Realm Breaker

by Aveyard, Victoria

  “All right,” Corayne said, spinning on her heel. By the time she mounted her own horse, the saddlebags full to bursting, her golden cheeks were moon pale.

  Pale with fear or with frustration, Dom had no idea. Mortals are impossible to fathom, especially Sorasa Sarn.

  He urged his mount alongside Sorasa’s as they trekked from the old cemetery. She didn’t acknowledge him at first, focused on checking her saddlebags too many times. He saw her whip, a great many flashes of steel and bronze, alongside small packets he vaguely recognized. A few were blue, some green, one of them a tiny square of black covered in Ishei writing. Clearly she had stocked up on supplies of her own.

  By the time they reached the Adira gate, she huffed a sigh.

  “Just say what you’re going to say, Elder.”

  It felt like victory. A corner of Dom’s mouth curled into a smirk. He leveled his eyes on Charlon, swaying on his mule a few yards ahead, planted firmly between Andry and Valtik. He didn’t favor either for company.

  Dom pointed his chin at the forger. “You’re using that young man as bait.”

  It was meant to be an insult. Sarn took it as anything but.

  “Catching on, are you?” she said, spurring her horse down to the marsh.

  Larsia was a sea of tall yellow grass and gentle hills, the dirt too poor for much planting. As night fell, Dom’s eyes perceived the empty, sloping lands, without forest or farm, all but barren. The emptiness rankled. A pang of longing shot through him. He had never been so far west, the travels of his long life having taken him only to the Gallish border. His days were not well spent under harsher suns in distant lands, away from home. He ached for woods, for glens, for rivers swollen by rain and snowmelt. A stag beneath the boughs of a yew tree, its antlers indistinguishable from branches. The old gray stone of Tíarma, the proud ridge thrust out of the fog, her windows like glowing eyes. The Monarch in her silver gown, waving from the gate. Ridha, smiling in the stable yard, her armor cast away, her sword forgotten and unneeded.

  Will I ever see them again?

  The stars above gave no answer, veiled by cloud and doubt.

  The Cor road was still too dangerous. They rode a dirt track instead, a path older than the empire, rutted by centuries of cart traffic. Every step took them farther from Ascal and the lands of the Queen. Even so, Dom felt Taristan breathing down his neck again, his voice hateful and gloating.

  Shall I kill her in front of you too?

  The leather of the reins cracked between Dom’s hands, threatening to tear. He wanted to do it, to feel something break that wasn’t his own heart.

  The sun rose and the sun set and still they moved on, shadow-eyed and tired. The others dozed off and on, heads lolling with the rhythm of the horses. All but Corayne. Even as the hours passed, the dawn sliding into day, she did not sleep, her pulse disquieted. The sword was a gargoyle on her back, misshapen under the cloak. It made her slump.

  Dom wanted to take it from her, to ease her burden. And claim what little of her father remained on the Ward.

  It’s not for you to wield, he scolded himself sharply. He wished for Corayne’s questions or Andry’s gentle platitudes. Sarn’s hissing retorts, sharp and quick as the whip coiled on her saddle. Even Valtik’s rhymes, annoying as they were, would be better than his own thoughts.

  There were no settlements but Adira this close to the border, all having been either razed or abandoned in the many skirmishing centuries. Dom couldn’t even spot a village or castle on the horizon. It wasn’t until afternoon, when the sun dipped toward the distant ridge of the Ward Mountains, that he saw a smudge far off, trailing smoke. A tavern or an inn, Dom knew as it came into sharper focus, the thatched roof and stonework chimney stark against the sky. It was shaped like a horseshoe, at the intersection of two tracks. A crossroads.

  A mile off, the sour scent of beer wrinkled his nose. I do not think I will enjoy this, he thought as they approached, the sun sinking behind the mountains.

  When Sarn ushered them through the tavern door, he knew he wasn’t wrong.

  The interior stood in stark contrast to the empty road and empty landscape outside. All manner of folk gathered within the boisterous common room: travelers and merchants, priests and wanderers, crossing paths as the tracks crossed outside. Judging by the full stable, it was a busy evening, and the barkeep didn’t break stride when they entered, barely glancing over their strange party.

