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The knights sputtered, exchanging bewildered glances.

Sir Grandel laughed outright, shaking back brown hair flecked with gray. “A story for children, Your Majesty,” he chortled. “A fairy tale.”

Andry dared to look up. The Queen did not smile, her lips pursed into a grim line.

This was no joke.

“Immortals, my lady,” Andry heard himself answer. His voice trembled. “Born of the Spindles, having passed into Allward from another realm. But they were trapped, the doorway to their home closing not long after they arrived. The Elders are stranded in our realm, if they even still exist here at all.”Impossible beings, rare as unicorns, never to be glimpsed by my own eyes.

“A fairy tale,” Sir Grandel said again, shooting a glare at his squire.

Heat flushed in Andry’s cheeks and he dropped his head again. It was not like him to speak out of turn, and he expected a sharp rebuke from both his lord and the Queen.

It never came.

“Stories and tales all have roots in truth, Sir Grandel,” the Queen answered coolly. “And I would like to know the truth of this.” The letter caught the candlelight of the throne room, aglow. “One who calls herself the Monarch of Iona bids us greeting, and humbly asks for aid.”

Sir Grandel scoffed. “Aid? What can this decrepit old witch think to demand of you?”

Andry could hear the smile in Queen Erida’s voice. “Care to find out?”

“Would that I had ignored their call, and my own curiosity,” she mumbled, still glaring at the page. If she’d had any Spindle magic in her, the letter would have burst into flames long ago.

“How could anyone have known?” Andry whispered.I certainly did not. Even when they warned of danger and doom for the realm.It seemed a lifetime ago, though only a few months had passed.

The days flew by in his mind, a blur.The road to Iona, the great halls of their ancient city, the council of Elders and mortals alike. Then the trail of heroes marching into the wilderness, all of them doomed.

Andry blinked furiously to clear his eyes and head.

The Queen lowered her eyes, running her thumb over the emerald ring.

“I sent you to them, and into danger,” she whispered. “The blame for whatever befell Sir Grandel and the Norths is mine. Do not take this burden onto yourself, Andry.” Her voice cracked. “Give it to me.”

The moments slid by like leaves in a fast current, but Erida waited with the patience of a stone. Andry fought to speak, the words slow and reluctant in his throat.

“In Iona, the Elders—the Monarch—she told us a sword had been stolen from their vaults,” he forced out, the tale spilling from him in a torrent. He tried not to be pulled under. “A Spindle­blade, forged in a realm beyond the Ward, imbued with the power of the Spindles themselves. The one who took it, a man named Taristan, is a descendant of Old Cor, with Spindleblood in his own veins. With the blood and the sword together, he could rip open a Spindle long since closed, tear a doorway between our realm and another, to whatever lay beyond.”

Queen Erida’s eyes widened, the whites like a moon eclipsed by blue.

“He was headed for an ancient Elder temple in the mountains, some miles south of the Gates of Trec. The last known location of a Spindle crossing.” Andry gritted his teeth. “Thirteen of us went forth to stop him.” The first tear fell, hot and furious on his cheek. “And twelve died.”

The throne room echoed with his voice, his rage and sorrow. His loss carried up the columns and into the chandeliers of wrought iron and flickering candles. Andry’s fists balled at his sides, his resolve threatening to crumble. But he pushed on, retelling the slaughter of his Companions, the failure of Cortael, the smell of immortal blood, and a burned realm spewing a corpse-like army. The red wizard, the sword through Taristan’s chest, and his leering white smile. How Sir Grandel stumbled and fell, never to stand again. How the squire could only watch and run away with little more than his own skin.

Andry expected the cold whispers to rise with his memories, but there was only his own voice to fill his head.

“I should have fought,” he hissed, glaring at his ruined boots. “It was my duty.”

Erida slapped her hand against the throne, the noise jarring and slick as a whipcrack. Andry looked up to find her staring, her nostrils flared.

“You came home. You survived,” she said firmly. “And what’s more, you’ve delivered a very important message.” With a will, she stood, her robe flowing around her. She stepped lightly, descending from the dais to join Andry on the stones. “I’ve spent more time studying diplomacy and languages than Spindle lore. But I know my histories. Allward was a realm of crossing once, subject to great magic and terrible monsters, we mortals warring with dangers we must never face again. That cannot come to pass. If what you say is true, if this Taristan can cut open Spindles long dead, then he is very dangerous indeed, and he has an army at his back.”

“The likes of which none of us have ever seen,” Andry admitted, feeling the pull of their hands again. The creatures of Taristan’s army shrieked in his head, their voices like scraping metal and cracking bone. “I know it sounds impossible.”

“I have never known you to be a liar, Andry Trelland. Not even when we were children, fibbing to the cooks for extra desserts.” She drew a breath and dipped her head. “I am sorry for what you have lost.”

Though her junior by two years, Andry was much taller than the Queen. But somehow she was able to look up at him without seeming small.

“They were your own knights, not mine,” he said.