Say nothing of the sword. Or face the ending of the world.
“She’s seen me twice now, and both times I told her as much as I’ve told you,” Andry said, his shoulders still raised in tension. He tried to force some of his mother’s own strength into himself. It felt as impossible as coaxing wet coals into flame. “What I saw in the mountains. What happened to Sir Grandel and the rest. The Spindle torn open, the army, Taristan and his wizard.” Her gaze narrowed. Andry ignored the sensation of being looked through, being read. “I told her of the Ward’s doom.”
“And she didn’t believe you.” It was not a question.
“I don’t know. I can’t say. Certainly she did not move to act.” He shook his head. “And so she spun the story of Jydi raiders, told the court it was an ambush. Everything she’s asked of me I’ve already given.”
Valeri’s grip on her son tightened.
“Does that include the sword you’ve hidden beneath my bed?” she murmured.
Andry jolted, looking to the door leading into her bedchamber. He grit his teeth, braced for the rush of whispers. But they never came.
With a soft pat, Valeri drew him back to her. “I am not foolish, madero.”
He clenched his jaw and took her hands. On shaking legs, Andry rose up, until he stood over her, taller by far. Whatever fear he felt in himself, curled deep in his belly, he saw reflected in her. He did not know what was worse to bear.
“I didn’t tell her about the Spindleblade. I didn’t tell anyone,” he swore, his voice low.
She huffed a dry scoff. “Not even me.”
Slowly, Andry pulled Valeri’s hands away, but kept her fingers in his own. They were so thin and small, wasting like the rest of her.
“It belonged to Cortael of Old Cor, the mortal of Spindleblood, a descendant of the empire fallen. He died in the mud with the rest of them, and the sword . . . it’s the only thing I managed to save.”
“It’s a fine blade, I’m sure,” she bit out. “But why haven’t you given it to Erida? Or back to the Elders?”
The squire could only shake his head, barely able to answer. The truth sounded foolish, even in his own mind. But Valeri was undeniable, her eyes like two moons.
“Something in me, a voice I do not know, tells me I shouldn’t. That I have to wait. Does that make any sense at all?”
Valeri looked to the fire, watching the flames for a long moment. Her breath wheezed. “Perhaps it is the gods of the Ward, the gods of Kasa, speaking to you so,” she finally said. “Or it is simply your own good instinct.”
But the voice is not my own.
“I dream of it every night,” he said, voice flat. He’d built a wall inside himself, trying to keep the memories at bay. “That sword, the red steel. Sir Grandel and the Norths. All of them slaughtered, even the Elders, immortal as they were. Everything fell before that army, before that man. I see it every time I close my eyes.” Andry dropped her fingers and ran a hand over his own face. A numbness stole over him. “Did Father talk of battle like this? I can’t remember.”
I was only six years old when he died, lost in a fight that meant nothing, for little more than a bend in the river, another glimmer in Galland’s crown.
Valeri did not hesitate to shake her head. “Never like this,” she said quickly, looking to the shield on the wall. “Never like this.”
Andry followed her gaze. The blue star with the scratch down the middle was as familiar as his own two hands. It was the emblem of his father and his father alone, earned not by a long bloodline but by loyalty to the crown, devotion to the dead king, and the ultimate sacrifice on a distant field. He knew the star better than his father’s face, which he only carried in flashes. A merry smile, a swoop of auburn hair, long arms always reaching to scoop him up or pull his mother close. Sir Tedros Trelland was as mist in his memories, fleeting and impossible to hold.
His grave is empty too, his body never recovered from the mud of the field. It will be only bones now, if anything at all.
“Do you believe me?” Andry whispered, to his mother and the shield. The blue star seemed to glare. “Do you believe what I saw? What I heard?” He took a shaky breath. “What I still hear?”
Valeri took him firmly by the shoulders. She looked up at her son, wide-eyed.
“I do.”
Her faith settled around him like a suit of armor.
“Then we need to make arrangements.” He stepped out of her hands with a will. More arrangements, for some are already made. His letters were on the road and the sail, traveling by courier and boat. Most were bound for Kasa. One had already received a reply. “And you need to be ready to travel.”