Realm Breaker

by Aveyard, Victoria

  Andry Trelland’s eyes melted like butter in a pan. Corayne looked away quickly and fiddled with the belts of the Spindle­blade, adjusting it on her back for something to do. Her cheeks felt hot.

  “Used to be my job,” she added, her voice rough.

  Andry bit his lip. “That’s what Sorasa meant, when she said you knew ships.”

  “I know some. One more than the rest.” The Tempestborn rose up before her, its familiar purple sails and painted hull, a captain with black hair and laughing eyes at the prow. The admission tumbled out, beyond her control. “My mother is a pirate.”

  She lowered her face, not wanting to see any more judgment or discomfort from Andry Trelland. He’d been through enough already. Not to mention he’s a squire, raised to be an honorable knight. His mother is a lady, nobleborn, beautiful, intelligent, and far kinder than any parent I’ve ever known.

  “That sounds . . . exciting,” he said, taking great care with his choice of words.

  “For her.” Not for me. Not for the people she robs or kills. “It’s the first time I’ve ever said that out loud. The others know. You should too.”

  “I don’t see how that’s relevant to anything.” Corayne’s head snapped up to find Andry staring at her, his faced gold at the edges with summer sunlight. He watched her intently. “What your mother is, or what your father was.”

  My father. Even though she had seen Taristan, far too close for her liking, his face identical to her father’s, she could not see Cortael in her mind. The image wouldn’t hold. It was wrong somehow, and she knew why. It didn’t matter that she had seen his twin. She would never see Cortael himself. Whatever remained was ash and bone. He was lost to her, without hope of return. A man she didn’t want, who hadn’t wanted her. And still it cut her to pieces.

  “You saw him die. You knew him.” You heard his voice; you saw his face.

  Andry shifted, uncomfortable. “A bit.”

  “More than me.”

  Sorasa’s shout forced them apart. She stood in the saddle, the cowl back around her neck, a dirty shawl or blanket draped around her shoulders. She could pass for a farmer or a beggar, if no one looked too hard.

  “It’s three days’ ride to Adira,” she called. “I’d prefer to do it without a Gallish army on my heels.”

  “Adira?” Corayne and Andry said in unison, both gaping. But while Trelland was incredulous—stunned, even—Corayne felt a rare burst of excitement.

  Dom seemed to share Andry’s trepidation. He launched himself into the saddle, wheeling his horse up alongside Sorasa. He loomed down on her, eyes flashing. “You can’t be serious.”

  “The witch said seven,” Sorasa said neatly. “Adira will get us to seven.”

  “Adira will get us killed,” Andry sighed, climbing neatly into the saddle.

  After a moment of scrambling, Corayne got her foot under her in the stirrup and swung a leg gracelessly over the saddle. Still, she smiled. Adira. There was not a sailor aboard her mother’s ship who did not have a tale of the Adoring Port, a pilgrimage for all below and beyond the laws of any crown.

  “You were at the temple, Trelland,” Corayne said, leaning over to eye the squire. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a few drunks and cutthroats.”

  Sorasa grinned and snapped her reins. “More than a few.”

  “Gods save us,” Andry murmured under his breath.

  20

  BLEED FOR ME

  Erida

  “The suitor is next, Your Majesty,” Lady Harrsing said in her ear, bending over Erida, who was seated on her throne.

  Both sighed in annoyance. The old woman and the Queen had seen a hundred of their like over the years, petitioners noble and peasant, both men and women, rich and poor, handsome, ugly, and everything in between. They had only one thing in common—they were stupid enough to think they could tempt the Queen of Galland.

  In most courts, petitions were heard in public, in a throne room or great hall jammed with courtiers feeding their own amusement. Not so in Galland. The petitions chamber was small and comfortable, wood-paneled with tapestries on the walls, one end of the room raised to seat the Queen, her chosen advisors, and her knights of the Lionguard. Today the odious honor fell to Lady Harrsing and six guardians, half of them nearly asleep. There were more knights stationed just outside, in the halls and passageways branching off the throne, should the need arise. Erida guessed they were dozing as well.

