Realm Breaker

by Aveyard, Victoria

  She felt Sorasa’s copper-flame eyes. The assassin did not smile, but there was victory in her all the same. She reached across the tea table, taking Charlon by the shoulder.

  “Would I be here if this weren’t real?” she murmured, leaning so she was all he could see. Her voice dropped an octave, stern. “Would I risk my life for anything less than the end of the world?”

  The forger’s jaw tightened. “No, you wouldn’t,” he said thickly, then fell silent. Sorasa let him think, giving him a long moment to make his decision. “What of Garion? He must be warned.”

  The assassin fought the smile on her lips. “Between the two of us, I’m sure we can figure out a way to get a message through,” she offered. “He doesn’t exactly bother to cover his tracks.”

  A corner of Charlon’s mouth lifted. “No, he does not.”

  “I’ll help you pack up, Charlie,” she said, pulling him to his feet with a pat on the back.

  In the street, the rain hissed.

  “I bet you will, Sarn.”

  Corayne and the others stayed in the tea shop, bent over a pot that never seemed to go empty. The Ishei keeper was a diligent man, quick with his hands. Andry happily engaged him in a whispered conversation about brewing. What sort of spices, which roots, what did the Ishei use to clear the chest or encourage sleep? Over the brim of her cup, Corayne watched him chattering animatedly.

  He doesn’t belong here with us, as much as he tries to. The end of the world is no place for Andry Trelland. He doesn’t deserve it.

  The squire felt her examination and glanced over his shoulder. Goose bumps rose along his forearms. They were toned and leaned, corded with muscle from years of squire work and sword training. He rubbed them smooth, fingers working.

  “What is it?” he muttered, looking back to her.

  Corayne tightened her grip on her cup, trying to draw the warmth into herself. It warred with the cold down her spine. She shook her head.

  The tea shop was quiet and peaceful. Too much for her liking. She wanted noise, activity. She wanted to see and hear what was going on.

  “The Long Sea is quiet in the summer,” she finally said, chewing over Charlon’s words back in the crypt. “Few storms at all, but shipwrecks? Running aground out at sea? Impossible. There are no reefs, no shoals. And what did Charlon say about Gallish soldiers on the move? Where are they going? Why would Erida send them beyond her own borders?”

  “Well, she is hunting us,” Andry offered.

  “I doubt she’s hunting in the wrong place. We aren’t exactly hard to follow, and we were obviously going in a certain direction.” We rode west. But where are the armies going? Her mind lit on fire, the blaze leaping up from always-burning embers. “She’s sent soldiers after us, but there are more elsewhere. Looking for something. Or guarding something. Perhaps both.”

  Dom grasped his cup so tightly a crack broke down the clay side, like a black streak of lightning. “The second Spindle.”

  “It could be.”

  Corayne ran a hand through her hair, exasperated. It was like chasing the sunset. Impossible, just out of reach, even in the fastest ship or astride the swiftest horse. Something brushed the edge of her fingertips before dancing beyond her grasp again.

  “Valtik?” she said, raising her voice to catch the witch, who was still examining the rainy sky. She swilled the rain in her cup. “What do the bones tell?”

  The old woman responded in a loud tangle of Jydi, too fast for Corayne to decipher, or even to pick out a single word. It sounded like a melody, the rhythm soothing. And useless.

  With a huff, Corayne began to stand. “Valtik—”

  But another spill of Jydi cut her off. Spoken not in the old woman’s voice, but in a booming one. Deep, masculine, joyful. Familiar.

  Corayne fell back into her seat with a painful thunk, the backs of her thighs digging into the hard bench. She dropped her face, dropped her eyes, dropped her hood, trying to curl into herself as quickly as she could. Suddenly the quiet shop was too loud, the walls closing in. She wanted to disappear; she wanted to stand up and draw as much attention as she could. Her body felt torn in two.

  Warm hands took her shoulder, Andry’s fingers closing over the corner of her cloak. “Corayne, what’s wrong?”

  Dom spread his arms wide, bracing himself against the table. He looked to the doorway, hawk-eyed, ready for anything. An assassin, an army, even Taristan himself.

  Instead there was Valtik, grinning her strange smile, jabbering away in the rain. She craned her neck, looking up into the face of a bald-headed Jydi raider, every inch of his exposed skin scarred or tattooed in complicated knots. He answered her rhymes eagerly.

