The corpses loomed in answer, just as terrible. Even though she now knew their origin. That was somehow worse, to think they’d only been sendings, shadows of what the realm truly faced. The many hands of Taristan of Old Cor, who was the hand of What Waits.
After a moment, she realized Corayne was still with her, letting the shadows creep around them. She watched Sorasa as she would the sea, reading a tide. It was disconcerting, to say the least.
“You didn’t ask why I was exiled.”
Corayne shifted, as if coming unstuck. “I figure that’s your business,” she muttered, nearly inaudible as she walked away. It was her turn for first watch.
Sorasa tried to remember the last time she’d said thank you to a living person and meant it. Years, if not decades, she realized, racking her brain.
Well, no use in breaking the streak now.
22
WORTH THE PAIN
Andry
They crossed the Orsal under the cover of darkness, the gentle river sloshing up to their knees as they rode single file beneath the keen light of a sliver moon. We are in Larsia now, Andry knew, feeling the invisible divide pass over them. He expected relief, but it never came. The Queen of Galland will hunt us no matter where we go, so long as we hold a Spindleblade. So long as Corayne lives. Andry shivered, but not from the water soaking through his breeches.
She rode next to him, bowing under the weight of the sword. As soon as they were out of the river, she dozed, her head lolling forward on her chest. Andry smiled to himself and marveled at her ability to sleep in the saddle, or on any ground they made camp on. Even with the weight of the realm on her shoulders, Corayne an-Amarat had a talent for sleeping.
But she does not sleep deeply, he thought. Despite the weak light, the shadows beneath her eyes stood out starkly. Her eyes fluttered behind her lids, swept away in some dream.
When they finally made camp by a copse of willow trees, he was glad to take the first watch. Sorasa claimed one tree like a tent, disappearing behind a curtain of leaves, while Dom took another, gesturing for Corayne to follow. Even when she was sleeping, he was never far from Corayne. She yawned, half awake, trudging into the roots.
Any good squire knew how to clean and dry traveling clothes, and Andry Trelland was a very good squire. He spent his watch tending their gear, scrubbing mud from leather, oiling steel, and checking over the horses. He lost himself in chores he used to chafe under, giving his mind something to focus on that wasn’t the ending of the realm. When it was time to wake Dom for his turn, the camp was spotless, their saddlebags organized, the horses sleeping soundly with cleaned shoes and gleaming coats.
The willow branches parted, showing two lumps asleep among the roots, tucked into their cloaks. For once, Corayne was still, her face smooth, her mouth slightly parted. Her black hair fanned out around her like a dark halo.
Andry’s cheeks warmed against the cool night and he glanced away, turning to the great hulk that was an Elder. To his surprise, Dom was still sleeping. His brow furrowed, his eyelids squeezed shut, and his lips moved without sound, his face pulled in what looked like pain.
“My lord?” Andry whispered, dropping his voice so he could barely hear himself.
The Elder’s eyes snapped open, wavering as he took in his bearings, pulling himself from sleep as one might pull themselves from the sea.
The squire waited, biting his lip with worry. This is not like him, he thought, but before he could offer to take a double watch, Dom rose to his feet in silence, throwing the cloak of Iona around his shoulders again. He went without a word, slipping back through the willow branches.
Andry followed. Well, at least I can sleep now, he thought, but Dom’s behavior gave him pause. Instead of roving the camp, taking the perimeter as he usually did, the leviathan Elder settled onto a rock and stared at his boots. His jaw worked, his gaze far away, his mind clearly somewhere else.
“Was it a bad dream?” the squire heard himself ask. Though exhaustion mounted, pulling at his edges, Andry claimed the boulder next to Dom.
“The Vedera do not dream,” he answered with a prim sniff. Andry only stared, an eyebrow raised. “Often.”
The squire shrugged. “If you want to talk, if you need someone to speak to—”
“The only thing I need is Taristan’s head on a spike,” Dom snarled to the stars.
His rage was obvious, but beneath it—pain. Andry felt it in himself, the anger and sorrow melding into one, until it held him together as much as it pulled him apart.
“I dream of it too, that day at the temple,” he murmured. “I see them die every time I close my eyes.”