Realm Breaker

by Aveyard, Victoria

  “Charlon Armont,” Sorasa said, approaching the stubby young man bent over a workbench. She said his name with the characteristic Madrentine flourish, words swooping. “So nice to see you.”

  He looked up, one eye exaggerated by a magnifying glass. The other was mud brown, like the thick hair held back from his face by a tight braid. He straightened, revealing a strongman’s gut and broad, rounded shoulders. He had the build of a laborer, sturdy as a wall. But his hands were thin and delicate, skillful. His skin was pale, unnaturally so, as if he spent most daylight hours down in the crypt. It’s probably true, Corayne thought.

  “Don’t lie, Sarn. You’re too good at it; it unnerves me,” he said, lowering his eyeglass to let it dangle from the cord around his neck. Without looking down, he swept the papers on his desk into a box, hiding the contents from sight. Corayne tried to catch some of it, but he moved too quickly. “It isn’t like you to come with company. Especially this kind of company,” he added, eyeing the rest of them. His curiosity deepened as he glanced from Andry to Dom to Corayne, taking their measure.

  Corayne did the same. Armont didn’t look older than twenty, his face unlined by age, his skin smooth as marble and the color of honeyed milk.

  His assistant, the owner of the green eyes, wavered nearby. She was small with a frizzy head of sandy hair. Charlon dismissed her with a nod, and she made herself scarce. The brick door shut behind her, the gears above it now clearly visible. It even had padlocks and a broad bar to be lowered into place.

  He looks ready for a siege, Corayne thought.

  “Strange days,” Sorasa answered, her hands spread wide. Both her palms were as tattooed as her fingers. On her right hand, the sun; on the left, the crescent moon.

  Charlon nodded. He removed the glass, shoving it into the tool belt around his wide-set hips. He looked like a bull. A very nervous bull. “Indeed, there’s been odd talk.”

  “What sort of talk?” Corayne said sharply.

  It felt like being home again in Lemarta, listening to sailors trade tales at the tavern, or merchants jaw in the market. She wanted to sink her teeth in, tear out something useful from the nonsense. Once, she’d have grabbed for a line on a treasury ship moving currency. Now, perhaps, some word of where Taristan was going next, or where he had been. What Spindle will tear next, and which is already torn? What new dangers lurk on the horizon, waiting for us—and anyone else caught in the crossfire?

  Charlon eyed her and she eyed him back, unyielding. “Storms out of season,” he answered. “Villages going quiet. Gallish troops on the move, and not to any war anyone knows about. Ships running aground out at sea,” he added, moving a hand over his chin. The tips of his fingers were stained a dull, dark blue. Years of ink. “One of them limped in this morning, hull nearly cracked in two. And there’s that whole fuss about the Queen of Galland marrying some no-name without gold or a castle.”

  Corayne flinched. But he has an army.

  “News certainly travels fast around here,” Andry said shakily. “By the way, I’m Andry Trelland,” he added, extending his hand.

  Charlon did not return the gesture, perturbed by his politeness.

  “Good for you,” he muttered. “What can I say, we’re people of the realm. We like to stay in the know. Ain’t that the truth of it, Sarn?”

  A corner of Sorasa’s mouth twitched, betraying a smile. “If you want information, come to Adira.”

  “And be prepared to pay for it,” Charlon replied neatly. “So, what do you need?” He gestured to the vaults with a blue-tinged hand. “I’ve some fresh seals made for the Siscarian dukes, and with the mess in Rhashir, I’ve got a line on a genuine Singolhi mark-press. Not cheap, but easy. Run off your own Rhashiran notes. Wash the money for gold or land before their treasury knows what’s what.”

  Corayne felt her jaw drop. A mark-press from the Bank of Singhola, the treasury of Rhashir. Noble seals. And, based on the vast collection of ink, paper, quills, and wax stuffing the shelves, a great deal more where that came from. He could probably make letters of trade, privateer papers from every crown on the Long Sea, wax-sealed orders. As good as a shield to any ship, smuggler, or pirate on the water. Her hands twitched as she eyed the shelves again. She saw the symbol of the Tyri navy, a mermaid holding a sword. One stamp of that in blue wax and Mother could run any fleet blockade or enter any port without so much as a wink.

