Realm Breaker

by Aveyard, Victoria

  Instead her hand closed on the sword, the jewels of her father’s blade winking red and purple, the language of her lost realm blazing down its length. She could not read the runes, but she did not need to. They meant little in this moment. There was only the Spindle, her blood, and the blade in her hand.

  They waded forward, a trio, Andry and Dom chopping at serpents as she walked her road. Sigil howled in laughter somewhere, her triumph echoing as a pair of soldiers fled her ax. Another fell from a roof, a bronze dagger in his neck, a tiger-eyed shadow watching him die.

  The water slowed everything, each step harder than the one before. Corayne’s body ached; her mind bellowed. She wanted to lie down and let the water take her. She wanted to charge, screaming like Dom, like Sigil, to rattle the air with the storm in her chest. She settled for another step. Another. Another.

  Until they stood at Nezri’s ruined core, the great column of water churning into the air. The water around her knees was black and red, the geyser spewing, the kraken still forcing its way out of the Spindle as in some unholy birth. Corayne squinted and saw a thread of gold shining between the sprays of water, the kraken’s tentacles curling out from the razor-thin doorway to another realm. Its bulbous and slimy body heaved, pressing through, a single eye the size of a shield rolling in its socket. The edges were red and yellow, corrupted, poisoned. The beast smelled worse than old catch under the hot sun, stinking of rot and spoiled fish. It was gigantic, bigger than a galley and still growing, still pushing. It screamed again, blowing a foul wind over the oasis.

  The Spindleblade was heavy in her hands, the point dragging through the water. She could barely lift it, let alone cut her way through a forest of tentacles to the glimmer of gold rippling through the kraken. Her heart faltered. Corayne felt her body flag, her limbs threatening to give out. Exhaustion fell in a heavy curtain. She gritted her teeth, fighting to stay upright, to stay moving.

  On the other side of the oasis, among the palms, a figure crossed the water, letting it ripple around her waist. No soldier or snake followed. She was alone.

  Gray water, gray hair, gray clothing. Hands like the gnarled roots of a white tree. Eyes like the clearest sky.

  Valtik.

  The old witch faced the kraken without hesitation, her face upturned to meet its glare. Her braids were undone, woven with bones and palm. Her ratty old dress floated behind her, somehow too long. The sun reflected on the water, dappling her with an odd glow of light. Her hands spread wide, fingers splayed like the points of a star.

  She chanted, the Jydi language filling the oasis, the hum of it sharp and visceral. It shuddered through the beast, curling its tentacles inward.

  “The gods of Meer have spoken,” Valtik said, raising her voice and her chin as she switched to words they all understood. “The beasts of their waters awoken.” Though she didn’t move, the water around her rippled, pushed by something. “These lands are not your own; I bind you and banish you by rite of blood and rite of bone.”

  The kraken howled, the sound shredded and deafening. Corayne held her grasp on the sword, fighting the instinct to cover her ears.

  She couldn’t believe her eyes as the beast obeyed, even against its own will. It trembled, shifting, pulling backward inch by inch, the flesh of its body disappearing back into the Spindle.

  Corayne took a step forward.

  Valtik curled her fingers until her hands became claws, her wrinkled brow tightening as she grimaced, her voice never stopping.

  “Be gone, be gone, be gone,” she growled, in seemingly every language. The words of the witch were as a hurricane blowing, breaking over the infernal monster. It twisted and fought, the worms of its body slapping against the flooded ground, sending up sprays of foul water.

  Corayne kept moving, the others beside her. She saw the flash of their steel, felt the air stir as they moved, the water flowing around her knees. Sand slid under her boots, turned to mud. It sucked at her steps, grasping her ankles, trying to hold her back.

  “These lands are not your own!” Valtik wailed.

  A shadow passed over the sun and a tentacle fell like a collapsing tower, the kraken shrieking its killing blow. Until Dom’s sword wheeled, cutting through stinking flesh, sending the appendage plunging into the water, the end still thrashing.

  The kraken’s eye rolled and disappeared into the thread, the last of its wriggling tentacles weak and coiling.

