Her husband lowered his black eyes.
“You know Him as What Waits.”
Her first instinct was to laugh, but to laugh at Taristan of Old Cor felt like signing her own death warrant. Her second instinct was to call her knights. Sacrifice as many Lionguard as she could to get away from the madman she had foolishly chained herself to.
The third instinct settled deeper than the others, stronger, darker.
I know What Waits as a ghost story, a villain in the fables, the shadow under the bed or the creak behind the door. He varies from tale to tale. The Red Darkness, the Torn King of Asunder. He is each and nothing. He is not real.
He is not real.
But staring into Taristan’s eyes, she could not say that aloud. Again she saw the odd sheen, the scarlet moving in the black, barely a flash or a reflection. She glanced down, then behind. There was nothing red before him, only green and gray and blue. How can this be?
What have I done?
What more will I do?
Again, she expected regret, remorse. It did not come. My ambition is stronger than any shame.
“What Waits,” she heard herself say, shaping the words. Her ladies would giggle to hear her voice tremble. Lord Konegin would gloat. And their opinions mean nothing. “So you are a priest, wizard. After a fashion.”
Ronin smiled a hateful grin. “To the only god this realm will ever know.”
“What of you, Erida?” Taristan asked, drawing close again, until there were only inches between them. Air and steel, hot breath and Spindleblade. “Will you serve Him as we do?”
Do I have a choice? Somehow, looking up into the eyes of Old Cor, she knew she did. Taristan stared down at her, unmoving. His black eyes, usually so unreadable, filled with a dark and wretched hope.
Her fingers brushed the scars on his face, her touch fleeting and featherlight. His white skin felt hot as flame. “There are breakers of castles, breakers of chains, breakers of kings and kingdoms,” she said, her voice iron.
“Which am I?”
Power surged through her veins, delicious and seductive. She wanted more; she needed more. “You are a realm breaker, Taristan. You would crack this world apart and build an empire from its ruins.”
Flames burned at her wrist as his rough hand grazed hers.
Erida stood without her throne, without a crown, without any of the trappings of the ruler she was born to be. And, somehow, she’d never felt more like a king.
“So would I.”
His smile reminded her of a wolf, a lion, a dragon. Every predator upon the Ward, made in one face, with all their ferocious beauty and danger. She felt the wind on her teeth, her grin matching his own.
Leather and iron were nudged into her grasp before Erida knew it, and her fingers tightened around the hilt of the Spindleblade. The sword pointed outward, its tip inches from Taristan’s own heart. He leaned for a second, pressing his leather-clad chest into the sharp edge. One inch further and he would bleed.
Erida smiled wider, enjoying the feel of a sword.
With deliberate motions, never breaking her gaze, Taristan laid a palm to the keen blade.
“Let me bleed for you,” he murmured.
The Queen needed no more coaxing, and she drew against his skin, cutting a gash down his palm. The blade ran darkly red, his blood like syrup, coating the sword.
“Here,” Ronin said, staring into Adalen’s shattered face. The sun glowed through, its rays swirling with dust so thick they seemed solid enough to touch. The wizard did just that, reaching out a white hand to run it through the sunbeams, his fingers trembling as he did.
Taristan reclaimed the sword without a word, both hands wrapped around the hilt. He stalked to Adalen’s window and raised it high, like a woodsman before a tree.
The Spindleblade cut through open air, the sun flashing against it for a second as it crossed through the rays.
And then the light itself splintered, shattering like the stained glass, into shards of yellow and white. A crackling filled the air, the sound of a red-hot iron plunging into water, or the soft tear of silk, or the ripping of parchment—Erida could not say. It was nothing she knew, nothing she’d heard before. The sound echoed in the air, in her bones, rattling up her spine until she felt she might choke on it. The air on her face seemed to prickle, tingling her cheeks like the first breath of frost. Her mouth dropped open, gasping, and she tasted iron and blood both.
She had imagined a Spindle all her life, like most children. The stories varied; the histories were vague. It had been a thousand years: only Elders remembered, and they had not been forthcoming these last centuries. Even now, she pictured a great column like a lightning bolt, veined purple, frozen in its brilliance, with an archway to the next realm. An open doorway. A pillar. Something gigantic and beautiful enough to hold such rare power.