  She could not blame them. She wanted nothing more than to sleep too, but she had another hour of hearings to suffer through. I can manage another starry-eyed dreamer, she thought, dismissing the Madrentine diplomat in front of her with a wave of her jeweled hand.

  He bowed low and left the throne room, clearly dissatisfied. The Queen cared little for the whims of Madrence and forgot him as soon as he disappeared, leaving the space before her dais empty and waiting for the next person brave enough to approach.

  Erida blinked, surprised when not one but two men approached the throne. Most petitioners were easy to read, by either the heraldry on their clothing or the set of their faces. Not so with these two. One was some kind of priest, cloaked in scarlet, his hood thrown back to show pale skin and white-blond hair. He walked with his hands folded, hidden in his sleeves. She guessed him to be a dedicant of Syrek, Galland’s patron god, though his robes were unfamiliar from any service she’d ever attended.

  The other had no heraldry and no immediate look. He was pale with dark red hair—definitely of the northern continent, but she could not place him further. He had come far, if his muddy boots and dirty cloak were anything to be believed. His hands were gloved, but she wagered his nails were dirty. A soldier, she guessed, judging by his gait and the hard set of his jaw, the squaring of his shoulders. Some captain from an outpost, drunk on glory, victorious in an insignificant skirmish somewhere, and now he thinks to conquer me too.

  The sword beneath his cloak gave her pause. As he walked, the folds of his clothing parted, and she glimpsed the wink of jewels. Ruby and amethyst, red and purple. No simple soldier carries a sword like that, she thought.

  He did not kneel like the others, and neither did the priest. A cord of tension drew through the room, her knights rousing in their armor.

  “Welcome, petitioners,” Erida said aloud, looking between them as she recited the words hammered into her skull. “What would you ask of the Lion?”

  The man met her gaze slowly, raising his face. Even in the throne room, well lit by many torches and chandeliers, his eyes were dark, black as jet but without its gleam. They seemed to swallow the room. In spite of herself, Erida felt a pull to them.

  “I have nothing to ask, and the world to offer. I would give you my hand in marriage, and I would give you the realm entire.” He reached out, and even from a distance, she thought she could feel his fingers. “I am Taristan of Old Cor. I carry Spindleblood in my veins, a Spindle­blade in my fist. Take them both.”

  For a moment, Erida felt fear. Pure terror.

  She had heard that name before, from the lips of a squire with blood on his hands.

  Her well-practiced mask never wavered, as good as a shield now. She hid behind it, taking even, steady breaths. Only a few seconds passed before her fear melted like iron in the forge.

  It took shape again, becoming steel.

  Then there was only resolve. A plan.

  A choice.

  Thanks to the antics of the Spindleblood mouse, the squire, the lumbering Elder, and whoever that woman was, Erida’s wedding ceremony had to be moved from the Syrekom. The Queen of Galland couldn’t very well be married surrounded by broken glass, with evidence of catastrophe looming over everything. The court would already be talking about the feast for weeks. She didn’t need to throw any more kindling on that fire.

  Luckily, there was no lack of cathedrals within Ascal. The Konrada was close enough and grand enough for a royal wedding. The Queen had an army of servants at her disposal, not to mention an actual army, and they worked
tirelessly through the night to prepare. They hung the spire of the Konrada with new banners, golden as a sunbeam, and scattered roses throughout the sanctuary. They polished marble, cleaned windows, dusted pews, and shooed off the beggars at spearpoint. In the morning, the procession from the palace made for a breathtaking sight. While the court paraded over the Bridge of Valor, the citizens of Ascal crowded along the neighboring canals, craning for a glimpse.

  Erida was difficult to miss, alone within a circle of knights, her cream veil trailing a full twenty feet behind her. The bridal crown was a pretty circlet of gold, curling with emerald vines and ruby roses. Taristan followed after her, resplendent in imperial red, a son of Old Cor in image as well as blood. He looked far from the man she’d met in the throne room, his muddy cloak exchanged for silk and brocade. But the soldier’s edge remained. No amount of finery could hide his lethal heart.

