Page 27 of Fate Breaker

Let me in.

The whispers still echoed, always at the edge of her mind. Always waiting.

Let me in, and I will make you the grandest queen this realm will ever know.

They drove on, leaving the Konrada behind. Erida would return for her triple coronation, but now her thoughts narrowed to the New Palace. It loomed ahead of them, a stone beast. The palace was its own island in the middle of Ascal, a city unto itself.

Her heart swooped as they drove onto the Bridge of Valor, with the Grand Canal rushing below. She’d crossed it a thousand times in her life, but never like this. A hundred soldiers of the palace garrison lined the bridge, their swords raised to form a tunnel of steel.

Cheering echoed along the canals, from every corner of the city. All the world seemed to be screaming for her.

Erida tried to bask in it without being overwhelmed. She faced forward, to the gates of the palace, a mouth of iron jaws. Her grip tightened on the bar, both to hold on and to hide her trembling fingers.

They were through the gates in the blink of an eye, the thick palace wall passing over her head. The horses slowed as they entered the great gateyard of the New Palace, kicking up dust and gravel. The walls of the palace gleamed, cleaned to perfection. Lord Cuthberg, her seneschal, had prepared the palace well for her return.

The red sun tinged the realm with pink, and everything took on a rosy edge. It felt like looking through stained glass.

Distantly, Erida wondered if this all was a dream.

Her aching feet said otherwise.

The knight pulled the horses to a gentle stop while the rest of her Lionguard fell into rows. They formed up behind her chariot, allowing Erida to step down into their midst. In her golden armor, Erida was almost one of them.

Something buzzed in her ears, a whine to drown out all else. Her eyes landed on the steps of the palace, and the great oaken doors beyond. Home to the throne, the great hall, and her royal residence.

She almost saw through her seneschal and the other assembled courtiers, their faces blurring. All of them bowed, like flowers in a field bending toward the sun.

Only one set of eyes remained, locked on her own face. His body did not move, his head lowering only an inch. It was enough.

Taristan was a vision in blood red, as she was a vision in gold.

Erida pitied whatever attendant had forced her husband into a velvet surcoat, a ruby chain, and polished black boots. He wore no cloak despite the chill of winter. It made him stand out against the other peacocks huddling in their glossy furs. Even Ronin, who bent oddly, burrowed into a dark red cloak.

The Prince of Old Cor was as Erida remembered, more than three months ago. Before he rode north to Gidastern with the sniveling wizard and a corpse army.

She’d had word since then. Too-short letters, half written in code, alluding to another Spindle torn, another gift given. Another victory. But little else.

Erida kept her mask up, but her fingers quivered, hidden by the folds of her long cape. She tried to think of the crown, of the throne, of What Waits and the little whisper at the back of her mind. Of anything but her own husband.

Does that make you mine?

Taristan asked her as much three months ago, alone in their rooms. She did not give him an answer then, and found she still had no answer now.

He stared at her, unblinking, while the rest of the world looked at the ground.

Upon closer inspection, there was something strange across his face. A swipe of red, the skin torn. A barely healed wound. Impossible as that was for someone like Taristan, invincible to all things, stronger than any who walked the Ward.

A cord snapped into place between the two of them, and Erida could hardly stand it. She wanted to close the distance more than anything. She wanted to know what had happened in Gidastern, she wanted to hold him in her arms. It took all her will to wait.

“Hail, Erida the Lioness, Queen of Galland, Queen of Madrence, Queen of Tyriot, and Queen of Siscaria,” her seneschal shouted, his voice echoing off the walls of the bailey.

Erida barely heard a word of it.

Across the long yards, Taristan held her gaze. His eyes gleamed with a familiar red sheen. From What Waits or the bloody sky, Erida did not know.

“The glory of Old Cor reborn,” Thornwall called out from his own place in the line. He stood up from bended knee.

Next to him, Lady Harrsing matched his shout.