Realm Breaker

by Aveyard, Victoria

  Corayne glared around Dom’s body, her lips pursed into a grim line like the slash of a dagger. “We can get out of the city,” she said sharply. “Or do you have some other plans I don’t know about, Trelland?”

  Andry felt a muscle jump in his cheek. He swallowed hard and gently stepped away from Dom, careful not to upset his shaky balance. “Just head north,” he said, his voice firm.

  Corayne’s eyes went wide, not in fear but in anger. “Where will you go?”

  His answer was all too easy. “I’m not leaving my mother.”

  “You’ll be caught,” Dom rumbled, his breathing labored, his face pulling in pain. “And killed, Andry. Caught and killed.” His green eyes wavered. “Taristan will not hesitate to end the life of a single boy. Innocent blood does not bother that demonic excuse for a man.”

  “I know that.” Andry remembered all too clearly the way he had looked at Corayne—as if she were an obstacle, an object, something to be swept aside, all for the sword on her back. “But I cannot leave her.”

  I’ve failed everyone else. I won’t fail the one who matters most.

  Corayne was undeterred. “Wayfarer’s Port is on the other side of the city.”

  “I know where it is,” he replied, growing impatient.

  “But can you make it?” Dom said, forcing a shaky step toward the squire. Corayne moved with him, trembling under his weight.

  “Safe journey to you all” was Andry’s only reply. He dipped his head, bending into a bow.

  Corayne cut him off, her whisper hard and hissing. “You said yourself they’ll shut the city.” Something sparked in her, like a torch being coaxed into flame. Again she looked to the water, and the city islanded within it, her walls and lights endless. “Captains don’t wait to get stuck in closed harbors. That ship will be in Mirror Bay before you can get to the port, and it will have your mother on it.”

  “Whatever you decide, possible death or certain death, be quick about it,” the Ibalet hissed, a shadow on the street.

  His feet were already moving, boots smacking hard against the cobblestones. Get out, get to the docks, he told himself, the words like a prayer. Anything to drown out Corayne’s next burst of reasoning. Valeri Trelland beckoned in his mind, her warm hands pulling him close, her embrace like a blanket.

  “You’ll die trying,” Corayne said, already an echo, already fading.

  Andry Trelland had never seen Kasa, but he’d heard enough in his mother’s stories. The port of Nkonabo, the city spined with monuments wrought in alabaster and amethyst. The home of his mother’s Kin, its verdant garden courtyards, the little pond filled with purple fish. Family he never knew clustered around the gates, waving him inside, welcoming him to a new home.

  His pace quickened, his heart racing, as if he could run all the way to Kasa.

  But even the grand kingdom beyond the Long Sea is of the Ward. And the Ward is set to burn. Fires leapt up in his mind’s eye, engulfing the temples, the towers, the walls, the streets, as corpse soldiers overwhelmed the realm. They crawled over the courtyard, their flames eating the gardens, the water bubbling in the pond, the fish boiling alive. And his mother died with them, screaming in her chair, reaching for a son who could not save her.

  Andry wanted to cry, his eyes stinging, his heart torn in two as his boots skidded to a halt. In the distance, the city watch roused to hunt.

  There would be no reaching the port. And nowhere on earth his mother would be safe, if the realm fell to ruin.

  “Ambara-garay,” he whispered, turning around.

  Have faith in the gods.

  18

  TO DIE TRYING

  Domacridhan

  Dom had not known it was possible to miss the feel of steel between his ribs, but he certainly missed it now. His vision spun as it never had. From pain or blood loss, he did not know; he had never felt the true extent of either. Not in training at Tíarma, not in battles centuries past, not even at the temple, surrounded by an army of hellish Ashlanders, his face a bleeding ruin. This was so much worse. And I did it to myself, he cursed.

  Corayne kept pace, still under his arm. The edge of her jaw was set like an ax, resolute and sharp, as she maneuvered them both up the bank. Dom braced a hand to the gash between his ribs, fingers sticky with his own blood. The pressure seared but kept him living, and served as a good distraction now.