  Ascal cheered for them both. In her mind, Erida cheered too.

  He was the promise of empire. The promise of a husband who could give her as much as she gave him. Who held value as much as weakness. High enough to help her, low enough not to control her. A rare thing to find, for a ruling queen.

  Despite the events of the night before, the ceremony went on without much trouble. The sun still shone; the gods still blessed the union; Lord Konegin did not attempt a coup before the vows were made. No one else dropped a chandelier or six on the court.

  All in all, a success, Erida thought, eyeing the glittering crowd within the cathedral tower.

  The ceremony ended in the traditional way of Galland, albeit grander than any common wedding across the kingdom. The high priest of the Godly Pantheon presented Prevail, the marriage sword of Erida’s family, and held it between them, the hilt like a standing cross. The blade was two hundred years old, too fine for war. It did not know blood. Every king and queen of Galland had married with it in hand, fingers joined together, in defiance of all that would tear them apart. Erida took it with relish, enjoying the feel of its leather grip. I am the first queen regnant to hold this sword, she thought, as Taristan’s warm hand covered her own. The high priest relinquished it, letting them hold it together. The jewels of the hilt, emeralds and diamonds, glittered beneath the stained glass of the Konrada. The gods themselves watched from their walls. Erida could feel their marble gaze.

  She hoped her father was watching too.

  “With this sword, you will conquer all that seeks to separate you,” the high priest said, a blessing to the couple and a prayer to the mighty Syrek. “Your allegiance is to each other and to the crown.”

  Erida bowed her head first, dipping her brow to the pommel. “To you, to the crown,” she said. They were the last of her vows, the binding words. She expected to feel them like a chain around her neck. Instead there was nothing. Not joy, not fear. Nothing changed in her heart. The line she walked remained straight and true.

  “To you, to the crown,” Taristan answered, lowering his own face as she straightened.

  His black eyes followed her movement. His head was bare, the red of his hair shining darkly without a consort’s crown. Taristan had refused even a simple circlet. He had no use for jewels or gold. Though he had spent all night combing the city with the garrison, he did not look like it. Erida saw no circles beneath his eyes, no sharp pull of exhaustion at the edges of his face. There was only the grim shadow of failure, something they shared. For now.

  And of course the four lines torn down the left side of his face. Starting below the eye, the scratches were not so deep, but they were unmistakable and refusing to fade.

  He’s still handsome, at least, Erida thought, contemplating his face. The scratches did little to hide his well-boned features, more rugged than beautiful. Which is more than I can say for most. And, truly, he was a man. Not a boy playing at swords or an overgrown toddler coddled into adulthood. Taristan of Old Cor walked his own pace, self-assured, single-minded in focus. He was no stranger to blood or ambition. She’d seen it in their first meeting. She’d seen it in their second, the night before. And she saw it now, the third time, as he became her husband, rigid as a statue, determined as stone.

  When he stood up again, the deed was done. She braced herself for a wave of regret that never came.

  This is the path I’ve chosen.

  She looked him over, her new prince consort. The celebrating, simpering court drowned out all sound from the high priest, who spoke words she did not need to hear. Taristan was not smiling, his lips set like a challenge. She offered no smile of her own. He returned her stare, black eyes meeting blue. He was not unfathomable. His wants were clear, his use obvious. There were things each could take from the other, in equal standing.

  He is the right path.

  Prevail returned to the high priest but their hands remained joined, as they would all the way back to the New Palace. His skin was hot but not uncomfortable, her palm fitting oddly well in his. Their steps matched as they turned from the altar and led the procession back out of the cathedral, the aisle carpeted in soft green. Taristan did not speak, as taciturn as he’d been in their first two meetings. Of course, the second had been under less than ideal circumstances, with only a few words passed between them at all before the feast went to ruin. And the first meeting had been closer to a military negotiation than a proposal, both sides well armored and clear in intention.

