Thoughtful, Erida tried to listen between his words, to read thoughts as they raced through his mind. But his abyssal eyes were stone blank, as inscrutable as his face.
Taristan nudged the wine away. Unlike most rogues, he did not seem to have a taste for drink. “I spent my days in wandering.”
“Even as a boy?” She pictured an orphan growing up harshly, with no money and only his wits, then his fists, to rely upon. And then his blood, his great lineage, buried like a diamond waiting to be discovered.
“Corblood do not grow roots,” he said sternly. “I dislike this interrogation, Your Majesty.”
Erida sipped at her wine before answering.
“I am your ruling queen; I follow my own will.” The agreement is already made, our lines drawn. But I might as well remind him.
“Do as you like,” he said, shrugging. The court glittered before them, eager to eat and drink even in the hot air. But they were as jumpy as rabbits. The events of the night before were not so easily forgotten. “Your will bothers me little, so long as we keep sight of the same goal.”
The realm beneath the Lion, an empire of Galland, the Ward in my fist. The glory of Old Cor reborn. In her mind, the map on the wall of the council chamber bloomed with green, like grass in springtime. She could already feel all the world laid out, the hopes of her forefathers realized in a woman’s hands. My father’s dream made real.
She ducked her head to hide a smile, using her hair as a shield from the rest. Conquest was in her blood. It sated her better than any feast.
The first of twenty-one courses—twenty for the gods and one for the kingdom—was brought out quickly. The original plan had called for soup, but in the heat, the kitchens had wisely pivoted to a spread of herbs, cold sauces and spiced jams, cured meats, and thick, white cheeses.
Erida was served first, though she had little appetite.
“The city garrison continues their search,” she said in a low voice, poking at her plate. Quietly, discreetly. Peering into every ditch and sewer looking for Corayne and her Spindle sword. We must give no cause for alarm, to either the commons or the court. “And we have companies riding out from the fort at Canterweld to comb the countryside. If she can be found, she will be found.” The scratches on Taristan’s face were not as blue as they were yesterday, giving over to purple as bruises took shape. “It’s good she attacked you. No one will question us riding her down.”
Taristan curdled under her attention, turning his head to hide the wound. “There are other matters to attend to,” he ground out. A red sheen flared in his gaze, a trick of the sun filtering through the flapping tents.
This time, Erida did roll her eyes. She wondered if her new husband would be as predictable as most men. In this, it seemed, they were all alike.
“I know my duties, Taristan,” she replied coolly, careful to use his name. Not a title, not an endearment. No my lord or Your Highness, by careful design. I am king and queen. My rank far outweighs your own, no matter where your blood comes from. “They will be performed.”
Taristan hissed and forcibly drained his goblet, the wine dark on his lips. “I’m not talking about whatever nonsense your court requires after a wedding,” he said. “That weighs very little in my mind, when measured against what is to come.”
She blinked, surprised, though she did her best not to show it. A queen’s hand of cards should not be so easily played.
“And what is to come?” she replied. “You have twenty thousand . . . men in the foothills of the Ward Mountains, awaiting orders before a Spindle torn.” Men being the corpses of a burned realm, every soldier broken and obedient to her new consort, armed to the teeth and then some. They had killed Sir Grandel and the Norths, men she’d known all her life. But their ghosts bothered her little. “They’re nothing to sneer at, but no match for the men at my disposal, should I muster the combined might of Galland.”
“You know an army of Ashlanders is not all the Spindle gave me.” Though the sun was bright, a darkness seemed to pool around Taristan. Erida felt it on her bare skin, a weight like a feather touch.
“Yes, the temple did something to you,” she said, tentatively brushing his arm. Her eyes trailed over his chest, where a sword had punched through his heart. To anyone looking, they might have seemed the picture of cautious newlyweds. Instead of wolves sizing each other up. “The Spindle did something to you.”
Taristan watched her trailing fingers. He remained as still as the surface of a pond, and just as inscrutable.