  In this part of the world, where the east and west began to collide, it was difficult to seem out of place, even for them. An immortal Veder, a Jydi witch, a copper-eyed assassin, a royal squire, a criminal fugitive, and the pirate’s daughter, the Ward’s hope. What a mess we are, Dom thought as Sarn claimed a corner of the room.

  Her glare and Dom’s bulk were enough to send a few patrons scuttling for alternate seats, leaving them a nook of space to cram into. Far too tight for Dom’s liking, so he leaned against the wall instead, feeling like a statue, wishing he could be one.

  Corayne dropped her hood as she sat, planting herself in the narrow corner between the table and the wall. She braced her back, taking some of the blade’s weight off her shoulders.

  Dom expected Andry to slide in next to her, if his stolen glances were any indication. Instead the squire sidled up to him instead, his expression gentle but shadowed with exhaustion.

  “How are the ribs?” he said, glancing at Dom’s side.

  The flesh had healed over and caused him no more pain. But he could still feel the knife between his ribs, tearing as it went in and tearing as it went out.

  “Better” was all Dom could say.

  Andry didn’t push and offered a tight-lipped smile. “You’ll have a hell of a scar.”

  “The Vedera don’t scar,” Dom said quickly, without thought. Then he remembered his face, the long, jagged lines he would never be rid of. Weapons and monsters of the Spindles did not cut Vederan flesh in the way he knew. “Not usually.”

  At least I’m not alone in these, he thought, remembering Taristan’s face again. The lines down his cheek, torn by Jydi magic and Corayne’s own hand. He has scars to match me now.

  It wasn’t like Squire Trelland to fidget. But his fingers twitched and his eyes darted, not to their table or even to the bar, where any young man might wish to stray. Instead he eyed the stairway, bending up and around to the bedrooms upstairs.

  “If you’d like to retire, no one will stop you,” Dom said softly, looking down at the boy.

  As in Ascal, Andry was torn between duty and desire. The squire will march and fight and carry on until he drops. Until someone gives him permission to stand back, and be a little less strong.

  Dom felt a burning in his chest when he remembered Cortael at his age, and his same dogged, sometimes misguided resolve.

  “You’re no use to anyone half-asleep, Trelland,” he said, putting a hand on the squire’s shoulder. “I’ll be sure to wake you if any trouble arises.”

  A wash of relief fell over Andry and he sagged, the last few days pulling on his shoulders. He gave Dom a grateful nod, and with only a single glance back to their table, fled the common room. Though the squire was mortal, he had a grace to him that most did not, even with lanky limbs and overlong strides. He dodged tables and took the stairs two at a time, disappearing to the next floor with his pack and cloak.

  Dom turned back to their corner, satisfied with himself. “We should do the same,” he said to the others, now sprawled around their pitted table. “Rest is what we all need right now.”

  Four cups were slapped down on the table, sloshing with ale and foam. Dom sighed, watching the mortals eagerly reach for their drinks. Charlon grabbed the first, downing it in one gulp. Corayne was quick to follow.

  She glanced up at Dom over the rim of her cup. “It’s not just sleep he’s after,” she said. “I don’t think taverns agree with him.”

  “A squire who doesn’t like taverns or barmaids or drinking on another man’s coin,” Charlon laughed, gesturing
for another beer. “Rare as a unicorn, that boy. Not that I’m exactly clear on what that boy is bringing to the table, if I’m being honest.”

  “Andry Trelland is the reason we have the Spindleblade and even a chance of saving the realm,” Corayne answered coldly, her Cor eyes inscrutable.

  Charlon raised a hand in placation. “All right, all right. Ca galle’ans allouve?” he muttered, raising an eyebrow at Sarn.

  Dom failed to hide a smirk. He did not speak Madrentine, but by now he knew that Corayne most likely did. With the same twist of her lips, Sarn met his eye, sharing his sentiments for once.

  Corayne’s face flushed, her grip closing on her drink. “I can think of nothing more ridiculous than being lovestruck in times such as these,” she said tightly. “And if you’d like to talk about me, I suggest you do it in Jydi. I can follow in almost everything else.”

  Valtik cackled merrily into her cup.

