Page 121 of Fate Breaker

Charlie was quick to step between them, palms raised to stop anyone from pressing further.

“Save it for the dinner table when we return,” he grumbled. “After all, we are the only ones who seem toeataround here.”

Then he grabbed Garion by the wrist and dragged the smiling assassin after him. Garion allowed himself to be led, giving a tiny wave over his shoulder.

Corayne stared after them. “Now where are you off to? I thought you weren’t leaving until tomorrow?”

Without breaking stride, Charlie shouted back to her. “I will find more blankets if I have to weave them myself!”

Andry wanted to follow, but Corayne stayed rooted by the arched windows. His heart filled, near to bursting. After so many weeks of misery, the sudden joy was almost too much to bear.

The air was stiller on the courtyard side, the rain reduced to a mist. Corayne leaned out into it, her hands braced to hold her weight lest she fall through the open archway.

“What is it?” Andry muttered, coming alongside her.

The courtyard yawned below, centered on a fountain and a spiraling pathway through the dead vines. Other arches and galleries looked down around them, figures gliding along with immortal grace. Corayne followed them, her eyes tracking the Elders.

“Corayne?” he said, dropping his voice.

His body tensed when she suddenly seized him by the wolf peltaround his shoulders, pulling him down to her height. Her breath was warm on his ear, her whisper barely audible, even an inch away. Andry fought to hear her over the low hum of his own frenzied thoughts.

“There is a Spindle here, somewhere,” she breathed, stepping back to show eyes wide with worry.

Andry’s heart skipped a beat. “Are you sure?”

Her grim nod was answer enough.

“And what of Isibel?” he murmured.

Andry had barely glimpsed the immortal queen when they arrived, all his focus on Corayne. The Monarch of Iona was but a shadow to her. But Andry remembered Isibel from days past. Stern, silver-eyed, cold as her castle. And he knew she’d turned Domacridhan away, refusing his call to fight after the first Spindle was torn open.

Corayne bit her lip, weighing her answer.

“I don’t know,” she finally said. “I still don’t know if she will fight. And we—I have the last Spindleblade. Taristan will come for it. We must be ready to fight, to make a standsomewhere.”

She sighed heavily and cast a weary glance over the castle hall.

“I hoped this was the right place to go, but—” she muttered, shaking her head.

Andry bled to watch her darken, her eyes already shadowed with defeat. “We will be ready,” he said forcefully, taking her by the hand.

Her face snapped up sharply, eyes finding his own.

Both were grimly aware of their position, and the last time Andry Trelland held the hand of Corayne an-Amarat. For a brief second, flames flickered behind her head, the ruin of Gidastern looming over them both. Andry smelled smoke and blood and death, the wings of a dragon pounding overhead.

Ruefully, Andry dropped her hand.

“Have you kept up with your lessons?”

She blinked, caught off guard.

“Yes,” she said, stumbling. “Well, as best I can alone.”

That was enough for Andry Trelland. He forced a step back, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he said, nodding back to the stairs. “Let’s find some space and grab your sword.”

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