Erida swallowed, pulling her hand away. She was glad for their small table, away from the prying eyes and ears of a court that would not understand. To Konegin and the rest, Taristan was a blood match, a son of Old Cor with little more than his dynasty to offer, an inheritance for their children. A stepping-stone to the old empire, a path to be forged by her heirs. A birthright they could claim in conquest. Emperors and empresses reborn. But Erida remembered what Taristan had said in her petitions chamber, when she’d commanded the rest away. When he’d cut his palm and bled and healed before her eyes. When he’d told her of his destiny, and what it could buy them both.
She could not resist the opportunity, then or now.
“And you have another Spindle ripped in the desert, its forgotten realm bleeding through.” She threw his own words back at him, the promises made with his proposal. Spindles torn, armies won. At the temple, in the dunes. More would follow, if Taristan and his wizard held up their end of the bargain. “As you said, you gain strength with every Spindle, and therefore so do I. In your body, in your army. So gain it,” she whispered.
Her fist clenched on the table, knuckles bright with jeweled rings. She wished for Prevail in her hand, or the Spindleblade sheathed at her husband’s hip. For a weapon to match the fire she felt inside.
“Take your sword and bleed for me, and I will bleed for you. Win us the crown our ancestors could only dream of.”
He inhaled sharply, returning her scrutiny, and Erida almost felt the breath drawn through his teeth. He was thirty-three years old, fourteen years her senior. In royal circles, that was not so terrible. But he seemed older than his years. Because of the life he had lived or the Corblood in his veins, Erida did not know. A crown sets you apart, she knew. She’d felt one all her life, even before it landed on her head. Perhaps it’s the same with him: the weight of destiny never lifting. Until it becomes second nature.
He continued to stare, black-eyed, a muscle feathering in his jaw. The son of Old Cor, a rogue and a murderer, did not enjoy being ordered around by anyone. Men never do.
“A marriage is a promise, and we promised each other the world entire,” Erida said hotly, looking away from him with wrenching force. She set to her plate, but it held no taste for the Queen. She wanted nothing more than to be finished with all this nonsense. I’m better suited to the council chamber than the feasting hall.
Taristan’s laugh was low, and as rough as his hands.
She looked back at him, braced for disdain. Instead Erida saw a sliver of pride.
“The Lion should take you as its sigil,” he said, gesturing to the banners all over the tents. Green and gold, roaring true. “You’re twice as fierce, and twice as hungry.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“It was meant to be,” he answered.
At the closest table, still several yards away, the red wizard sat and glared. He ignored the council around him, for all of Harrsing’s efforts. Konegin pretended Ronin didn’t exist at all, speaking only to his lump of a son. Both were gray-faced in defeat. Erida spared them little mind. Lord Konegin was an obstacle, yes, but small in comparison to the road ahead. And she had an ally against him, a powerful one, who could not be killed by man nor steel.
The wizard drew her eye instead.
“At first I thought Ronin was a priest.”
Taristan finished the meat on his plate, leaving the rest undisturbed. “Silent and useless gods do not hold my interest,” he muttered.
“In Galland, we pray to Syrek above all. God of war, god of victory, god of conquest, god of life. And, in some scriptures, some teachings, the god of death too. The god of hell and heaven, in equal measure. You need only decide which side to worship and believe in.”
She thought of the statues, the idols, the many stained-glass windows and tapestries depicting Syrek and his bleeding sword, his flaming spear, sunlight like a halo around him, smoke and victory in his wake.
“The scriptures say he brought forth Old Cor, ushering your people into Allward from their lost realm.” Erida leaned forward. “Perhaps he means to do so again.”
Taristan did not hesitate. “Perhaps.”
When the servant returned, Erida did not refuse another glass of ruby wine.
“Where does Ronin guide you next?” she asked when he was gone. The drink was cold, at least, a relief in the heat. And it numbed her a little, smoothing her edges after a long night and longer morning.
“He’s found some promising leads in the cathedral records, whispers of Spindles through the centuries and further.” Erida wanted to ask precisely what but refrained. “We’ll head east.”
“And what will the next Spindle bring us?” Invulnerability granted. One army given. And in the desert, the power to rule the seas. What more comes?