  Taristan’s red wizard fell into the procession, a scarlet dot at the corner of her vision, just outside the circle of the Lionguard escort. Ronin, he was named. Spindletouched and gangly, he was ill at ease surrounded by people, and spent most days in the archives, hunting the tomes and crumbling parchments for word of Spindles long gone. He did not speak now, but his red hood was lowered, showing a white face and pink-rimmed, darting eyes. He reminded Erida of a hairless rat.

  Outside, the summer heat continued to climb, and Erida was glad for the short walk back to the cool shade of her palace.

  The canals echoed with the voices of Ascal. Her subjects roared their approval from seemingly every bridge and waterside street, their faces a pink-tinged sea. Erida waved and gestured for Taristan to do the same. Coaxing the love of the commons was always wise, especially when it was easy. And there was nothing the commons loved so much as a wedding, the splendor of a life they could not fathom brought close for a heartbeat. Joy, false as it might be, was difficult to resist.

  Erida fed off it, the love of the people for the Queen. It was a comfort as much as a shield. While they love me, I am safe.

  Taristan’s fingers flexed in hers, his grip loosening as they reached the Kingsbridge.

  “Wait until we’re out of sight,” she warned. Her teeth set in an exaggerated smile. “Don’t give anyone an excuse to gossip. They’ll find enough reason without our help.”

  He grimaced but tightened his grasp again. There were calluses on his palm and fingertips, patches of skin worn rough by years of swordsmanship. The touch of them shuddered her a little. Taristan of Old Cor had lived hard years, the testament of them in his skin. She tried not to imagine those hands elsewhere, as they would be later. There was no wedding without a bedding, no bond of marriage without a bond of body. A sword in the church and a sword in the sheets, as the crude saying went.

  “I care little for court opinion,” he muttered, almost inaudible.

  All thoughts of the bedding and his fine face snapped apart. Erida refused to roll her eyes. I’ll have a lifetime to teach him how wrong he is, but I don’t need to start this instant.

  “How lovely that must be,” she said dryly.

  Erida had never dreamed of her wedding, though her ladies-in-waiting had often asked. She’d made things up to satisfy them. A cathedral filled with flowers, milk-white horses, Madrentine lace, the marriage sword bright as lightning, a veil as long as a river, gifts from every monarch in every corner of the Ward. Some of those things had come to pass without much effort.

  But what Erida had truly wished for on this day, not even a ruling queen could ac
quire. Her mother was dead. Her father was dead. Neither Konrad Righand nor Alisandra Reccio had lived to see their daughter crowned or wed. She tried to feel them with her, as she’d felt the gods in the cathedral, but it was like reaching through open air. The usual emptiness remained. It was an old wound, but today it bled anew. It was difficult not to look for them, even when she knew they would not appear.

  With the feasting hall in tatters, the ruins of her father’s chandeliers smashed all over the floor, the reception took place in the palace gardens, beneath hastily assembled tents, with an armada of servants waving long fans. At least a good breeze blew off the lagoon, through the only gap in the palace walls.

  Their table was separate from the rest, isolating the new couple from all but each other. Even Erida’s council sat apart, arranged around a long table with Ronin glowering in their midst. She pitied Lady Harrsing, who tried in vain to engage the wizard in talk.

  Erida sat, taking her hand from Taristan’s. His blood ran too hot for summer. He did not seem to mind the temperature, despite his thick red doublet and the heavy gold chain strung between his shoulders. His cheeks remained pale; there was no sweat on his brow.

  A servant offered him a goblet of wine. He took it without drinking, assessing the facets of the crystal cup, letting it catch the light. Taristan of Old Cor was noble in blood but not birth. He was not accustomed to the riches of royalty, nor the expectations.

  “Are you going to gawk at me all day?” he said, raising his gaze to match her stare.

  She didn’t blink, unfazed by the challenge. “Where are you from?”

  His answer was quick, stoic. “I am the blood of Old Cor.”

  Erida resisted the urge to roll her eyes once again. Instead she pulled at her wine, using the seconds to cool her frustration. “I mean, where were you born?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered, shrugging without thought. “My parents were either dead or gone by the time I had the sense to look for them.” His fingers played over the crystal goblet, looking for flaws. “The Elders took my brother to Iona and made him there. The rest of the world made me.”