  The farther they walked from the squire, the deeper the ache in his chest became. At least I won’t have to watch him die, he thought bitterly. But his anguish was short-lived.

  Dom heard footsteps, familiar long strides fighting to catch up. He turned to see Squire Trelland following in their shadows, leaving the canals and Wayfarer’s Port behind him.

  “She’ll be all right,” Corayne said when she saw him, her voice somber. “And so will you.”

  Andry did not reply, his face bowed. He was careful and quiet, but the immortal could still hear his tears. He looked as he had at the temple—overcome, dull-eyed, broken by the massacre. And still dutifully trudging forward, without even a flicker of hope to light the way.

  They hurried through a market. Whitewashed wattle-and-daub shops and timber-framed homes leered over them, their windows like empty eyes. Dom heard no patrols as Sarn led the way, her shift glaring white in the alleys. It was like following a ghost.

  How fast does word travel in a city like this? he wondered, thinking of the gates. At every turn, their journey seemed to face its ending, only to carry on a bit further. Perhaps Ecthaid has answered my prayers after all, and he protects our road.

  Or we’ve just been lucky.

  The luck held. Godherda Gate arched before them, the iron-bound oak shut but not barred, with only a pair of city watchmen on duty to guard the way. As Andry had said, it was small, barely a door in the outer walls of Ascal. Easy to defend, but easy to forget.

  Sarn sped up, as did Corayne, pulling Dom along on shambling feet. Andry grabbed his arm once more, taking some of his weight, until he could nearly run. Again his vision swam, black spots growing and shrinking before his eyes.

  “Just keep your legs moving, my lord,” Andry said, sounding both close and far away.

  Bells began to ring somewhere, reverberating in the air and in Dom’s skull. He squeezed his eyes shut as they echoed, shrieking. For a moment, he was back at the temple, staring at the white tower and the impossible toll of an ancient bell.

  The watchmen shouted something, their voices punctuated by the clank of their armor and the sing of steel drawn loose.

  The bells are a command. Their queen calls. Our time is up.

  “Bar the gates—they’re closing the port—” the first watchman ordered. His words ended in a wet squelch.

  Dom opened his eyes to see Sarn cut through the second watchman. Her sword dripped rubies and the gate yawned behind her, a crack between the doors widening with each moment.

  It was Corayne who pushed him through, kicking the wood open.

  All he could do was move, his energy finally spent, the wound winning the hard battle against his body. Don’t drop, he told himself, repeating the squire’s words. The bells kept screaming, accompanied by a dozen horns all over the city, from every gate and watchtower. He tried to think, tried to remember this part of the realm. What roads lay ahead, what the land beyond Ascal was. But Dom could barely open his eyes, let alone puzzle out a plan.

  You’ll die trying. Corayne’s last plea to Andry hung in his head, ringing like the bells.

  That seems to be our only fate, Dom thought, feeling their circumstances rise up like a storm cloud. No allies, no direction. Nothing but the sword and the teenage girl who could barely wield it. To die trying.

  He smelled as much as felt the horse as they shoved him on it, laying his great bulk across the saddle like a sack of grain. Dom felt the urge to apologize to it. Normally I am very good at this, he thought dimly. The ground moved beneath him, glimpsed through slitted eyes.

  The others, he wondered, trying to move his he
ad, but a stern hand kept him steady.

  He clung to life as long as he could, until there was only the sound of hoofbeats. The bells and horns faded, and the darkness swallowed him up.

  Light danced over his eyelids in rhythm: shadow and sun, shadow and sun. It moved in time with a creak of old wood, the flap of canvas. Or was it wings? Baleir has wings. The god of courage is with me, I am in his grasp, and he will take me home to Glorian, where only the dead can journey now.

  Indeed, someone was holding him, the press of fingers firm against his rib cage and chest. And he could hear heartbeats. Do gods have beating hearts?

  Pain lanced along his ribs and he hissed, drawing a breath through already-clenched teeth. His eyelids fluttered. The light was blinding, but golden and warm. Something broke the sun, passing in front of it in steady motion. He squinted, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Certainly the realm of the gods is beyond my comprehension.

