She leaves me no choice but one.
The wood planks turned to stone as she stepped off the docks onto the long plaza lining the wharf. Corayne raised her eyes to search, scanning the familiar faces of Lemarta as they went about their lives. Her heartbeat rose in her chest, beating a wild rhythm.
Corayne an-Amarat liked plans. And her first had sailed away without so much as a backward glance. Luckily, she had another.
The sudden voice at her ear was lovely, a soft hiss.
“Three days,” a woman whispered.
Corayne did not flinch, turning to face Sorasa Sarn. Behind her, in a shadowed alcove at the edge of the square, she caught a flash of gold and green.
“Three days,” Corayne replied.
The assassin was not hooded today. For the first time, Corayne looked on her fully. She ran her eyes over Sorasa’s lean frame, agile even beneath her light, sand-colored cloak. The Amhara could not be older than thirty, with jet-black hair and skin like glowing topaz, golden and rich. Though she was clothed from neck to wrist, Corayne noted the tattoos she could see—the lines on her fingers, the snake behind her ear, the unmistakable wing of an eagle and sting of a scorpion peeking out at her neck. Each was an artistry, a masterwork of ink, a testament to her skill and her Amhara training. They drew her eye more than Sorasa’s dagger or sword.
Sorasa sniffed. “There’ll be time for examination later, Spindlerot. We don’t want to keep the immortal annoyance waiting, do we?” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. In the alcove, Dom shifted his broad form.
“Certainly not,” Corayne said. “Are you going to call me Spindlerot the entire time or just today?”
“I’m still deciding.”
The assassin set a sharp pace across the square, and Corayne followed neatly on her heels. She tried to keep her steps even, to walk instead of run. Still her heart thrummed, with both nerves and joy. Kastio will know I ran. Mother will be away for months. And even if she learns I’m gone, she’ll never turn back. Not for me.
“It’s good she left you behind,” Sorasa murmured, taking her by surprise. “You’re better off this way.”
A jolt went through Corayne. “Why’s that?”
“Rhashiran civil wars are boring,” Sorasa drawled.
Corayne blanched, following her into the shadowed corners of the market.
The darkness did little to hide how out of place Dom looked in sunny, bronzed Siscaria. He bowed low, sweeping back his green cloak embroidered with antlers. The sword at his hip looked even more foolish than he did. Too big, too cumbersome, nothing like the light sabers or knives most sailors favored.
“My lady Corayne,” he said. She pulled a face. “My apologies,” he added quickly.
“I’ve met you twice and I’ve already lost count of how many times you’ve apologized to me, Domacridhan of Iona,” Corayne said, crossing her arms over her chest. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sorasa’s lips twitch.
Dom kept silent. She could see the urge to apologize again written all over his magnificent face.
“Well,” Corayne sighed. “You said you need me to save the realm.”
He raised his eyes to hers. “I do.”
Half of Corayne thought this stupid; the other half, impossible. But both sides were also in agreement. This is the best way out of here. To the horizon and beyond it. To whoever I am, in my bones.
“So how do we . . . save the realm?” she said. It sounded ridiculous out loud.
Dom smiled truly. His grin was a force to be reckoned with, white and wide, his teeth unsettlingly straight. Corayne wondered if all Elders were so offensively handsome. It felt unnatural.
“Two things are needed to tear a Spindle, and the same are needed to close it,” he said, holding up a pair of long fingers. “Spindleblood—and a Spindleblade.”
“I guess I’m the blood.” Corayne glanced down at herself, from her worn cloak to her old boots. She certainly did not look like whatever she was supposed to be. “Where’s the blade?”
Dom did not hesitate.
“The Royal Court of Ascal.”
7
THE QUEEN OF LIONS
Erida
The list of names never stopped growing. Erida wished she could burn it up or rip it apart, but she sat quietly instead, cursing every suitor asking for her hand. It’s to be expected, she told herself. She was nineteen years old, wealthy, beautiful, well bred, educated, and skilled in all the talents of a proper noblewoman. Not that any of my accomplishments mean much of anything. It’s the crown they want, the crown that draws hopeful proposals. Not my striking blue eyes or sharp wit. I could be a tree stump for all they care.