  “See something you like?” Charlon followed her gaze, taking a step closer. He narrowed his eyes. “If you have the coin, I’ve got the means.”

  Only then did Dom stir, moving to loom over them both. Stout Charlon craned his neck, looking up. “You must have money on you, with a bodyguard like this,” he said nervously.

  “We’re not looking for seals or forgeries,” Sorasa said sharply, bringing them back to the task at hand. “We’re looking for you.”

  Charlon barked out a dry laugh. He wagged a finger at her. “The days really are strange. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you tell a joke in all your life.”

  “She isn’t joking, sir,” Corayne said, wrenching herself away from the wall of iron seals.

  “‘Sir,’” he chuckled. Again he waved a hand at Sorasa, as if scolding her. “Well, are you going to explain what you’re going on about? So I can tell you again why I can never leave the walls of this city?”

  Sorasa didn’t hesitate. She opened her mouth to explain, but Corayne felt a shiver down her spine. She swallowed and raised a hand, cutting the assassin off.

  “Let me,” she said, shrugging off her cloak.

  It took a long moment, but she managed to unbuckle the sword belt from her shoulders. I’m getting better at this. Charlon went round-eyed as she drew the Spindleblade from its sheath. It was still heavy, and her hands trembled around the hilt, but it felt familiar now. My father’s sword.

  Even in the forger’s crypt, the steel gleamed strangely, etched and marked by a realm lost. It fed on the underground light, brightening as the rest of the chamber darkened, until it was the only thing in Corayne’s world, a mirror of cold flame. When she finally pulled her eyes away from the blade, she found Charlon staring just as deeply, his keen focus trained on the sword. He was a craftsman. He knew delicate, intricate, and ancient work when he saw it.

  “That’s no ordinary steel,” he breathed. He didn’t step forward or reach out, though he certainly looked like he wanted to. “Not Treckish. Not Elder.” His eyes darted to Dom again, the wheels in his head turning with obvious motion.

  Corayne shook her head. “This is a Spindleblade,” she murmured, and his face went paler than she thought possible. “Forged in a forgotten realm, the land of my ancestors.”

  “You’re from the lines of Old Cor.” Charlon stopped staring at the sword to stare at her. “Spindleblood.”

  She returned his gaze. “I am.”

  “Not too many of you still walking the Ward,” he said.

  Corayne pursed her lips and slid the sword back into its sheath. The blade sang the length of the leather. “There won’t be much of anything walking the Ward if we fail.”

  “What?” Charlon said, the smile still floating on his face.

  She saw Taristan in her mind, looming over her, reaching for the sword, with no concern for anything but his own desire. In her head, the blue scars were already there, dragged along his cheek, the only mark on his fair skin. She wanted to claw him to pieces, expel him from the Ward and her fears.

  “You’re right. The Queen of Galland has married a man with no titles and seemingly no purpose,” Corayne said plainly. “No purpose but the destruction of Allward, the entire realm, ripped apart at her Spindles. Burned, broken, and conquered, beneath the Queen, beneath him, and beneath What Waits.”

  She could smell them again, the corpses, even if they had only been sendings of Valtik’s magic. Echoes of a real threat. Like the red presence in her dreams, shifting behind shadows. She felt its weight now, the grip tightening as she thought of What Waits and His growing influenc
e through the realm. If Charlon could see terror written on her face, she did not know. But she saw it in the others: in the flash of Andry’s eyes, the pull of Dom’s mouth, the fall of a mask over Sorasa’s face, to hide the rush of emotions beneath.

  The forger drummed his fingers on the work desk, his smile curdling at the edges. She expected him to laugh. Instead he watched their faces, seeing their fear.

  “Oh, is that all?”

  After suffering what Corayne had to say about her uncle, her warning of a children’s villain made real, not to mention Dom and Andry’s recollection of the battle at the Spindle temple, Charlon demanded air. He set a manic pace through the Priest’s Hand and out into the streets. He led them down to the waterfront, muttering to himself and casting scowls at Sorasa, who weathered them all with disinterest. Valtik caught up with them somewhere outside the church, the smell of cold following in her wake.

  “And who’s this one?” Charlon demanded, eyeing the witch.

