Page 91

“The Spindle army is thousands strong.” Andry raised his head, his brown eyes distant. Usually they looked so warm, but now Corayne saw only cold darkness in him. “Many thousands.”

“And marching through Madrence,” Dom mumbled, sounding lost.

Sigil’s fist hit the tabletop with a boom, almost toppling the wineglasses. They all jumped at the noise, even Oscovko. She glared around at all of them, her black eyes narrowed, a flush in her bronze cheeks.

“If the army is moving, then it isn’t guarding the Spindle,” she hissed. “You can wallow when the realm is safe.”

Oscovko’s lips twitched into the smallest smile, amused.

But Andry looked grim. “More Ashlanders could be coming through all the time, and even if they aren’t, certainly Taristan would leave a guard.”

He ran a hand over his black hair, scratching his scalp. His close-cut squire’s style was long gone, giving over to dense curls, falling like a soft, dark halo. Corayne certainly preferred it. He was unfettered by the rules of selfish court, becoming more of himself. Somewhere between squire and knight, boy and man.

Sorasa pulled her own short hair back from her shoulders, winding it into a small knot. The tattoos on her neck stood outmore sharply, impossible to ignore. Oscovko eyed them again, a little too slowly.

“It’s a chance,” she said, and Corayne half expected her to set out at once.

Across the table, Sigil nodded and thumped her chest, her fist beating against her leathers. Charlie looked less than ecstatic but gave a tiny thump of his own.

“A chance,” Corayne sighed, turning the words over. “Well, chance has gotten us this far.”

She went to the table and raised the Spindleblade, sliding it back over her shoulder. The added weight had become a comfort in the long weeks, a reminder of what she could do—and how much they could still fight.

Dom remained at the window, his emerald eyes fixed without seeing. Corayne knew he was far away, standing at a forgotten temple, the spring grass rotting with blood and bone.

She put a hand to his cloaked shoulder. It was like touching a statue.

“We can’t save the people already lost,” she said slowly. The words were for herself as much as him. “But we can try to save the rest.”

He was slow to react, a block of ice barely beginning to melt. His eyes thawed first, the hard chips of green wavering. “Yes, we can,” he finally rumbled.

“If I could ride, I would go with you. Let these bones fight one more time.”

Corayne whirled to find a feeble old man standing at the far end of the chamber, leaning heavily on a walking stick. He woreonly a long shift of undyed wool, his feet bare, blue veins branching beneath frail, spotted white skin. His hair grew down his back, wispy and gray, his beard combed through.

Like Oscovko, he wore no crown or jewels, but Corayne knew him without them.

Lyev, the King of Trec.

A white film clouded the aging king’s eyes, and he stared at the ceiling. The king was blind.

Oscovko hurried to the old man, taking his arm with an exasperated huff. He tried to turn him back toward the far door, into the private apartments of the castle. “Father, please. If you fall again, the healers—”

“We are all destined to fall, my son,” King Lyev said weakly, his free hand running over his son’s face. “What will you do before the end?”

The prince screwed up his face, stricken. His brow furrowed and his lips pursed; his forehead wrinkled with care.

“What will you do?” Lyev said again, and Corayne felt a sharp, cold chill creep over her skin.

“Nurse,” Oscovko commanded, calling into the darkened doorway. He looked away before his father’s carer appeared, shuffling forward to take the king by the arm.

Corayne’s jaw dropped.

For once, Valtik wore shoes, a pair of mismatched boots. She winked one lightning-blue eye as she ushered the king away, pulling him from the chamber. Oscovko’s eyes slid over her. He cared little for servants and old nurses. Around the table, the Companions went thin-lipped and teeth-tight, trying to speak without words.

But for the circumstances, Corayne would have laughed outright. Sorasa actually did, hiding a smirk in her hand, turning her face away.

Oscovko recovered slowly, running a hand over his own face, tracing the path of his father’s fingers. “What will you do?” he murmured to himself, echoing his father’s words.