  And Charlon laughed too, his face flushing with surprise. He laid a hand on his chest, blue fingers bare. “Well, m’apolouge.” He sounded truly sorry.

  Unless he can lie to faces as well as he lies on parchment.

  “So, why Ibal?” Sarn said, her voice sharp, turning them back to the great task at hand. As if it could really be far from anyone’s mind. She took her first gulp of ale and pulled a face, setting the cup aside with an Ibalet curse.

  In the yard of the Priest’s Hand, she’d looked just as disgusted by the prospect of returning home. For what reason, Dom could not say. But I would do well to find out, before we set foot in the sands, and she brings whatever she fears crashing down on us.

  “I heard enough in Adira.” Corayne darkened like a storm cloud, her voice low as conversation turned to the Spindle. “A pirate galley nearly sank in the Long Sea, on the Sarim current along the Ibalet coast.”

  Charlon frowned. “Is that odd?”

  “Something with tentacles tried to tear the ship apart. Yes, I’d say that’s odd,” Corayne said. Across the table, Charlon lost his jovial manner, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. “It had sailors from the Golden Fleet in its belly.”

  “Worn to bones, worn to blood,” Valtik crooned, upending her empty cup. She motioned for another with wrinkled fingers. “A Spindle torn for flame, a Spindle torn for flood.”

  Sarn gritted her teeth, frustration written all over her tensing body. I don’t blame her.

  “Some months ago,” Corayne pushed on, ignoring the witch, “I heard word the Ibalet court had moved from their palace in Qaliram. Heading to the mountains. I thought it was nothing—strange, but nothing.”

  “I heard the same.” Sarn nodded. “You think they knew something was wrong, knew long before any of us?”

  “Ibal did not become the wealthiest country upon the Ward by being foolish,” Corayne said, nodding. “Taristan could’ve torn the desert Spindle before the Companions ever went to the temple. Or he did it soon after, racing south when Dom and Andry escaped. That Spindle has been open for gods know how long, spewing its bile into the Long Sea. Somewhere on the coast, or a river.” Corayne clenched her jaw, her eyes sliding out of focus as her mind left the tavern. It was obvious where it went, flying over waves and water. “I didn’t know there were sea monsters in the Ashlands.”

  “There aren’t,” Charlon said, ruddy in the candlelight. “That is a burned realm. If what you heard is true, if creatures of the deep are coming through a Spindle and into the Long Sea . . .” He trailed off, eyes flashing. “You’re talking about Meer.”

  A chill went down Dom’s spine, and he pushed off the wall, shifting closer to the table. “The realm of oceans,” he said, saying what they all knew. His brow furrowed. “But why would Taristan choose a doorway to a realm he doesn’t control? Beyond the influence of What Waits?”

  “If he’s only tearing what he can find, then there’s not much choice to it,” Charlon answered, shrugging. “According to scripture, the goddess Meira came to us from Meer, bringing with her the waters of the realm and every creature below the waves. The truth of that remains to be seen, but the realm itself—clearly it’s real. And it’s here.”

  Dom felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. He wished he’d paid more attention in his lessons half a lifetime ago, when Cieran had lectured the young immortals on the gods and Glorian, on the lost crossings to their realm and so many others. His mind had been in the glens, in the training yard, in the rivers. Not the classroom.

  He shook his head. “Then Taristan does not care what he’s tearing, so long as it is torn.”

  “Or he knows exactly what he’s doing,” Corayne broke in. “And he means to fill the Long Sea with monsters, cutting off half the realm from the rest.” Her fist clenched. “Ibal, Kasa, Sardos, Niron, their armies, their fleets. Any help they might offer,” she hissed, her exhaustion giving over to anger. “It’s a good strategy.”

  “And weakens the Ward, no matter which realm he tears to,” Charlon said, heaving a breath. It was like throwing a heavy shadow over their number, darker even than the shadows before. “Every Spindle forced open is a balance unmade. An abomination to the gods.” His eyes tight, Charlon kissed his palms and raised them quickly, hands open to the sky. A holy gesture.

  “You were a priest once,” Corayne murmured, eyeing his hands.

  Charlon winked. “For a little while. But that vow of celibacy,” he said, grinning, “wasn’t for me.”

