Dom’s lips twitched, betraying a smile of his own. His eyes, the Elder eyes of an immortal realm, were shockingly green. They shifted for an instant, looking up the hill, to the squire planted firmly in the saddle of a white stallion.
Andry’s heart surged, his jaw set in grim resolve. He nodded, only once.
The Elder whistled, high and true. The horse exploded, charging down the hill. Not into the battle, but around it, past the creatures, the bodies, the Companions fallen and dead.
Moving with the speed only an immortal could claim, Dom lunged for Cortael’s sword, vaulting head over feet to draw the blade from the mud. He threw it as he rolled upright, using all his momentum to hurl the blade like a javelin, up and over the scarred heads of the Spindle army. It sailed, an arrow from the string. One last gasp of victory against defeat entire.
Taristan roared as the blade and the stallion raced each other.
Andry’s world narrowed to the flash of steel as it landed in the slick grass ahead. He felt the horse beneath him, all muscle and fear. The squire was trained to ride, trained to fight in the saddle. He slung himself sideways, thighs gripping hard, brown fingers reaching.
The Spindleblade felt cold in his hand.
The army screamed but the stallion did not break stride. Andry’s pulse rammed in time with the hooves pounding beneath him, an earthquake rattling up in his chest. His mind blurred, a haze as each fallen Companion flashed before him, their endings irrevocably carved into his memory. No songs would be sung of them. No great stories told.
It was too much. All his thoughts splintered and re-formed, melting into one.
We have failed.
1
THE SMUGGLER’S DAUGHTER
Corayne
There was clear sight for miles. A good day for the end of a voyage.
And a good day to begin one.
Corayne loved the coast of Siscaria this time of year, in the mornings of early summer. No spring storms, no crackling thunderheads, no winter fog. No splendor of color, no beauty. No illusions. Nothing but the empty blue horizon of the Long Sea.
Her leather satchel bounced at her hip, her ledger safe inside. The book of charts and lists was worth its weight in gold, especially today. She eagerly walked the ancient Cor road along the cliffs, following the flat, paved stones into Lemarta. She knew the way like she knew her mother’s own face. Sand-colored and wind-carved, not worn by the sun but gilded by it. The Long Sea crashed fifty feet below, kicking up spray in rhythm with the tide. Olive and cypress trees grew over the hills, and the wind blew kindly, smelling of salt and oranges.
A good day, she thought again, turning her face to the sun.
Her guardian, Kastio, walked at her side, his body weathered by decades on the waves. Gray-haired with furious black eyebrows, the old Siscarian sailor was darkly tanned from fingertips to toes. He walked at an odd pace, suffering from old knees and permanent sea legs.
“Any more dreams?” he asked, glancing at his charge sidelong. His vivid blue eyes searched her face with the focus of an eagle.
Corayne shook her head, blinking tired eyes. “Just excited,” she offered, forcing a thin smile to placate him. “You know I barely sleep before the ship returns.”
The old sailor was easily thrown off.
He doesn’t need to know about my dreams, nor does anyone. He would certainly tell Mother, who would make it all the more unbearable with her concern.
But they still come every night. And, somehow, they’re getting worse.
White hands, shadowed faces. Something moving in the dark.
The memory of the dream chilled her even in broad daylight, and she sped up, as if she could outrun her own mind.
Ships made their way along the Empress Coast toward the Lemartan port. They had to sail up the gullet of the city’s natural harbor, in full sight of the road and the watchtowers of Siscaria. Most of the towers were relics of Old Cor, near ruins of storm-washed stone, named for emperors and empresses long gone. They stood out like teeth in a half-empty jaw. The towers still standing were manned by old soldiers or land-bound sailors, men in their twilight.
“What’s the count this morning, Reo?” Corayne asked as she passed the Tower of Balliscor. In the window stood its single keeper, a decaying old man.
He waggled a set of wrinkled fingers, his skin worn as old leather. “Only two in beyond the point. Blue-green sails.”
Aquamarine sails, she corrected in her head, marked with the golden mermaid of Tyriot. “You don’t miss a trick, do you?” she said, not breaking stride.
He chuckled weakly. “My hearing might be going, but my eye’s sharp as ever.”