hand to the door, pushing it wide. His brow furrowed.
“For now.”
My name is Corayne an-Amarat. My mother is Meliz an-Amarat, captain of the Tempestborn, lady
scourge of the Long Sea. My father was Cortael of Old Cor. And this is his sword.
The Spindleblade lay sheathed across Andry’s knees. Corayne couldn’t take her eyes off it as Dom and
the squire spoke, trading tales of their journeys after the temple. The dark leather sheath was boiled and
oiled twice over, if her eye was true. Good, sturdy, old. But not old the way the sword was old, the steel
of it cold even from a distance, humming with a force she could barely feel and hardly name. Andry had
not drawn the blade yet. She did not know what it looked like. If there was still blood on it, from her own
uncle, who should have died and had not. From her father, his life running red over his hands. The hilt
was clean, at least, the cross guard set with winking stones. In the firelight, they flickered between
scarlet and purple, like sunset or dawn. The grip was wrapped in black leather, worn to a different hand.
There was no gemstone in the pommel, but an etching like a star, or a many-armed sun. The symbol of
Old Cor, a light since lost. Forged in another realm, imbued with power she could not understand.
“It’s yours,” Andry said slowly, and she realized he was staring. He and the Elder had finished, both well
up to speed. Without hesitation, the squire lifted the sword and held it out to her. Dom’s eyes followed
the blade.
Corayne drew back in her chair before the fire, her eyes wide. She was already sweating in the close,
warm air of the Trelland apartments. Her breath caught in her throat.
Valeri Trelland leaned forward in her own chair. “It sounds like you’ll need it, my dear,” she said, her voice
placid and slow.
As the maids had said, Valeri was clearly battling a sickness, her body frail, her dark skin drained of
warmth. But she sat up straight, her green eyes clear. She was unafraid.
“All right,” Corayne bit out, extending her hands.
The sword, finely made and well kept, was lighter than she’d thought it would be. I’ve never held a sword
before, she thought idly. A true sword, not a pirate’s long knife or ax. A hero’s sword. Her eyes narrowed.
A dead hero’s sword.
Despite the hot air of the room, the sword was cool to the touch, as if drawn from a river or ocean,
pulled from the night sky between the stars. Her curiosity rose inside her again, hungry jaws wide.
Slowly, she slid the blade from the sheath an inch, then another. The etched steel gleamed in the
firelight, the design punctuated with markings like writing. For a moment, Corayne thought she might be
able to decipher it. A bit of Ibalet, some Kasan, a Siscarian loop—but no. The words of Old Cor were lost
as the empire, lost as her father. She sheathed the Spindleblade again with a hiss of metal and a sharp
pang of sadness.
Her hands closed around the grip. She filled the shadow of a man dead.
“So the Companions of the Realm live on,” Andry said, looking from her back to Dom. He set his jaw,
and some of the softness of his face melted away. “The quest is not failed, simply unfinished.”
By now, Corayne had lost count of how many times Dom’s lips had pulled into his scowl. This was
certainly the worst one yet.
“That is one perspective,” he managed, sounding flustered. “Two of us remain.”
“Three,” Corayne said, startling even herself. She blinked fiercely. Be brave, be strong, she told herself,
though she felt miles away from either. She raised her chin, trying to remember her mother’s voice, the
one she used on the deck of a ship. In control, in command. “There are three now.”
Dom watched her intently, a sorrow languishing in his eyes. Corayne didn’t know whether to embrace
him or slap him out of it. “Very well,” he said, his voice low.
As if this wasn’t what he wanted, what he asked for, what he sought me out to accomplish. Corayne
gritted her teeth. I’m here because you brought me, she thought. You can at least pretend this isn’t a
death sentence.
“And more will join us soon,” Andry said eagerly, all but leaping from his seat. He began sweeping
around the parlor room, his energy vibrant and jarring against
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