lady.”

  Corayne looked down at her stained clothing, then back to Andry, her eyes snapping to his. Frustration flared in her, hot as coals. Don’t, he wanted to say. Just keep moving.

  “Enjoy the feast,” she said in a small voice, taking Andry by surprise.

  She angled out of Lemon’s grip, careful to keep her back to the hedges and the Spindleblade hidden. Luckily, Lemon was too drunk to notice Corayne’s lack of ladylike attire, not to mention the sword sheathed over her shoulder.

  “All right,” Andry muttered, trying to pull free.

  The torches closed in. There was only so much time before all hope of escaping was gone.

  But Lemon’s hand tightened, fingers digging to get a better hold on Andry’s collar. He finally noticed the flickering lights and shouts echoing over the gardens. “Who’re they lookin’ for?” he said, his gaze sharpening. He licked his lips. “They called the garrison, Trell. We should help.”

  “You do that, Lemon,” Andry replied, trying to pry his hand away.

  The other squire bristled, his mood shifting. He brought up his other fist.

  “There you are, Trelland,” Lemon hissed up into Andry’s face. His breath stank of wine and onions. “Still think you’re better than the rest of us, even with your lord dead and gone. Failed worse than any squire here.” The insult dug into him, sharp as a knife. But Lemon wasn’t finished. He looked again at Corayne. “You know he got his knight killed, don’t you?”

  Andry felt his cheeks go red with heat.

  She scowled, dropping all pretense, her eyes boring into Lemon’s. “He survived, which is more than the knights can say.”

  Lemon only scoffed, and glared back at Corayne with a curl of his lip, his eyes raking over her. This time Andry watched him notice her ruined braid, her travel-worn clothing, the old leather boots on her feet. “What’re you staring at, you ratty bitch?”

  Andry’s rage was like a thunderbolt. He broke the squire’s hold in an instant, taking him by the scruff of his shirt. “Davel,” he growled.

  Corayne didn’t seem to mind such language. She raised her chin, continuing to glower. Her eyes were flat, black and yawning, unsettling to see.

  “I’m trying to figure out exactly how long until you piss yourself, Squire,” Corayne said in response to Lemon’s question.

  Lemon sputtered and lunged, but Andry held firm, using his height and sobriety to their full advantage. “That’s enough,” he said in a low voice. As if Lemon were an animal to be soothed.

  It only incensed him further, and Lemon ripped himself away, spitting mad. But he didn’t have a chance to speak again. The dagger was a golden mirror at his neck, full of torchlight.

  “Yes, quite enough,” the woman said, materializing out of the path. Her hand clawed Lemon’s straw-like hair, pulling his head backward, exposing more of his throat. He couldn’t see her, but the squire went rigid, feeling the blade against his skin.

  “Sooner than I thought,” Corayne muttered, glancing at the squire’s legs.

  As much as he wanted to see Lemon grovel, An
dry knew better. He stepped forward, reaching out to the Ibalet dagger, a bronze artistry with a hilt like a coiling snake. The woman holding it was calm, her face too still.

  “Don’t kill him. Please,” he said, his voice filled with force. The last thing we need is more blood spilled.

  The woman’s mouth twitched in annoyance. “Remember Trelland’s mercy, boy,” she breathed, lowering the blade from his throat.

  Lemon met Andry’s eyes, showing what little remorse he could. “Thank—”

  Her fist connected with his jaw, knuckles on bone, snapping his head to the side with crackling force. The squire fell forward in the dirt, out cold.

  “Was that necessary?” Andry gaped. Lemon lay flat, a puddle of drool already forming.

  The woman sheathed her dagger with a snap. “You wanted him alive.”

  Andry felt another burst of cold. He swallowed hard, watching the woman’s back. Dom joined her from the shadows, still limping. She moved like a predator, all angles. The court of Galland was no stranger to the women of Ibal, but this one was like none he’d ever met before. Her gown was torn to shreds, and there was blood on her hands and face. Not her own, but Dom’s. And some knights too. She killed Sir Welden in the hall, he thought, remembering the old soldier as he bled to death, his neck cut open. The memory threatened to make him sick.