  As the others laughed, Dom heard the creak of wood beneath heavy feet, felt the shift of air from a moving body. He turned to see a broad woman, nearly his height, striding across the common room.

  She carried herself well, in boiled-leather armor and greaves, her boots knee-deep in mud, an ax slung across her back as easily as a cloak. The woman was of the Temurijon steppes, judging by the armor and her high-boned face, her skin a deep bronze like polished coin. Her hair was raven, cut short but still thick, falling over one brow. Her eyes narrowed, keen as a bird of prey, fixing on a single figure. She had the look of his fallen Companion, Surim of Tarima enclave, who rode half the realm just to die.

  The room cleared a path for her, travelers pushing out of her way before she could remove them. Her face was known and respected here, if not feared. Dom stood to bar her way, but she stopped short, bearing a smile like a knife.

  “A pity you went from illuminating manuscripts to forging them, Charlie,” she sneered, bracing a hand on her hip. Her fingers were scarred and knobbled, broken and healed a dozen times.

  Charlon seemed unsurprised by her presence. He only shook his head again and reached for Sarn’s abandoned ale, pouring it down his throat. “Hunting bandits in the Forest of Rainbows, eh?” he sighed, tsking at the assassin.

  “I suppose I was misinformed,” Sarn said calmly. “Sigil, have a seat.”

  Dom stayed rooted, reluctant to let the strange woman anywhere near Corayne. Or to take orders from the likes of Sorasa Sarn.

  Sigil, the Temur wolf, did not seem bothered by his bulk. She held her ground too. “Another time, Sarn. I’ve business with the Ink King.”

  “The Ink King,” Charlon sniggered under his breath. “What a stupid nickname.”

  Sarn took no notice. “I’m busy saving the realm, Sigil. Your business can wait.”

  “Charlon Armont,” Sigil said, her voice drained of emotion, as if she were reciting a prayer at an altar, “dedicant priest of the Madrentine Order of the Sons of Tiber, there is a bounty upon your head, and it is my sworn duty to see it fulfilled.”

  A bounty hunter. Dom looked her over again, trying to read the Ward on her. She must have been watching the gates, waiting for her prey to emerge.

  “Now, to which kingdom is she going to drag you, that’s the question,” Sarn muttered with a half smirk. “Tyriot?”

  Charlon kissed his palms again. This time it felt like a rude gesture, and Sigil bristled. “Nah, that was just a spot of illegal export. It’ll be the homeland for certain.”

  The bounty hunter forged on. “You are wanted by the crown
of Madrence—”

  Charlon grinned, elbowing Sarn. “See?”

  “—for trespassing, thievery, arson, destruction to holy property, forgery, banditry, bribery of a priest, bribery of an officer, bribery of a noble, bribery of a royal, attempted murder, and murder,” Sigil reeled off, in perfect intonation. “By royal and holy writ, I, Sigil of the Temurijon, have been appointed to return you to the court at Partepalas and see you face justice for your many crimes.”

  The charges were grave indeed. Attempted murder. Murder. Dom was sorely tempted to get out of Sigil’s way and take Corayne with him. Not that she would go. Corayne looked like a child enthralled by a play, hardly afraid of anyone, let alone the fallen priest. She looked between them, owl-eyed, sipping at her ale.

  The unremarkable Charlon seemed a bit more remarkable now, an odd gleam in his eye. His grin took on a shadowed edge.

  Sarn crossed her arms, putting a foot up on the empty seat Sigil had refused. “I’m so glad I don’t have to recite anything when I kill someone.”

  “Careful, or I’ll drag you in too,” Sigil drawled with little bite, her eyes never leaving Charlon. “Let’s go, Priest. Make it easy on yourself.”

  “I think it’s you who want to make things easy, Sigil.” Again, the assassin tried to wave her down. Her booted foot tapped against the chair. “Take a seat.”

  The bounty hunter loosed the ax, dropping it smoothly into her hand. “I’ll be taking the criminal and nothing else. Besides, I don’t think you have room for us all,” she added, running a hand through her short hair, sweeping it back from her face.

  In the far corner, a man stood. He was, as the mortals would say, big as a house.

  By the hearth, two men turned, though they could have passed for bears with their looming bodies and furry brown beards.