  “His name is Ehjer,” Corayne murmured beneath her hood. Recruited ten years ago, loyal to my mother. A pirate. A raider. An old friend. “The one next to him is Kireem, a Gheran navigator from the Tiger Gulf.”

  Indeed, a smaller man stood at Ehjer’s side, half his size, one eye covered by a patch swirling with chips of black stone. Scars bled out beneath the patch, the purple lines violently dark against his ocher skin. Smart as a unicorn, he can read the stars even on blackest night.

  The two had been together as long as Corayne remembered. Relationships among the crew were tolerated so long as they didn’t interfere with the ship, and the pair kept a fine balance. Now away from their duty, they should’ve relaxed.

  Instead Corayne had never seen them more on edge.

  The Jydi passed Valtik, entering the shop with the patch-eyed man. They beelined for the tea bar, settling in alongside the other patrons, putting their backs to the room.

  “Are they a threat?” the Elder murmured, never taking his eyes off them.

  Corayne shook her head once.

  “You know their crew,” Andry breathed, close enough to feel his heat. She glanced out from under her hood, meeting his wide, dark eyes like pools of still water.

  “As well as I know myself. The Tempestborn is here,” she whispered.

  And so is my mother.

  If I get up now, they won’t notice. I can cross the square, hunt the docks. It will only take a moment. She imagined her boots, each step faster than the one before, until they pounded over the planks and up the gangway, into her mother’s waiting arms. There would be yelling, arguments, perhaps the locked door of the captain’s cabin. But Meliz an-Amarat was here. Hell Mel was here. We could be gone with the tide. To whatever horizon we choose. Toward danger, or away from it.

  Corayne knew which her mother would choose for them.

  And it would be the world’s ending.

  It took everything to stay in her seat, gripping the edge of the bench lest she bolt away.

  “Should we get out of here?” Andry said, his hand on her shoulder again.

  Corayne didn’t answer, her focus on the Jydi’s broad back. Swallowing hard, she brought a finger to her lips, gesturing for quiet.

  “I’ve never known you to be a tea drinker, Ehj,” Kireem said, his voice musical, the Paramount accented by his native Gheran. He shrugged out of her salt-worn coat.

  Ehjer laughed heartily on his stool. “The storm rang my head like Volka’s bell. I don’t think I could touch Mother’s mead, let alone stomach whatever yss they serve up in the Adira taverns,” he said, hissing out the Jydi curse. Piss, it meant. One of the first words Corayne had ever learned in his language. “Many thanks, friend,” he added, raising his fresh cup to the tea keeper. “So, will the ship live?”

  “Lost a mast, barely salvaged the hull.” Kireem crushed flowers into his own pot, stirring idly. “What do you think?”

  Lost a mast and nearly the hull. Corayne’s heartbeat quickened. She tried to picture the proud and fierce Tempestborn limping into the port like a wounded animal. Nearly broken in two, Charlon had said, describing some poor ship Corayne had barely pitied. Now she knew better. Now she knew fear for that galley and its crew. Under the table, her knuckles went white.

  Until there was not the bench beneath
her fingers, but skin, darker than her own, warm where her flesh went numb. She squeezed Andry’s hand gratefully.

  “You know better than I,” Ehjer blustered, in his booming version of a whisper. “The Captain tells you things.”

  “A few weeks, if the supplies can get in. But with the Sea the way it is . . .”

  “Never seen the Sarim like that.” Ehjer slurped his tea. “Whirlpools, waterspouts, thunder . . . it was furious. The gods themselves warring in the water.”

  Kireem didn’t touch his cup, his single eye fixed on the steam rising from the liquid. He traced it, transfixed or dazed. “I’ve never seen anything like that thing,” he hissed. The navigator had been with Hell Mel for as long as Corayne lived, and nothing had ever unsettled him so.

  “Where did it come from?” The big Jydi was just as agitated.

  Kireem shrugged. “You’re the godly one between us, Ehj.”

  “That doesn’t mean I understand why the goddess of the waters sent a monster to devour us.”

  Corayne ripped her eyes from her mother’s crewmates, looking to Dom with lightning speed. He was already glaring back, his mouth set into a thin line. A monster. The goddess of the waters. Her stomach churned like the angry ocean.