“I don’t know until the crossing is made. I could open a door to any realm in existence, known or unknown. To Glorian, the home of the Elders, or the lost realm of my ancestors. To Infyrna’s furious blaze, the frozen wastes of Kaldine, Syderion, Drift, Irridas, Tempest,” he said, rattling off realms Erida only half-remembered from religious lessons and Spindle tales.
“Even the Crossroads, the door to all doorways.” Taristan’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Or Asunder herself.” He looked to his wizard, holding his red gaze. Something passed between them, a message even Erida could not fathom. “If the girl cannot be found by nightfall, you must set a guard in Ibal, and in the foothills.”
A corner of her mouth lifted in a smirk. Corayne of Old Cor is barely more than a child, a sparrow alone while the hawks circle. “You’re afraid of her getting through burning sands and an army? She barely escaped my palace—”
“But escape she did,” Taristan bit back. The red sheen was in his eyes again, a glimmer like the edge of a coin. “There’s more at play with her, and the others traipsing after her.” His face darkened, his black brows swooping together. “Set the guard, Your Majesty.”
Dispatching men to the temple, to guard foothills within my own border, will be easy enough. We just need to keep a low profile, direct attention elsewhere. Erida clenched her teeth. But to send a company to Ibal, a foreign kingdom? Over the Long Sea and into the Great Sands, past their fearsome navy . . . how do I disguise that? How do I even make such an order?
Taristan held her stare as she thought, watching the scales balance. She wanted to shrink from his attention, to think alone, to plan in her own measured way. But there was no escape from the man beside her. And there should not be. He is my husband, a choice I made, a path I followed. He is mine to use. I should not hide from him.
Though no answer came, Erida knew she would will one into being eventually. She nodded slowly and he smiled, cruel as a knife-edge.
“Very well,” she said. “You’ll leave this evening.”
He dipped his head, glancing at Ronin again. The wizard placed his white hands on the table and stood, despite the second course being served around him.
“I’ll leave in an hour,” Taristan replied, matching the wizard.
Erida watched him stand, her face carefully blank. She was not the only one to see. The eyes of the court rose with her consort, some of them grinning rudely, others whispering. Erida did not like being pushed into a corner, but this was a corner she needed to face.
With a sigh, she rose to her feet as well, leaving the plates and wine abandoned.
“I suppose it’s best the court think you eager rather than indifferent,” she hissed. He eyed her sharply, confused for a blistering second.
Then she pulled him away, the Lionguard traipsing along at a respectable distance.
“One course of the wedding feast,” she muttered, taking his arm with a violent grip. “I believe we’ve set the record.”
The royal residence was oddly quiet. Most of the palace servants, even her handmaidens, had been commandeered for the ceremony and reception. The halls echoed, yawning as Erida walked the well-known steps to her bedchamber. The Lionguard tromped behind, their armor ringing, but they would not follow much longer. The bedding of a ruling queen would have no witnesses. Not even the red wizard, who followed behind the knights with his haunting glare.
It was not so warm within the cool stone of the palace, but she felt heat all the same, creeping up her arm and into her spine. Taristan’s palm still pressed against hers, neither of them dropping the charade of a couple. As with the glass at the feast, he looked sharply at everything—the walls, the rugs, the tapestries—drinking in a world he had never known before. All of it was as familiar to Erida as her own face. She tried to see it through the eyes of another. It felt bizarre.
Her solar was as long as a gallery, lit by a wall of windows looking out over the gardens. She could see the tents, big as ship sails, and the lagoon beyond like a green mirror. The knights planted themselves beside the windows in practiced formation. Their path ended here, guarding the door to the Queen’s bedchamber. But no further.
Better to get it over with as soon as possible. One less thing to do.
Taristan glanced at Ronin before Erida could, his expression tight. “Be ready to leave.”
The wizard didn’t argue, and turned in a smooth arc, his red cloak sweeping behind him. He left the long sitting room without a word, disappearing through another doorway, seeking a back stair. Only a few weeks and he knows the palace as well as my oldest servants.
