morning!”
“I shall,” she replied, though she had no idea who Percy was and even less inclination to seek him out.
The tightness in her chest unwound and she turned back to the passage, only to find Dom and Sorasa
waiting idly on the far side of the arches. Both had passed by without the maids, or even Corayne,
noticing. Sorasa jabbed her thumb over her shoulder, her lips forming words with no sound. This way.
The Lady’s Tower was otherwise empty, its occupants asleep or elsewhere, perhaps feasting, perhaps
getting into all kinds of court mischief. There was something happening in the morning, if the maids were
to be believed.
Corayne had no idea what King Makrus looked like, but Sorasa led the way. Eventually they found a
painting of a man more troll than king, with mottled skin and a hulking figure. Paintings are supposed to
make people look better than they were, Corayne thought, glancing over the dusty portrait. She could not
imagine how ugly he must have been in life.
He loomed next to the door to the Trelland apartments, and they closed the last few yards at speed,
hurtling forward as if something might stop them at the last moment.
Corayne felt odd, detached from her body, as if she could watch herself from afar. None of this seemed
real, even against the dusty smell of the passage, the soft carpet beneath her boots, the stone wall cold
against her fingertips. She took a deep breath and blinked, half expecting to wake up in her bed in
Lemarta, with Kastio preparing breakfast in the next room. It’s just another dream. My father, my uncle,
the Spindle torn, the Elder and the assassin. All of it will disappear, fading in the morning light.
But the world remained, unmoving, insisting to be seen and felt. Impossible to ignore.
Corayne stared at the door.
Dom stared at the door.
They stared at each other, both hesitant, both frozen. Black eyes met green, iron on emerald. Centuries
separated the two of them, but they were alike for a moment, standing on the edge, terrified of the
unknown below.
What if the sword is gone?
What if the sword is here?
“Should we knock?” Corayne forced out, her mouth suddenly dry.
“Yes,” Dom said hoarsely. “Sarn—” he added, looking over his shoulder.
But there was no one behind him. No woman in unremarkable clothing, her cloak pulled up tight, a single
tattoo bared in the torchlight.
Sorasa Sarn of the Amhara was gone, leaving no trace, as if she’d never existed at all.
Her absence set a fire in Dom, burning away his fear. He rapped his fist on the door. “Ecthaid willing,” he
hissed, naming a god Corayne did not know, “the tunnels will collapse on her murderous head.”
Her stomach twisted as the lock turned. When the door pulled open, she found herself face-to-face with
a young man. Her stomach dropped again.
He was tall and muscular, but still coltish, growing into himself. His skin was smooth and perfect as
polished amber, glowing warmly. There was only the shadow of a beard, the first attempts of a boy. His
black hair was cropped short, for function. Of course he was the squire Andry Trelland, who had
survived the slaughter at the temple where so many had died. Corayne didn’t know why, but she had
pictured him as a man, a warrior like the others. But he can’t be much older than me, no more than
seventeen. At first she found his face kind, with a gentleness to it. But, like Dom, he had something raw
beneath his pleasant expression, a wound still torn open that might never heal.
“Yes?” he said plainly, his voice deeper than she expected. Trelland kept the door close to his shoulder,
obstructing her view of anything behind him except for flickering firelight. He stared down at her,
expectant. She was the only one he could see, his focus absolute and entire.
“You’re Andry Trelland,” Corayne said softly, all pretense forgotten.
Andry’s mouth twitched in amusement. “I am. And you’re new to the palace,” he added, looking her over
with sympathy. He eyed her dirty hands. “Kitchens?”
“Not exactly.”
“Squire Trelland.” Dom’s voice was thunder as he stepped around Corayne, putting her between them.
He looked right over her head.
Anything soft or friendly about Andry’s face disappeared, a slate wiped clean. His dark eyes widened and
he leaned heavily against the door, like his knees might give out.
“My lord Domacridhan,” Andry breathed. He ran his eyes over Dom’s scarred face, tracing the ripped
flesh. “You live.”
Dom put a
| | |
|