“Davel,” he growled.
Corayne didn’t seem to mind such language. She raised her chin, continuing to glower. Her eyes were
flat, black and yawning, unsettling to see.
“I’m trying to figure out exactly how long until you piss yourself, Squire,” Corayne said in response to
Lemon’s question.
Lemon sputtered and lunged, but Andry held firm, using his height and sobriety to their full advantage.
“That’s enough,” he said in a low voice. As if Lemon were an animal to be soothed.
It only incensed him further, and Lemon ripped himself away, spitting mad. But he didn’t have a chance
to speak again. The dagger was a golden mirror at his neck, full of torchlight.
“Yes, quite enough,” the woman said, materializing out of the path. Her hand clawed Lemon’s straw-like
hair, pulling his head backward, exposing more of his throat. He couldn’t see her, but the squire went
rigid, feeling the blade against his skin.
“Sooner than I thought,” Corayne muttered, glancing at the squire’s legs.
As much as he wanted to see Lemon grovel, Andry knew better. He stepped forward, reaching out to the
Ibalet dagger, a bronze artistry with a hilt like a coiling snake. The woman holding it was calm, her face
too still.
“Don’t kill him. Please,” he said, his voice filled with force. The last thing we need is more blood spilled.
The woman’s mouth twitched in annoyance. “Remember Trelland’s mercy, boy,” she breathed, lowering
the blade from his throat.
Lemon met Andry’s eyes, showing what little remorse he could. “Thank—”
Her fist connected with his jaw, knuckles on bone, snapping his head to the side with crackling force.
The squire fell forward in the dirt, out cold.
“Was that necessary?” Andry gaped. Lemon lay flat, a puddle of drool already forming.
The woman sheathed her dagger with a snap. “You wanted him alive.”
Andry felt another burst of cold. He swallowed hard, watching the woman’s back. Dom joined her from
the shadows, still limping. She moved like a predator, all angles. The court of Galland was no stranger to
the women of Ibal, but this one was like none he’d ever met before. Her gown was torn to shreds, and
there was blood on her hands and face. Not her own, but Dom’s. And some knights too. She killed Sir
Welden in the hall, he thought, remembering the old soldier as he bled to death, his neck cut open. The
memory threatened to make him sick.
Corayne fell in next to him, her arm inches from his own. She looked pale in the moonlight, glancing
back at Lemon’s unconscious body as they ran from it. It didn’t seem to unsettle her quite so much.
“Who is she? What the hell are we doing?” Andry muttered.
Corayne huffed out a breath. “I’ve been asking myself that for a while now.”
They burst through another gap in the hedge, nearly careening into a shallow pond of lilies and lazy fish.
On the far side, a gateway opened onto a plaza of cut stone, the tiles arranged like sunbeams spilling
out from the cathedral. The walls of the New Palace ran up against the sanctuary without gap or flaw.
The vaulted windows were dark and looming. Lights like fireflies moved along them, the reflections of
torches as the garrison wove through the maze in hot pursuit.
Dom kept pace now, his legs moving furiously without any rhythm. He surged with the Ibalet at his side,
her sword unsheathed and gleaming. It was plain but well made, flashing darkly. Still nothing compared
to the Spindleblade.
The Syrekom yawned, a mouth of vaulted portals and gargoyles—winged gods and stone kings—
looking down with empty eyes. The curved doors were solid oak, locked fast for the evening. It took the
Elder only two tries to kick them open, even with his wound. He panted, fading, his skin paler than the
moon. On top of everything else, Andry felt a squeeze of fear for Domacridhan’s life.
The nave of the cathedral stretched, tall enough to house a forest, its columns marching in double rows
to the far wall of windows. They clambered down the aisle bisecting the empty pews. Only a few
candles guttered in their stands. Most went dark as they ran past.
“Gods, please don’t kill any priests,” Andry muttered, glancing toward the Ibalet.
“Wouldn’t be my first,” she answered neatly.
A red light grew in the glass windows. It flickered and flamed, born of a hundred torches as the Queen’s
soldiers overtook the palace grounds, surrounding the cathedral.
Andry clambered up the steps to the solid gold altar, where the high priest performed services.
| | |
|