  “I bind you and banish you by rite of blood and rite of bone.”

  Even the geyser sputtered, its whitewater force pulsing.

  Corayne felt her skin and muscle part as she ran her hand down the edge of the Spindleblade. Her blood joined the rest, a glittering crimson, carrying with it the hope of the realm. The hope of her father. The hope of herself.

  The gash in her palm smarted as she returned her grip to the hilt, blood welling between her fingers. Another tentacle squirmed toward her, reaching like a vine, but Andry knocked it away, his sword dancing. She kept walking, the water cold, the wind cold, the sword cold.

  The Spindle, needle thin, winked like a star. It caught its own light, too bright to stare at for long. Corayne expected a glimpse of another realm, the mighty oceans of Meer crashing beyond. There was nothing but the kraken, trying to battle its way into Allward. It weakened, its screams distant and echoing, the jolting motion of its tentacles going slow. One brushed her cheek, barely the touch of a hand. She ignored it. There was nothing else but the Spindle, the call of it a hook in her heart, tugging her in.

  “For the Ward,” she murmured. For us all.

  The Spindleblade rose and arced, cutting across kraken flesh and Spindle thread, trailing black blood and unraveling gold, the geyser raining down on her in a waterfall. It collapsed and fell to nothing, slapping against the flooded land, drenching them all to the bone. The kraken screamed again from somewhere far away and was suddenly silent, the tear of the Spindle wiped clean out of the air, like the gap in a curtain pulled closed. The remaining tentacles sank in the water, neatly cut from a body now realms away.

  Without the steady flow of the geyser and Meer’s gateway, the flood melted, sucked into desert sand parched for centuries.

  All over the oasis, hissing echoed, the serpents wailing a lament for their lost realm. Corayne slumped, leaning hard on the sword. She expected the sting of a fang at any moment.

  It never came.

  Her head lolled against a warm shoulder, and arms tightened around her body, holding her steady. She glimpsed dark amber eyes, a kind mouth, a gentle face.

  She tried not to lose focus, keeping her eyes wide. But the sky darkened anyway, the sun losing its brilliance. Figures surrounded them, indistinguishable. Enemies or allies, she couldn’t say.

  “It’s over,” she heard Dom mutter, his voice distant and fading. “It’s over.”

  Andry felt closer, a hand brushing her arm. His body was warm against hers. She tried to cling to him, her grip too weak. “With me, Corayne. Stay with me.”

  Her eyelids drooped, the Spindleblade falling from her wounded hand. “That’s one down,” she murmured, slipping into darkness.

  32

  THE ORPHANS

  Erida

  For a man who could crush diamonds in his fist, his touch was featherlight, his fingers gentle on hers.

  Queen Erida let Taristan escort her from her horse to the staging ground at the top of the hill, the Madrentine border and the Rose River spread out before them. On the banks, the First and Third Legions formed up like silver beetles in ranks, crawling inexorably forward to the hastily constructed barge bridges anchored in the current. Despite her husband’s glowering presence beside her, not to mention her assembled council of generals and war advisors, Erida could not tear her eyes away from the river. Twenty thousand men marched below, cavalry and infantry and archers, pikemen, knights, squires, and peasants pressed into service with their feudal lords. Men and boys, enamored of war or terrified of it. Rich, poor, or somewhere between. Their hearts b
eat for me this morning. She breathed deeply, as if she could taste their steel. The moment shimmered in her mind, already a treasured memory.

  When I am old, an empress without equal, I will remember this day. When it all began.

  She felt Konegin’s glare, familiar as her own face. He had no cause to be angry. He wanted this war as much as any other good son of Galland. Madrence was weak, unworthy of its lands and wealth. It needed a stronger master. He only wishes he were me, his feet in my shoes, my crown on his head. And what a crown it was this morning: her father’s own, made for battle, a circle of gold hammered into a steel cap. Her hair hung loose beneath it, falling over her shoulders in waves. Erida was not accustomed to steel, but her armor was light, made from precious metal, meant for ceremony rather than war. She had not bothered with a sword, even for show.

