Erida was served first, though she had little appetite.
“The city garrison continues their search,” she said in a low voice, poking at her plate. Quietly, discreetly. Peering into every ditch and sewer looking for Corayne and her Spindle sword. We must give no cause for alarm, to either the commons or the court. “And we have companies riding out from the fort at Canterweld to comb the countryside. If she can be found, she will be found.” The scratches on Taristan’s face were not as blue as they were yesterday, giving over to purple as bruises took shape. “It’s good she attacked you. No one will question us riding her down.”
Taristan curdled under her attention, turning his head to hide the wound. “There are other matters to attend to,” he ground out. A red sheen flared in his gaze, a trick of the sun filtering through the flapping tents.
This time, Erida did roll her eyes. She wondered if her new husband would be as predictable as most men. In this, it seemed, they were all alike.
“I know my duties, Taristan,” she replied coolly, careful to use his name. Not a title, not an endearment. No my lord or Your Highness, by careful design. I am king and queen. My rank far outweighs your own, no matter where your blood comes from. “They will be performed.”
Taristan hissed and forcibly drained his goblet, the wine dark on his lips. “I’m not talking about whatever nonsense your court requires after a wedding,” he said. “That weighs very little in my mind, when measured against what is to come.”
She blinked, surprised, though she did her best not to show it. A queen’s hand of cards should not be so easily played.
“And what is to come?” she replied. “You have twenty thousand . . . men in the foothills of the Ward Mountains, awaiting orders before a Spindle torn.” Men being the corpses of a burned realm, every soldier broken and obedient to her new consort, armed to the teeth and then some. They had killed Sir Grandel and the Norths, men she’d known all her life. But their ghosts bothered her little. “They’re nothing to sneer at, but no match for the men at my disposal, should I muster the combined might of Galland.”
“You know an army of Ashlanders is not all the Spindle gave me.” Though the sun was bright, a darkness seemed to pool around Taristan. Erida felt it on her bare skin, a weight like a feather touch.
“Yes, the temple did something to you,” she said, tentatively brushing his arm. Her eyes trailed over his chest, where a sword had punched through his heart. To anyone looking, they might have seemed the picture of cautious newlyweds. Instead of wolves sizing each other up. “The Spindle did something to you.”
Taristan watched her trailing fingers. He remained as still as the surface of a pond, and just as inscrutable.
Erida swallowed, pulling her hand away. She was glad for their small table, away from the prying eyes and ears of a court that would not understand. To Konegin and the rest, Taristan was a blood match, a son of Old Cor with little more than his dynasty to offer, an inheritance for their children. A stepping-stone to the old empire, a path to be forged by her heirs. A birthright they could claim in conquest. Emperors and empresses reborn. But Erida remembered what Taristan had said in her petitions chamber, when she’d commanded the rest away. When he’d cut his palm and bled and healed before her eyes. When he’d told her of his destiny, and what it could buy them both.
She could not resist the opportunity, then or now.
“And you have another Spindle ripped in the desert, its forgotten realm bleeding through.” She threw his own words back at him, the promises made with his proposal. Spindles torn, armies won. At the temple, in the dunes. More would follow, if Taristan and his wizard held up their end of the bargain. “As you said, you gain strength with every Spindle, and therefore so do I. In your body, in your army. So gain it,” she whispered.
Her fist clenched on the table, knuckles bright with jeweled rings. She wished for Prevail in her hand, or the Spindleblade sheathed at her husband’s hip. For a weapon to match the fire she felt inside.
“Take your sword and bleed for me, and I will bleed for you. Win us the crown our ancestors could only dream of.”
He inhaled sharply, returning her scrutiny, and Erida almost felt the breath drawn through his teeth. He was thirty-three years old, fourteen years her senior. In royal circles, that was not so terrible. But he seemed older than his years. Because of the life he had lived or the Corblood in his veins, Erida did not know. A crown sets you apart, she knew. She’d felt one all her life, even before it landed on her head. Perhaps it’s the same with him: the weight of destiny never lifting. Until it becomes second nature.