  Kireem dropped his voice again. “Did you see what the captain cut out of its belly?”

  “I was busy chopping a tentacle off Bruto. The beast was still choking him even while it bled to death.”

  The other patrons of the shop were clearly listening, as was the tea keeper. Everyone froze, dropping all pretense of pretending not to eavesdrop. Corayne felt as if she might forget to breathe.

  Tentacle.

  “Three Ibalets, sailors of the Golden Fleet,” Kireem hissed. His fingers wound around Ehjer’s wrist, nails like claws. “In full sail armor and dyed silk, half eaten. All there out on the deck with the creature’s rotten guts.”

  Ehjer gingerly nudged his tea away. “Meira of the Waters is ravenous.”

  “I can’t believe that,” Kireem scoffed, but his eye said something different. Wide and worried, it darted wildly, searching Ehjer for an answer he could not accept.

  “You don’t have to believe it,” Ehjer answered. Licking his lips, he brushed his fingers over the tattoos on his cheeks, tracing the swirls of ink. The action soothed him somewhat. “Gud dhala kov; gud hyrla nov. The gods walk where they will, and do as they please.” Then he raised his voice to his usual roar, gesturing to the tea-shop eaves, where Valtik still stood. “Ah, Gaeda, sit, have a cup,” he said, beckoning to her. “Tell me tales of home! I sorely need them!”

  Without a glance at her compatriots, Valtik all but bounced into the shop, the raindrops running from her braids. Corayne did not know it was possible for the old witch to act even stranger, but somehow Valtik accomplished just that. She preened in Jydi again, patting Ehjer on both cheeks, tracing the tattoos he had.

  It was distraction enough.

  Corayne moved quickly out into the street, one hand pulling her hood low, the other cold without Andry’s skin. They followed her in silence, but she heard the questions rolling from their bodies. She scrambled for answers, trying to make sense of what she’d heard—and which ship was waiting nearby, wounded beyond measure.

  Weave the threads, she told herself, drawing a breath through her teeth. Fit the pieces.

  Again, she wanted to run. The Tempestborn would be easy to find. Battered, riding low among the proud ships and galleys of the port.

  Hell Mel, Meliz an-Amarat, Mother. She wanted to scream each name and see which would draw an answer. She’s nearby; I can feel it. Maybe in the dock market, bartering for supplies. And doing poorly without me.

  The wetness on her cheeks could not be rain. Raindrops didn’t sting your eyes.

  Her next words came hard, like a knife drawn from her own body.

  “I know where the second Spindle is.”

  24

  THE WOLF

  Domacridhan

  Again Dom loomed at Corayne’s shoulder while she shopped, trading his Ionian coin freely as evening fell over Adira. The night market was lively, blooming as the sky darkened. In her haste, Corayne didn’t bother to haggle too much. She made sure Andry outfitted himself with a good sword and belt, and found a long, thrusting dagger for herself. The Spindleblade was still of little use, too unwieldy in unskilled hands. Dom had his Ionian sword, centuries old and Vederan-made, her steel as sharp as the day she was forged. His bow had been lost back in Ascal, so he chose another for himself and, after a long, begrudging moment, for Sorasa too. His was overpriced but well made, a double bend of black yew. It was not from his homeland, but the fine swoop of wood reminded him of the glens all the same.

  After the weapons, Corayne drifted to provisions. Dried meat, hard biscuits, skins of fortifying wine, a pouch of salt, beans, a sack of apples. Things that would keep for the voyage.

  And the desert.

  Dom’s throat went dry. He could already feel the sand, gritty on his skin, stinging in his eyes. He was a son of Iona, born to rain, mist, and glens green with life. He did not favor heat and he disdained the thought of Ibal. The dunes like mountains, the sun furious and without mercy. Nor did he want to accompany Sarn to her home, where she would gloat over his discomfort, if not make it worse.

  They returned to the Priest’s Hand in good time. Corayne had a head for direction, navigating the streets well. Dom felt a bit like a pack horse, laden with their supplies, bags slung over each shoulder. He expected chatter, but Corayne kept silent, shadowed in her hood. It worried him, to see her shuttered. Andry hovered at her shoulder, trying to coax something out of her, but she fended off all attempts at conversation with a few sharp words.