  “A beautiful morning, Cousin,” she said, drinking down another gasp of crisp autumn air. In the foothills, the leaves were turning, edges going red and gold.

  Konegin huffed a noise in his throat, low and wet. “I’ll weigh the morning when evening comes,” he answered, folding his arms over his golden breastplate. It matched his luxurious beard, every hair combed into place. He looked the part of a king.

  But so does Taristan, she thought, his hand still supporting her own.

  Again he wore blood red beneath his armor, which was crimson and scarlet with a cloak edged in gold. The colors reflected oddly in his eyes, giving them a sheen like rubies. He brushed his hair back, slicking the dark red locks against his scalp. By now she noticed that one of his eyebrows had a split in it, cut by the tiniest white scar.

  The cuts were still on his cheek, thin but unmissable, the same blue as the veins in her wrist. She wanted to trace them, one finger to each.

  “You’ll lose a thousand men by nightfall,” Taristan muttered, his eyes never leaving the river. His wizard was not with them, cooped up with his own doings back at Castle Lotha. “The Madrentines are dug in between their forts. Their trench lines are as deep as our own. Even if we outnumber them five to one, it will be a killing field.”

  His voice was flat, without accusation.

  “A thousand men for the border,” Erida answered. “A thousand men for a clear road to Rouleine, and then Partepalas, and then the coast.”

  A clear road.

  They both knew what that meant.

  Though the Spindle was back in the ruins, guarded by an encampment of five hundred men, she could still hear the growl within it, the shuddering cascade of gems and teeth.

  “For the glory of Galland,” Konegin rumbled, putting a fist over his heart.

  Though she despised him, the Queen didn’t mind echoing his words, the battle cry that had lived in her since birth. “For the glory of Galland.”

  The others followed suit, the great generals and lords cheering for their country. Their voices swelled as one, thunderous to meet the first echoing clash of steel at the river.

  Only Taristan remained silent and staring, his eyes rimmed in red, his fingers soft in Erida’s own.

  The Madrentine campaign headquartered at Lotha, the grander of the two castles close to the first assault. Once the field was won, they would move further downriver, keeping the Rose between themselves and danger. More legions would follow, already marching from the corners of Galland to bolster their conquest through the soft valleys of Madrence.

  Erida had never been on campaign before, not truly. The morning began with battle and the night ended with feasting, the great lords toasting each other and their splendid performance on the field. Beer flowed and wine spilled along the tables of the Lotha hall, every head spinning with drink or battle or both. Indeed, a thousand men had been lost through the day, but miles had been gained, the Madrentines driven out of the forests and into their crumbling fortress to await siege. The day had been a rousing success.

  And tomorrow will be another, Erida thought, bringing a third glass of wine to her lips. She surveyed the feasting chamber laid out before her, her version of a battlefield.

  Lotha was no palace—built to defend the border, not entertain royalty—but it was comfortable enough to pass the days. The hall was tiny compared to Erida’s own back in Ascal, and crammed with Gallish nobility, most of them falling over themselves this late in the evening. Many toasted the Queen, shouting her blessings, praising her boldness and courage. Her kingdom had not conquered in years. She was hungry. She was ready, an eager horse pawing at the gate. Erida felt it in herself, as she felt it in her crown.

  Her husband did not enjoy feasts, or most of the posturing required of a royal consort. He sat in silence, eating little, drinking little, speaking to a select few and only when forced. It was the same tonight, his eyes lowered to the plate of wild boar set in front of him.

  “Will Ronin be joining us this evening?” she muttered, careful to angle her voice. Konegin was never far from her side, separated by only a few seats, and he often weaseled his way into their conversations, scrabbling for crumbs.

  The corners of her husband’s mouth pulled downward into a frown. “He will come in his own time,” he answered. The shadow in his eyes burned red. “Whenever that might be.”

  Erida leaned closer, hiding her mouth with the goblet. “Is something wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, voice flat as his stare. It was the truth, without adornment. Then he raised an eyebrow, his lips curling. “Are you going to scold me again? Tell me to make friends among your simpering nobles?”

