The other man stood not in armor but worn leathers and a cloak the color of mud. He was a rogue, the shadow to his brother’s sun. His helmet obscured his face, but it didn’t hide the curls of dark red hair beneath.
His blade, twin to Cortael’s own, was still in its sheath, jeweled with red and purple, a sunset between his fingers. The sword stealer.
So this is supposed to be the ruin of the realm, Andry thought, bewildered.
Cortael kept his sword raised. “You are a fool, Taristan.”
The bell tolled again, rolling back in the tower.
The other son of Old Cor stood quietly, listening to the temple bell. Then he smiled, his white-toothed grin evident even beneath his helmet.
“How long’s it been, Brother?”
Cortael was unmoved.
“Since birth,” Taristan finally offered, answering for him. “I bet you had a good time of it, growing up in Iona. Spindleblessed from your first heartbeat.” Though Taristan’s manner was light, his tone near jovial, the squire saw an edge to him. It was like watching a feral dog size up a trained hound. “And to your last.”
“I wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet you, Brother,” Cortael said.
At his side, Dom glowered. “Return what you have taken, thief.”
With quick fingers, Taristan half drew the blade at his side, revealing inches of the sword. Even in the rain, the steel gleamed, the etched lines a spiderweb.
He twitched a smirk. “You’re welcome to try and take it back if you want, Domacridhan.” The Elder’s full name fell off his tongue awkwardly, not worth his effort. He wiggled the sword in its sheath, taunting them all. “If you’re anything like the vaults of your kin, you’ll fail. And who are you to keep my birthright from me? Even if I am the younger, the spare, it’s only fair we each hold a blade of our ancestors, of our lost realm.”
“This will end in ruin,” Cortael growled. “Surrender and I will not have to kill you.”
Taristan slid a foot, moving with the grace of a dancer, not a warrior. Cortael shifted to match, extending the blade to his brother’s throat.
“The Elders raised you as you are, Cortael,” he said. “A warrior, a scholar, a lord of men and immortals both. The heir to rebuild an empire long since lost. All to do exactly what I have done: Bring the Spindles back into crossing. Rejoin the realms. Allow their people to return to a home they have not seen in centuries.” He glanced at Dom. “Am I wrong, Elder?”
“To tear a Spindle open is to put all the realms in danger. You would destroy the world for your own ends,” Dom growled, his steady manner fading.
Taristan stepped, squelching in the mud. “Destruction for some. Glory for others.”
The mantle of the Elder’s stillness fell away with the ease of a discarded cloak. “Monster,” Dom raged, his own sword suddenly raised.
Taristan grinned again, taunting.
He’s enjoying this, Andry realized with disgust.
Dom snarled. “You cannot force a Spindle. The consequences—”
“Save your breath,” Cortael said. “His fate is chosen.”
Taristan halted in his tracks.
“My fate is chosen?” he hissed, his voice turning soft and dangerous, a blade beneath silk. Rage gathered in him as the storm gathered above.
On the hill, Andry felt his heartbeat quicken and his breath come fast.
“They took you and trained you and told you that you were something special, an emperor returned, Corblood and Spindleborn,” Taristan seethed. “The last of an ancient bloodline, meant for greatness. Old Cor was yours to claim and conquer, yours to rule. What a glorious destiny for the firstborn son of the parents we never knew.”
With a snarl, he raised both hands to his helmet and ripped it away, revealing his face.
Andry let out a gasp, mouth ajar.
The two brothers stared, mirror images of each other.
Twins.
Though Taristan was ragged where Cortael was regal, Andry could barely tell them apart. They had the same fine face, piercing eyes, stern jaw, thin lips, high brow, and strange, distant way of all those of Spindleblood. Separate from the other mortals, alike only to each other.
Cortael recoiled, stricken. “Taristan,” he said, his voice nearly swallowed by the rain.
The sword stealer drew his own Spindleblade, unsheathing it in a long, slow motion. It sang in harmony with the bell, a high breath to a deep bellow.
“Every dream you ever had was given. Every path you ever walked already decided,” Taristan said. Rain lashed the blade. “Your fate was chosen the day we were born, Cortael. Not mine.”