Half of her felt afraid. The rest laughed.
She looked over the strange pair, her jaw locked tight. Domacridhan still knelt, his golden head bowed, while Sorasa paced back and forth, barring the road back to port. Corayne sorely wished Kastio had accompanied her home. Or, better yet, her mother. She would not tolerate this nonsense, not from anyone. Not even an Elder, ageless and unfathomable. Not even one of the Amhara assassins, near to legend in their skill.
But Kastio is not here. Mother is not there. There’s only me.
Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, but Corayne kept her body still and her face blank.
“We agreed to terms, Sorasa and I,” Domacridhan said, bringing an end to his story. He raised his head and stared at Corayne in desperation, enough to make her skin itch. “And she led me here, to Lemarta. To you, the only person who can help us, and save the world entire.”
Corayne blinked at both of them in turn. The immortal and the assassin blinked back.
“Good evening to you both. Safe journey,” she said neatly. Her fingers trembled as she turned on her heel, setting off toward the cottage.
But the Elder was already moving, following Corayne up the overgrown pathway. He made no noise at all as he caught her on the front step.
She glared up at him stubbornly, using anger to hide her unease. Better to show anger than fear or doubt.
The ruined half of his face stood out sharply, illuminated by the moon cresting over the hills.
The Elder felt the light and turned his head, hiding his scars. “Perhaps you did not understand—”
Her voice hardened. “I’m mortal, not stupid.”
“I did not say you were stupid,” he said quickly.
Her hand found the latch of the cottage door, wrenching it open. “My answer, to whatever idiotic question you hope to ask, is no.”
With two fingers and little effort, he pushed the door shut. Like his scars, his eyes caught the moon.
“The Ward will fall if you do not save her.”
The edge in his voice was not unfamiliar. Corayne heard it in Lemarta all the time. Failed merchants bargaining over their meager goods. A destitute drunk pleading for another ale at the tavern. A would-be sailor begging for room on a ship, to find his fortunes on another horizon. This was not want, but need. Hunger driven by fear.
“The Ward falls,” she murmured, her hand still on the latch, “because of a man with a magic sword and the villain from a children’s story? ‘What Waits’？” Corayne shook her head, barking a laugh. “You should head back to Lemarta and find yourself a fool who believes in that kind of thing.”
From the road, the assassin laughed. “For what it’s worth, I don’t believe him either.”
His teeth bared, Dom threw a scowl over his shoulder. “I do not expect mortals to believe what we Vedera know to be true, the ancient dangers of a history too long for you to perceive. The Torn King will consume this realm if given the chance. What Waits is waiting no longer.” He put a broad, white hand over his breast, clasping it to his heart. A fine silver ring winked on his finger. “I swear on Iona, my lady,”
Corayne’s grip tightened on the latch, but she did not open it again. Something else tugged at her, a deeper pull keeping her rooted. “I’m not a lady,” she spat.
To her dismay, Dom’s eyes filled with emerald sorrow. The Elder looked on her with pity, with regret. Corayne wanted to slap both from his face.
“I do not know what your mother has told you, young one,” he began, hesitant. Her blood flared at the mention of her mother. “But you are. Your father was—”
A haze of red crossed Corayne’s vision and the smooth metal of the door latch fell from her grasp. Instead her hand rose, finger pointed, until she found herself jabbing the Elder in the chest, tapping harshly against the stone firmness of his flesh. His eyes widened, bewildered as a new kitten.
“I know exactly who my father was,” she snapped, all concern for herself or her temper lost. “He was Cortael, a son of Old Cor, one of the ancient line. His ancestors were Spindleborn, children of a lost realm. There was Spindleblood in his veins, Corblood—as there is in mine.”
Spindleblood, Spindleborn. She had never said those words aloud, only heard them from her mother, only known them in her bones and heart and the distant longing that lived inside her. Saying them now, his name, his birthright, what he was and what that made her—it felt wrong. A betrayal of herself, and especially of her mother. The only parent she knew, the only parent with any say in who she would become. But it is in me, whether I want it or not. Her breath hitched and heat rose in her cheeks, a stark contrast to the cool air.