“See something you like?” Charlon followed her gaze, taking a step closer. He narrowed his eyes. “If you have the coin, I’ve got the means.”
Only then did Dom stir, moving to loom over them both. Stout Charlon craned his neck, looking up. “You must have money on you, with a bodyguard like this,” he said nervously.
“We’re not looking for seals or forgeries,” Sorasa said sharply, bringing them back to the task at hand. “We’re looking for you.”
Charlon barked out a dry laugh. He wagged a finger at her. “The days really are strange. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you tell a joke in all your life.”
“She isn’t joking, sir,” Corayne said, wrenching herself away from the wall of iron seals.
“‘Sir,’” he chuckled. Again he waved a hand at Sorasa, as if scolding her. “Well, are you going to explain what you’re going on about? So I can tell you again why I can never leave the walls of this city?”
Sorasa didn’t hesitate. She opened her mouth to explain, but Corayne felt a shiver down her spine. She swallowed and raised a hand, cutting the assassin off.
“Let me,” she said, shrugging off her cloak.
It took a long moment, but she managed to unbuckle the sword belt from her shoulders. I’m getting better at this. Charlon went round-eyed as she drew the Spindleblade from its sheath. It was still heavy, and her hands trembled around the hilt, but it felt familiar now. My father’s sword.
Even in the forger’s crypt, the steel gleamed strangely, etched and marked by a realm lost. It fed on the underground light, brightening as the rest of the chamber darkened, until it was the only thing in Corayne’s world, a mirror of cold flame. When she finally pulled her eyes away from the blade, she found Charlon staring just as deeply, his keen focus trained on the sword. He was a craftsman. He knew delicate, intricate, and ancient work when he saw it.
“That’s no ordinary steel,” he breathed. He didn’t step forward or reach out, though he certainly looked like he wanted to. “Not Treckish. Not Elder.” His eyes darted to Dom again, the wheels in his head turning with obvious motion.
Corayne shook her head. “This is a Spindleblade,” she murmured, and his face went paler than she thought possible. “Forged in a forgotten realm, the land of my ancestors.”
“You’re from the lines of Old Cor.” Charlon stopped staring at the sword to stare at her. “Spindleblood.”
She returned his gaze. “I am.”
“Not too many of you still walking the Ward,” he said.
Corayne pursed her lips and slid the sword back into its sheath. The blade sang the length of the leather. “There won’t be much of anything walking the Ward if we fail.”
“What?” Charlon said, the smile still floating on his face.
She saw Taristan in her mind, looming over her, reaching for the sword, with no concern for anything but his own desire. In her head, the blue scars were already there, dragged along his cheek, the only mark on his fair skin. She wanted to claw him to pieces, expel him from the Ward and her fears.
“You’re right. The Queen of Galland has married a man with no titles and seemingly no purpose,” Corayne said plainly. “No purpose but the destruction of Allward, the entire realm, ripped apart at her Spindles. Burned, broken, and conquered, beneath the Queen, beneath him, and beneath What Waits.”
She could smell them again, the corpses, even if they had only been sendings of Valtik’s magic. Echoes of a real threat. Like the red presence in her dreams, shifting behind shadows. She felt its weight now, the grip tightening as she thought of What Waits and His growing influence through the realm. If Charlon could see terror written on her face, she did not know. But she saw it in the others: in the flash of Andry’s eyes, the pull of Dom’s mouth, the fall of a mask over Sorasa’s face, to hide the rush of emotions beneath.
The forger drummed his fingers on the work desk, his smile curdling at the edges. She expected him to laugh. Instead he watched their faces, seeing their fear.
“Oh, is that all?”
After suffering what Corayne had to say about her uncle, her warning of a children’s villain made real, not to mention Dom and Andry’s recollection of the battle at the Spindle temple, Charlon demanded air. He set a manic pace through the Priest’s Hand and out into the streets. He led them down to the waterfront, muttering to himself and casting scowls at Sorasa, who weathered them all with disinterest. Valtik caught up with them somewhere outside the church, the smell of cold following in her wake.