  “Don’t ask,” they said in unison.

  It began to drizzle, bringing the mist up the hill and into the city. By the time they reached the port, a gray curtain dragged across the Bay, eating up the ships anchored in deeper waters. Despite the weather, the streets quickened with people as the day wore on and the docks spat out sailors.

  The Adira port jutted over the water, fat planks hammered together to make a square. It bridged the main peninsula and a set of rocky islands, each one no bigger than a cathedral. The islands were land unto themselves, built up. One had an onion-domed roof painted pale orange, the telltale sign of a Treckish church. A palisade walled another, the planks painted woad blue with white-and-green knots marked over them. Jydi symbols. Charlon led them toward an island with a flat top, crowned in a verdant garden and a small bell tower, its white and yellow-gold pennant flags looping from roof to roof.

  An Ishei district. Corayne’s heartbeat doubled. Isheida was the edge of the map, the end of the Ward, farther even than the old Cor borders. Not even Hell Mel had been there, its jagged lands far from the tides of the Long Sea.

  The island smelled of sweet flowers and cooking meat, undercut with a rich swell of tea. Isheida ruled the mountains and the Crown of Snow, a kingdom of peaks north of Rhashir. Her sailors were few, and they congregated here, trading news beneath the eaves of cookhouses and tea shops. There were priests too, with white robes and long, glossy hair combed straight down their backs. Each looked bathed in moonlight, even under the gray clouds. The Ishei had high, flat cheekbones and dark eyes. Their faces varied in color, ranging from porcelain to bronze and dusk, but all were black-haired, with long eyelashes and easy smiles. Corayne stared, unable to check her wonder. She didn’t speak Ishei, but she could have listened to them talk all afternoon, jotting notes in her ledger. Sorasa nearly had to seize her by the collar to drag her along.

  To her delight, Charlon led them into a tea shop with a cheery hello to the keepers. He must have been a regular. The three other patrons, two Ishei and one Ibalet in wrapped silks, offered him nods from the long bar set down the middle of the shop.

  For the first time since setting foot in Adira, Andry seemed at ease, lulled by the smell of brewing tea. He relaxed when they sat, planting his back against the sturdy wall. With the rain outside and the cocooning warmth of the tea shop, Corayne felt as relieved as he looked. Before she could even think to ask, there was a cup in her hand and a pot on the table, steaming gently.

  Charlon plucked a flower from the vase, blue petals in the shape of a star. He crushed them in his fist and added them to his cup before drinking. “So the realm stands on the brink of destruction. It might have tipped already. And for some reason, you need me to join this . . .” He glanced down their line. This time his scrutiny felt like an insult. “Merry band of heroes?”

  Sorasa snorted into her tea.

  “The witch said seven,” Corayne answered. “Sorasa led us to you. I trust her judgment.”

  It was Dom’s turn to snort. The Elder didn’t quite know how, and it came out like a wet snarl.

  “I’m still not clear on the whole witch thing.” Charlon looked from the table to the eaves of the shop, open to the street. Valtik didn’t sit, choosing instead to stand at the curb, collecting rainwater in her empty teacup.

  “Neither are we,” Dom replied.

  Charlon sipped his tea again. “And you, Elder, where do you stand on this?”

  “Our number is sufficient,” Dom said stiffly. “In fact, I think we could do with one less.”

  “One big happy family, then.” The young man laughed. “Well, regardless of why you need me in whatever you’re planning—”

  “Close the next Spindle torn open,” Corayne said sharply.

  “Wherever it is,” Andry said, almost under his breath. He glanced at Corayne, eyes soft but not apologetic. She felt torn between annoyance and agreement. There was still so much they did not know, so much higher to climb.

  But we can’t be daunted by the size of it, or we’re done for.

  “I’m in Adira for a reason.” Charlon laid his hands on the table, one finger jabbing at the wood in his fervor. He seemed plain outside his crypt, unremarkable. It was almost too easy to forget his shop full of seals and ink, his fingers stained blue. “No laws means no crowns. No bounties. I might get my throat slit tonight, but no one’s going to drag me out of these walls and back into crown territory to face judgment or execution. Adira is her own, and the streets will turn on anyone who turns on her. I’m safe here. I can shut my eyes without worrying that that Temur wolf is going to snap me up.”