  There was a wall, a roof over him, wood beneath, a creaking wheel outside a window, and the gurgle of a stream below it. Mice skittered somewhere, and cobwebs ruled the corners.

  He groaned as a familiar sensation returned, hot and sharp.

  “I did not know one could still feel pain after death,” he forced out.

  The heartbeats flared and he felt another jab. It lessened this time, more sting than stab.

  “Just keep still, Dom. She’s almost finished.”

  The voice was weary—annoyed, even. It was not the voice of a god.

  Ignoring the advice, he tried to move and nearly succeeded, but for the two pairs of hands holding him down.

  “Corayne?” he whispered, hunting for a glimpse of her. He caught pieces. Black hair edged in red light, her hands bare and too small, her knuckles scabbed. She still smelled like the river. And blood. The whole room smelled like blood, overpowering with the sour bite of iron.

  “Yes, it’s me,” she huffed. “It’s all of us. It’s only us.”

  The world came back into sharper focus. “Where are we?” He looked again to the window full of sunlight, and the churning water wheel feeding the mill. “I thought I was dead.”

  “If only,” said Sarn’s poisonous voice.

  The sting returned, piercing the skin. A gliding sensation followed, sharp and pulling. With a jolt, Dom realized she was stitching him up, weaving his torn flesh back together. He couldn’t see her at all, only feel her deliberate, careful fingers as they worked.

  “I’ve never seen anyone lose so much blood and survive,” she said dryly.

  Dom tried to sneer at her, but only shifted a little on the rough table. The wood creaked beneath him, groaning against his weight. He realized his shirt was gone entirely, even tatters torn away.

  “Where’s Andry?” he said suddenly, craning his head. Again, Corayne and Sarn held him down.

  “The squire saw the truth of Corayne’s words, and good that he did. They were closing the port when we escaped,” Sarn said. “He followed us out of the city.”

  “I remember . . . some of that. But where is he now?” Dom answered, frustrated. “I can’t hear his heartbeat.”

  Corayne came around the table, one hand braced against his upper arm. She wasn’t terribly strong. “You can hear heartbeats?” she said, sounding impressed. “Since when?”

  “Ah, birth?” Dom answered tentatively. He looked over the room again, mostly at the thick layers of dust coating every surface.

  Sarn worked another suture. “We’re on an abandoned farm, some miles west of Ascal. Trelland is plundering the house while we huddle in this broken-down mill. Or at least that’s what he’s pretending to do while he frets over his mother.” Her disdain was bitterly clear.

  This time, Dom didn’t let Corayne hold him back. He rose up on his elbows, turning to put himself face-to-face with the assassin. Her cowl was gone, hanging loose around her neck, showing her full lips pressed together so tightly they almost disappeared. Like Corayne, she had dark circles beneath her eyes, and the black powder lining her lids was smeared away. Neither had slept, and mortals were so very dependent on sleep. Even so, the rage in his chest, born of grief and failure, rose up like embers being stoked to flame. How dare she judge the boy so? He bared his teeth, fists clenching. She didn’t flinch or move her hands from his side. Her needle pulled insistently.

  “You are truly without a heart, Amhara,” he growled.

  She stuck him again. “Thank you.”

  Dom scowled. “We’re too close to the city.” The mill suddenly felt stifling, as if it might collapse on them at any moment. “We should still be on the move.”

  Sarn took the accusation in stride, to his chagrin. “We were a bit limited in how far we could go, thanks to someone’s attempt at field surgery.”

  He tried to knock away her hands, reaching for the needle. “I can do this myself, you know,” he snapped. Now that he could see the wound in the daylight, he realized how serious it was. And, he noted begrudgingly, how well the assassin could stitch.

  “Somehow I have a hard time believing that,” she replied, intolerant.

  “Somehow I thought I escaped this nonsense bickering,” Corayne finally butted in, pressing her hands to Dom’s shoulders. He fell flat with a huff. “I’ve got the Queen, her army, and my damned uncle to worry about. Let’s not add to the list, shall we?”