It was not often that Queen Erida of Galland opened a door for herself, and she endeavored not to struggle with the thick oak ones leading to her bedchamber. They swung on greased hinges, heavier than she remembered, to reveal what looked like the heart of another cathedral.
Rugs patterned the floor, frames of priceless mirror glass decorated the walls, and curtains hung the columns and archways. Red flowers bloomed in vases, perfuming the air. A rose window illuminated the chamber, an ancient bed caught in the circle of rainbow light. In winter, curtains could be drawn around it, to insulate against the cold, but they were flung open in summer, the down pillows and brocade silk blankets difficult to ignore. Erida had never seen this room so empty or so still. With a jolt, she realized she had never been alone in her bedchamber, not once in her life.
The door shut with a snap. In spite of herself and the calm she tried to exude, Erida jumped in her skin.
Taristan dropped her hand. “This is of little use,” he grumbled, gesturing between them.
Then he shucked off the golden chain between his shoulders. His cloak fell with it, a pool of silk blood. He walked, not to the bed but to the closest window. It looked over the spires of the New Palace, beyond the walls to the river, the canals, the bridges. Ascal splayed out, served up on a plate. He looked eager to devour it whole.
Erida removed her crown with more care, laying it on a dressing table. “To me, yes,” she answered, grateful for something to argue. It would make this less strange. “But an heir would cement your precarious position here.”
He leaned against one of the columns, arms and ankles crossed. “A waste of time. I don’t need a child; I need Spindles,” he replied. “I’ll consider our dynasty when the Ward is won.”
The Queen scoffed and set to the pearl buttons marching down the back of her dress. They were difficult, near impossible without her fleet of maids. Taristan let her struggle, never moving from the window.
“You’re a rare man,” she said, eyeing him over her shoulder. “Unfortunately, Husband, we can only remake the world when we own it. But for now there are rules.”
The pearls unfastened, slipping through their loops, until the gown hung off her frame. Erida stepped out from it as nonchalantly as she could, clad only in her underclothes. A fine silk shift, light as a dove’s wing, left little to the imagination. Still, Taristan did not move, even when the Queen perched on the edge of the great bed.
“Make no mistake, my cousin Konegin would seize any opportunity to cast you down and annul any marriage of mine he opposes.”
“Then kill him,” he said dryly, dripping with disinterest.
Erida would be lying if she said she had not considered such a thing, especially in recent days. Konegin had his uses, but they were steadily becoming outweighed by his dangers.
“If only life were that simple,” she said, picking at her sheer skirt. Perhaps if I do away with clothing all together, I might stir him to action and get this over with. Then another thought seized her, and she snapped up her head, eyes wide as she looked over her consort. “By the gods, are you chaste, Taristan?”
His responding smile was crooked, drawn up to show a single, deep dimple in his cheek. Somehow, the scratches down his face complemented the grin. Those flat black eyes sparked, and Erida fought the urge to break his stare.
“Hardly,” he said, a hand straying to the gold clasps of his doublet. “But aren’t you? Isn’t that one of your rules?” He cast a hand around the room, using the other to unfasten the fabric at his throat. Pale skin showed beneath.
Finally, Erida thought, gritting her teeth. She wasn’t sure which was more frustrating—her obtuse husband or the rising thud of her own heartbeat.
“Some rules are less important than others, and easier to break, if you know how,” she said dismissively. The Queen of Galland was only bound by what the court saw, and it was easier to hide dalliances than a fever or cold, with both men and women. “So get on with it, then.”
His doublet hung open, revealing his own underclothes. The neck of his shirt was unlaced, strings hanging. The planes of his bare chest stood out, sculpted like a maiden’s dream, well formed by the years. But the smooth skin was scarred in a way Erida had never seen, white lines tracing over his collarbone. As her eyes followed their paths, she realized they were his veins, standing out like roots or branching lightning. He closed the distance between them as she looked, her blue eyes wide and consuming. Is his whole body like this? She wondered. Is this the price the Spindles demand?
Realm Breaker Page 28