  Andry tipped his head. “Temur wolf?”

  “I can handle Sigil,” Sorasa cut in before Charlon could explain.

  Sigil?

  Charlon blustered, flapping his lips. “As much as I’d like to see that, I’m not willing to risk my head for it. She’ll have me in chains before sundown, on my way to the gallows for whichever kingdom set the highest price.”

  “That’s a long list,” Sorasa said, unamused. She sat oddly in her seat, turned to the room. An assassin always, waiting for an attack or planning her own. It set Corayne’s teeth on edge.

  “It’s good to take pride in your work,” Charlon said with a shrug. “And I’d like to keep working, which I won’t be able to do without a head. I will not set foot outside these walls.”

  “You really think Sigil of the Temurijon is camped out in the marsh waiting for the likes of you? You have a very high opinion of yourself, Charlie.” The assassin laughed coldly, a sharp sound. “She’s the finest bounty hunter in the realm. Last I heard she’s rounding up bandits for the Crown Prince of Kasa, terrorizing the Forest of Rainbows. A world away.”

  Some tension was released from Charlon’s shoulders.

  He’s right, Corayne thought with the shadow of triumph. Sorasa is very good at lying.

  “I know someone who is waiting for you, though,” she added, lowering her voice. Her eyes wavered, moving from Charlon’s face to his hands. They clenched on the table, knuckles standing out white.

  “Don’t, Sarn,” he growled. Again he reminded Corayne of a bull. This time, one who saw a red flag waving in front of his face. “Don’t talk about him.”

  Sorasa was undeterred.

  “If the Ward burns, so does he.”

  A cord wound behind Charlon’s eyes. His bared his teeth. “Don’t talk to me about Garion,” he growled, suddenly as dangerous as any other criminal in Adira.

  Sorasa was undeterred, a predator on the hunt, smelling a kill. “I saw him, you know. In Byllskos.”

  Charlon went white, his already pale cheeks turning to alabaster. “Is he well?” he murmured, leaning into the assassin without regard. Corayne saw the desperation in him plain as the rain pouring down outside. Whoever Garion was, he was very important to the forger.

  “As well as usual,” Sorasa said with a dismissing wave. “Preening, overly proud. Pissed with me for stealing his contract.”

  The cord broke, un
furling, and he nodded. His lethal edge disappeared, receding like a curtain drawn away. “Good,” he said in a small voice, running a finger over his lips. “I don’t suppose you can . . . entice him to join your endeavor too?”

  It was Sorasa’s turn to harden. “That’s not something I can do anymore.”

  “Fine,” Charlon said, his eyes on the table. “Fine.” Then he glared at Corayne, his voice forceful again. “What do you think, Cor girl?”

  Corayne blinked, taken off guard.

  “About all this,” he clarified. “Your quest to save the realm, and my place in it?” He gestured to the sword on her back.

  She felt it down her spine, cold steel and leather. Most of the time it was a deadweight, an anchor. Now it reassured her, and she leaned into it, hoping to bring some of its steel into her bones.

  Corayne raised her head, tossing back her braid of black hair.

  “I think we’re being hunted by a kingdom and a devil. The devil, there’s not much you can do about that.” So far to climb, but I cannot look up, or look back. “But the kingdom, an army . . . it will be good to have someone like you to smooth the way.”

  That seemed to agree with Charlon. He leaned back, clapping his hands together. “I can get you passage papers by the end of the day. Diplomatic envoy seals. Marks of travel. No city gate will be barred, no palace closed; no patrol would dare stop you. Only the Queen herself could demand your arrest. All at a price, of course,” he added, cutting a glance at Dom.

  The Elder scowled. “I’ll have sold Iona before all is said and done.”

  “But what good is that to a Spindle burning in the wild? Two Spindles?” Charlon added, asking the question they all had. “What good will I be?”

  Sorasa didn’t seem to share his sentiment. “We’ll certainly find out.”

  “But I’m not going,” Charlon added sharply. “And you don’t even know where you’re headed!”

  “Leave that to us,” Corayne heard herself say.

  Leave that to me.

  Already the threads were pulling together, inch by inch. She needed only weave them into something that made sense, a simple direction.