  Dom felt oddly scolded, his cheeks going warm. “I’m not paying you another coin, Sarn. Not a penny,” he said, trying another tactic. Without payment, certainly the Amhara will disappear. “You are free to go and do as you like.”

  “Well, I’d like to survive the next few years, in a realm that isn’t claimed and conquered by a hellscape,” Sarn answered smoothly, killing his hopes. “I suppose the best way to do that is to stay with the girl, since you aren’t much use.”

  “And a single assassin is?” Dom spat. She tugged the needle again, harsher than she needed to be. He let her; his body was already healing. The flare of pain faded with every second, and he felt rather smug about it.

  Until she lowered her face, her mouth inches from his ribs. He could feel her breath on his skin, ghosting along the ridge of the closed wound. Dom nearly sprang off the table as she bit through the thread, tying off the last of his stitches. Her face was still, impassive, but smirking victory danced in her eyes.

  Behind him, Corayne failed to smother a laugh. “I’ll take who I can get,” she said, patting Dom on the shoulder, “to accomplish what we need to do next.”

  Her eyes trailed, fixing on the corner. Dom sat up and followed her gaze to see the Spindleblade, propped up and half hidden. A beam of sunlight spilled before it, swirling with motes of dust. Inside the mill, the Spindleblade seemed unremarkable, not even a relic. The jewels of the hilt were dull, the steel dim. Dom remembered it in the vaults of Iona, surrounded by a hundred candles, the reflections dancing. It had sat there for centuries, free from the ravages of time. He remembered it in Cortael’s hand, when it was time for him to take the Spindleblade as his own. There was no magic in the steel beyond its tie to the Spindles, but it seemed to bewitch him. The sword was a relic of a world dead, a people all but lost. It spoke to him in ways even Dom could not fathom. He wondered if the blade spoke to Cortael’s daughter in the same way. He could not know. She was more difficult for him to read, her eyes always darting, her mind working in furious motion. She changed paths too quickly for him to follow.

  “We can’t hope to close the Spindle at the temple now,” Dom murmured. Gingerly, he stepped off the table, testing his legs. They held, the weakness of his wound fleeing. “Not without an army to fight our way through. He’ll have thousands of those specters assembled, many thousands. The wrath of the Ashlands and What Waits gathers.” Despite the warm air of the mill, he shuddered, hair raised on his bare arms. “And then there’s Taristan himself. I don’t know how to kill him.” He thought of Cortael, his sword plunging through Taristan’s chest. It did little. It did nothing. “If he even can be killed.”

&
nbsp; Corayne’s eyes ran the length of the blade again, losing focus. Then she blinked, coming back to herself like someone rising from sleep. She turned her back on the blade and went to the wall, where a few crates were piled, not to mention some stolen saddlebags from the stolen horses outside. After a moment, she produced a dark gray, rough-spun shirt and tossed it at Dom. He pulled it over his head, nose curling at the smell and the touch of the poorly made clothing.

  “Let’s focus on what we can do, not what we can’t,” Corayne said. “We’ve got a Spindleblade. We’ve got Spindleblood. We’ve got an immortal prince of Iona who witnessed the tearing of a Spindle and Erida’s alliance to my uncle. We’ve got—all this,” she added, gesturing vaguely at Sarn, now leaning against the window. “Certainly there are others who will listen. Other monarchs, Elders, someone.”

  Dom rolled the sleeves of the shirt, which were somehow too long. “I have a cousin, heir to the throne of Iona. She rides the Ward now, seeking aid from the other enclaves. If anyone can rally the Vedera, she can,” he said, as much as the thought of Ridha pained him.

  Corayne bobbed her head. “Well, that’s something.”

  “It’s basically nothing,” Sarn muttered from the window.

  “It’s something,” Corayne snapped.

  The assassin shrugged, unconvinced. She flicked a braid over her shoulder, peering out the window.

  Dom could finally hear Andry outside, his footsteps harried as he burst through the door.

  The squire was less disheveled than the other two. Even his bruises were not so bad. With his open manner and lanky frame, he could easily pass for a wealthy farmer’s son, or a young tradesman traveling the countryside. He had the kind of face people trusted and overlooked.