  Her pace never broke, even in the crowds. She walked like something might catch her if she stopped. She looked back at the port a few times, her depthless eyes hunting.

  No one followed us, Dom wanted to say, if it would quiet her mind. But even he knew better. The Tempestborn is here. Her mother’s ship, her mother’s crew. Every piece of her life until the moment I found her.

  He might have suggested lingering a moment if there had been time, if the realm had not been relying on their next steps. Too many ifs to count. An overwhelming prospect for an immortal, whose entire life stretched into centuries of unchosen paths. Dom had enough ifs of his own to weather. He could not stomach Corayne’s as well.

  Charlon and Sorasa were in the yard outside the Priest’s Hand when they arrived, surrounded by their horses and one very grumpy mule. The long-eared beast curled its lip as Charlon adjusted its saddlebags, shoving another sheaf of parchment into place.

  “I expected more of a fight from you,” Dom said to him, “if the danger is as you say.”

  The danger, of course, being just punishment for what seems like a great many crimes against a great many kingdoms.

  Charlon grinned in return, patting the mule. “Got the feeling Sarn would slit my throat if I argued too much. And if Sigil does decide to come hunting, I wouldn’t mind seeing the pair of them try to kill each other. Neither would you, I wager, eh, Elder? Or do you prefer Veder? That’s what you call yourselves, don’t you?”

  “I have little preference,” Dom replied in a brittle voice. He imagined leaving Sarn behind at almost every turn, but found he could not picture her battling a bounty hunter to death, and certainly not over someone as unimportant as Charlon Armont.

  The forger was built like a young man squashed, with short legs and a round belly, his arms oddly long for his frame. Among the bags of parchment, quills, seals, and stamps, Dom didn’t miss the flash of a hand ax and a shortsword. Not to mention a wicked-looking hook on a loop of rope. For someone who seemed like an afterthought in a quest to save the world, he was certainly equipped to do it.

  “I like to be prepared,” Charlon offered, following Dom’s eye.

  “Good,” Dom replied. “But every turn of this path has been less than predictable.”

  Every step from Iona, s
ince the Monarch sent me forth into the harbinger shadows of coming doom. Dom nearly threw himself into the saddle to keep the memories at bay, jolting the horse beneath him. The cloak fell around his shoulders. It no longer smells like home, like clean rain and old stone.

  The yard of the Priest’s Hand used to be a cemetery, but most of the gravestones had been torn up like rotten teeth. Now it served as a meeting square outside the market, teeming with traffic. Still Dom heard Corayne’s voice, low as it was.

  She stood by the crooked fence, staring up at Sorasa, who was already in the saddle.

  “The second Spindle is in Ibal,” she whispered.

  The assassin leaned down to meet her. To Dom’s confusion, Sarn did not smile or even seem pleased. Her copper eyes clouded. She set her teeth. “How can you be sure?”

  “I’m sure” was all Corayne said in reply, her voice like iron.

  With her back to him and hood raised, Dom could not see her face. He judged Sarn instead, as her brow furrowed, her eyes downcast and searching. She faltered, looking for any misgiving in Corayne. Dom did not trust Sorasa Sarn, with his life or anyone else’s. But he trusted the assassin with her own survival. Sarn would not risk herself, not without cause.

  “Fine,” she muttered, tightening the reins in hand until her horse tossed. “We’ll ride west, stop at the crossroads before finding passage over the Long Sea.”

  Dom winced at the thought of another voyage, let alone one in such close proximity with this steadily growing band of shabby travelers. At least I won’t spend this one shoved below deck like a corpse in a steadily rocking tomb, he thought.

  “We should get passage here,” Corayne hissed back. She glared over her shoulder for a second, once again looking toward the port. Her eyes flared. “There are ships enough.”

  “You said before, you trust my judgment. Trust it again. We’ll head south within a few days, be on the sands as fast as the winds can carry us.”

  There was something in Sarn’s voice that Dom had not heard before. In the many long days since he’d found her in Byllskos, she’d been frustrated, annoyed, weary, enraged, and mostly bored. Never desperate. She is desperate now, he realized, reading the carefully masked motions of her face. In spite of himself, the immortal knew her enough to note the pull of her lips, the hard clench of her jaw, the minuscule narrowing of her tiger’s eyes.