  Corayne fell in next to him, her arm inches from his own. She looked pale in the moonlight, glancing back at Lemon’s unconscious body as they ran from it. It didn’t seem to unsettle her quite so much.

  “Who is she? What the hell are we doing?” Andry muttered.

  Corayne huffed out a breath. “I’ve been asking myself that for a while now.”

  They burst through another gap in the hedge, nearly careening into a shallow pond of lilies and lazy fish. On the far side, a gateway opened onto a plaza of cut stone, the tiles arranged like sunbeams spilling out from the cathedral. The walls of the New Palace ran up against the sanctuary without gap or flaw. The vaulted windows were dark and looming. Lights like fireflies moved along them, the reflections of torches as the garrison wove through the maze in hot pursuit.

  Dom kept pace now, his legs moving furiously without any rhythm. He surged with the Ibalet at his side, her sword unsheathed and gleaming. It was plain but well made, flashing darkly. Still nothing compared to the Spindleblade.

  The Syrekom yawned, a mouth of vaulted portals and gargoyles—winged gods and stone kings—looking down with empty eyes. The curved doors were solid oak, locked fast for the evening. It took the Elder only two tries to kick them open, even with his wound. He panted, fading, his skin paler than the moon. On top of everything else, Andry felt a squeeze of fear for Domacridhan’s life.

  The nave of the cathedral stretched, tall enough to house a forest, its columns marching in double rows to the far wall of windows. They clambered down the aisle bisecting the empty pews. Only a few candles guttered in their stands. Most went dark as they ran past.

  “Gods, please don’t kill any priests,” Andry muttered, glancing toward the Ibalet.

  “Wouldn’t be my first,” she answered neatly.

  A red light grew in the glass windows. It flickered and flamed, born of a hundred torches as the Queen’s soldiers overtook the palace grounds, surrounding the cathedral.

  Andry clambered up the steps to the solid gold altar, where the high priest performed services. Six windows loomed over it, stained-glass portraits of mighty Syrek and his great deeds. After years of worship, Andry knew them all without looking. Each image, of flame, of war, of conquest, of creation, was picked out in red, gold, and green, filled with swords and lions, brilliant in the sunshine, foreboding in the dark. He winced when Dom grabbed a bronze brazier and lobbed it into the closest glass masterpiece.

  It shattered with a crone’s shriek, spitting glass into the river below.

  “Ride the tide; keep under as long as you can,” the Ibalet barked, waving Corayne up to the broken window. The woman checked Corayne’s sword, tightening the buckles of the belts for her. Again Corayne looked back, finding Andry. This time, he saw fear in her. Only a flash, but enough.

  He ducked his chin, giving her the best nod he could muster.

  She nodded back, resolute.

  Dom was the first to jump through, and Corayne followed with a graceful dive. The Ibalet didn’t hesitate, leaping into the dark air, the splash of her body almost soundless in the river below.

  Andry stepped up to the jagged edge of the window. The water was relatively clean; most refuse got caught on the water gates that kept boats away from the palace. They wouldn’t be swimming through slum garbage. It didn’t make jumping any easier. Nor did the thoughts swirling in his mind.

  Torchlight filled the windows, and he heard the whipcrack bark of orders outside as the garrison arrived. There was nothing behind him but steel and fire. The Queen was with Taristan, the man who had killed Sir Grandel, Lord Okran, Cortael—his own twin—and all the rest, their bodies left to feed the crows.

  They’ll torture me. Question me. Punish me for hiding the sword, for helping Corayne. This was obvious. Andry could already see the dungeons of the keep in his mind. And then they’ll name me a traitor and kill me.

  But still he could not jump. It wasn’t the fall that frightened him, all twenty feet of it into the rushing black river. The drop could have been two inches or two miles. Either way, it felt like an ending, a gate falling shut. A failure of everything that came before.

  My father, dead for the Lion, dead for duty to a crown I’ve betrayed. He forced a hiss. A crown that betrayed me, and the realm entire. I’ve done nothing wrong.

  I’ve done nothing wrong, he thought again as he dropped through the air. For the first time, he took solace in the words of the whispers.

  Burn the life behind you.

  The days of Squire Andry Trelland were certainly aflame.

