Page 70

Hot and cold leapt up inside Corayne, fire and ice, burning fear and frigid shock. She blanched, owl-eyed, unable to move, rooted to the spot.Never told her about the sword.It was still there, the length of steel running down her back, tucked beneath her cloak, digging uncomfortably between her shoulder blades. Forged in a lost realm, twin to her blood, the only other thing in the realm that could stop an apocalypse.

I never told her about the sword.

Dom gripped her shoulder, strong and desperate enough to hurt. She met his eyes quietly, slowly, and saw Andry’s fear, her own fear, mirrored in the Elder prince. It was worse than on the hilltop, when the corpse shadows advanced, their swords raised, their jaws wide and hungry.How can this be worse?Corayne wanted to scream.

But she wasn’t stupid.

She knew how.

The knights tightened their formation, boxing them in. There was nowhere to turn, nowhere to run. Corayne heard every clink of their armor, the rasp of their steel, as the Queen basked in the adoration of her court. Her voice rose, high and clear, echoing down the columns and archways. On the opposite side of the dais, a pair of silhouettes appeared, one of them tall and lean, the other swathed in a crimson cloak.

Dom’s grasp broke with a huff of pain, and the Elder stumbled to a knee, a dagger poking from his side. His blood ran hot and scarlet, blooming from the wound as a knight stood over him, face stern beneath his helmet. Corayne opened her mouth to scream, only to feel the sharp poke of another dagger at her ribs, begging to slide between her bones. The knight behind her breathed heavily on her neck, close enough to cut her throat if he so desired.

“Keep quiet,” he hissed. “Or I’ll run you through.”

She had a knife in her boot, the sword on her back.

Useless in my hands,Corayne thought, her mind screaming.

She could only stand, gasping through clenched teeth, watching Dom bleed as Erida beckoned to the silhouettes. The first stepped into the light with a roguish smile, a flowing gait, and the proud arrogance of a conqueror.

“It is with great pleasure that I introduce you to my prince consort, my husband, a son of Old Cor, heir to the bloodlines of the ancient empire, and father to the new world before us,” Erida said. Her gentle face was angelic. “Prince Taristan of Old Cor.”

The court rose to applaud their queen’s chosen, the high table already standing and calling their praises. The roar crashed like a wave, beating Corayne down and down and down, drowning her, pinning her, dragging her away from all hope of rescue.

There he is.

Her flesh and blood. Her father’s twin. Her monster.

Hair like dark copper, the shadow of a beard, a thin mouth unsuited to smiles. Long nose, a brow like a rod of iron. A handsome face, all things considered: a fine doll for evil strings. Taristan of Old Cor, a Spindleblood prince, a traitor to the realm entire.

He barely acknowledged the court, offering only a single, sharp glance before he looked at the Elder kneeling, the squire, and Corayne.

The yards between them disappeared. His eyes were her own, black and endless, a sky without stars, the deepest part of the ocean. They were not empty: there was something in them, a presence Corayne could barely sense. But she knew it too. She saw it in her dreams. Red and hungry, without form, without mercy.

What Waits.

He stared out from her uncle’s eyes, waiting to strike.

The man who followed Taristan could only be the Red. The wizard looked skeletal, white-skinned and blond-haired, with pale red eyes ringed with pink flesh. His mouth opened a little and he inhaled, tasting the air. She felt a clawing heat pull over her, prodding at her exposed skin.

Toasts were called out, goblets raised again, but Corayne heard none of it. She was frozen, caught between the knight’s dagger and her uncle’s starving glare. He looked ready to eat her whole.

He very well might.

His steps were deliberate and smooth, taking him down the table, one hand extended to his queen’s advisors. They touched his rough fingers or kissed his knuckles, pledging allegiance, paying fealty, congratulating him on the good match. Only the Queen’s cousin hesitated, waiting a long moment before taking Taristan’s hand.

Taristan’s eyes never left Corayne’s face. A thread ran between them, a rope from his hands to her neck. He pulled himself along it, closer and closer, until Corayne could hardly breathe.

She trembled when he stopped before her, glaring down with menace. Over his shoulder, Erida watched, her head held high. There was no fear in her, no shock. No regret.

Taristan raised his fist and Corayne braced herself for a strike, curling inward.

Instead he gripped her cloak, tearing it away with the easy rip of blue cloth.

Out of the corner of her eye, Corayne saw the sword hilt flash in the light, its jewels aflame. She tried to back away, only to feel the knight’s dagger pierce her clothing, nearly breaking the skin. There was nowhere to hide.

“Get away from me,” she managed to bite out.