  The Queen scoffed into her wine, taking another sip. It tasted of cherries. “Allies, not friends. There are no friends to be had here,” she said quickly, almost in singsong. The same creed had been hammered into her since childhood. “Besides, I’m growing accustomed to your taciturn manner.”

  “Taciturn.”

  “It means—”

  “I know what it means,” he said, leaning back in his seat. It put some distance between them, and Erida found herself disliking it. He carried a heat with him, a comfort in the cold stone of an old, dreary castle. She watched, waiting for the telltale flash of red anger in his stare. It never surfaced, his gaze on his plate, his eyes like obsidian. “Orphans can grow to intelligence, even those raised in the mud.”

  Her hand lay on the wooden table, inches from his fingers. She did not dare move it, either closer or farther away.

  “You forget I’m an orphan too,” Erida said hotly, feeling the now-familiar lick of anger Taristan always drew up her spine. Her cheeks warmed and she turned away, hiding her flush. If he noticed, he gave no indication.

  She chewed her lip and shifted from one frustrating topic to another. “I received a letter from Bella Harrsing today,” she said, looking at him sidelong.

  Though Taristan did his best to remain unbothered by the workings of a royal court, she saw a muscle feather in his cheek. He forced another bite of boar. “And why does that concern me?”

  “She asked about our progress. Toward an heir.”

  His eyes flashed. This time, the red was there. “That seems rude.”

  “She’s an advisor,” Erida offered, shrugging her shoulders. “It’s her job to ask. Just like it’s our job to provide one.” Provide a child, as if they are simply plucked off trees. Yes, it was a queen’s duty to birth children, and a monarch’s duty to solidify the chain of succession. These were facts of life, as real and undeniable as the glass in her hand.

  Taristan said nothing, his own goblet undisturbed and filled to the brim. He contemplated it but did not drink. Erida wished she could crack his head open and peer inside. An impossible want, largely because any blow would probably glance right off his skull, thanks to the blessings of his demon lord. She would have to be direct instead. It made her skin crawl.

  “Will you visit tonight?” she asked quietly, hating herself for being so blatant. It’s not like me to maneuver so poorly.

  And it was not like Taristan to flinch. His eyes snapped to hers, his teeth parted to draw a surprised breath.r />
  “I prefer to go where I am wanted,” he finally said, searching her face.

  Erida nearly laughed. She had never heard anything so strange. And yet . . . it made her wonder. She could still feel his hands in her hair, his nails along her scalp. The drag of his fingers over her collarbone as he disheveled her shift, pushing her to sit on a rumpled bed. The heat in her cheeks burned again and words escaped her, any response dying in her throat. This time, she found she could not turn away, hooked to his gaze as though a Spindle burned within it, gold and glimmering, undeniable.

  The Queen of Galland drew a fortifying breath, settling her mind.

  “The sea fills with monsters, the hills with skeletons, the river with blood. Our strength is growing, Taristan,” she said, imagining each. Taristan did the same, his brow furrowing as he licked his lips. “An empire is within our grasp.”

  “For Him,” her husband answered. Suddenly their fingers were closer on the tabletop, though her hand had not moved. “And for us.”

  When the wizard slunk into the hall, Erida wanted to hurl her goblet at his little white head. He festered in his red robes, hands wringing as he hastened past the crowded tables.

  Taristan broke their stare, sensing Ronin, and moved to stand.

  Only to look up at Konegin instead, looming over them. Her royal cousin motioned for two more goblets of wine, the smile beneath his mustache weak and forced. He dipped his head. For once there was no circlet, not even a jeweled chain hanging from shoulder to shoulder. He seemed smaller than his usual self.

  Perhaps, for all his blustering, war does not agree with him, Erida thought, relishing the idea. It agrees with me fine.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, easing into a shallow but steady bow. “So many of our noble friends have made toasts here tonight, in honor of the Queen and her army, as well as our victory today.”

  A cheer went up among the tables as men jumped to their feet, banging their cups. They swallowed up Ronin, obscuring his red robes and white face.