  It was his mother’s face he saw when he hit the water, suspended for a moment in cold, endless dark. The current pushed him along and he let it, holding his breath beneath the surface. There was no red heat here, as he’d seen in Taristan back in the hall. No malicious shadow moving behind the black. Only the river, only cool hands pushing him along.

  And those damned whispers, which sounded like ice, like winter, solidifying into one voice.

  Stand tall and steadfast true.

  The darkness comes; your choices grow few.

  Andry was a son of Ascal, born and raised in the capital. He knew the canals well, and his skin crawled as they swam. He kept his mouth shut and tried not to think of everything the water carried, from the upriver slums of Doghead to the slaughter yards in the Cowbank. In the dark, he could pretend the river was clean. And in the dark, they were difficult to see, difficult to follow.

  The whispers faded, leaving Andry alone in his head. His own voice now pounded in his head. Get out of the palace. Get to the docks. With each breath he thought, Get to the docks.

  He kept close to the others, until the Ibalet woman angled toward shore. They hauled themselves out, one by one, dripping wet on the meager bank, a dirty triangle of mud and sand half covered by an overhang of the street above.

  Andry clambered quickly to his feet, as did Corayne. She patted the belts of the Spindleblade, checking the sword as she shook the hair from her eyes. It was still there, safe in its sheath.

  “Get up or get hidden,” the woman hissed, glaring at Dom still sprawled on the ground. Her gaze burned like two candles. “I doubt even three of us could drag a log like you out of here.”

  Dom groaned, too weak to respond, but rolled his knees, one hand braced against the wound. It seemed to be bleeding less, despite all the exertion of swimming.

  Andry shot to his side, slipping a hand under the Elder’s arm.

  “Push through your feet, my lord,” the squire whispered, the immortal heavy in his grasp. He was almost as heavy as a knight in armor. “Lean on me.”

  “Me too,” Corayne chirped, taking hi
s other arm. She nearly buckled under his weight.

  “Thank you,” Dom murmured, sounding surprised, his pale cheeks flushing pink. By their aid or his own weakness, Andry couldn’t say. Probably both. “Good that my cousin isn’t here; she’d never let me hear the end of it.”

  “I’ll be sure to mention it if I ever meet her,” Corayne said, grinning through the strain.

  Meanwhile, the Ibalet woman pulled off the rest of her torn dress, revealing a wet shift and leggings beneath. Her silhouette was smaller but not slight, every muscle well formed and taut, like a piece of rope wound up on itself. More tattoos showed at her collar and wrists, where her bronze skin was exposed to the air. Andry glimpsed a bird’s wing and some Ibalet writing in curling script, a constellation, and a dagger like a half moon, before his stomach twisted and he had to avert his eyes.

  “Apologies, my lady,” he gritted out, looking at the wet ground.

  The Ibalet scoffed out a laugh. “Never seen a woman’s body before, Squire?” She sounded amused. “I think it’s a bit late to be thinking of your honor.”

  His face went hot, cheeks flaming. “If I must betray the kingdom to save her, I will do so,” he mumbled. There is no going back, even if I wanted to. No way but forward.

  Upriver, lights blazed, the streets swimming with torches as search parties set out from the New Palace. Andry pictured the cathedral, the knights of the garrison standing at the broken windows, staring into the black abyss of the canal. The predators to our prey.

  Dom followed Andry’s gaze. “They’ll be after us soon,”

  “They’re after us now,” the Ibalet spat, ascending the bank with catlike focus. She wore a cowl now, hiding her face with repurposed scraps of her gown.

  The squire swallowed hard and tried to think around the chaos in his head. They hobbled slowly up the slope, following the assassin.

  “The garrison will fan out,” Andry said, eyeing the street. Get out. Get to the docks. “They’ll link up with the city watch, the other barracks—Queen Erida has an army in this city.” He pointed with his free hand, gesturing along the canal as they reached the top. “We’re across the waters; there are no more canals or islands. If you move fast enough, you might outrun anyone they’ve sent to the outer gates.” The city spiraled around him, a cobweb of streets and bridges. “You can get out of the city before they lock it up tighter than a rat trap. Keep straight on until you hit the walls. Conqueror’s Gate is the biggest, with more traffic, but Godherda has fewer guards. At least it should right now”