Blade breaker, p.28
Blade Breaker, page 28
“How many ride with Oscovko?” she asked.
Sorasa shrugged. “Five hundred at most. I’ve never known a war camp to number more.”
Corayne frowned. “He treats saving the Ward like a game, with glory as his prize.”
“He can treat it however he likes, so long as he holds to his word,” Sorasa said, crossing to the chamber door. She put a hand to the latch, her inked fingers curling. “Ready?”
“Starving. I mean yes.”
To the surprise of no one, Dom was still waiting outside the door. He said nothing when they entered the passageway, and stalked off ahead, like a giant, lumbering shadow. But he kept pace with their steps, never more than a few yards ahead. Corayne noticed that his beard was trimmed and he had new braids in his hair, two hanging in front of each ear, with the rest of his blond locks falling loose. He looked a prince again, an immortal son of Glorian Lost, imposing and powerful.
Corayne smiled to herself.
And completely undone by Sorasa Sarn.
17
Queen of Skulls
Erida
The towers and cathedral spires of Partepalas rose against a cloudless blue sky. White stone and flashing silver paint gleamed in the afternoon sun, a stronger beacon than even the city’s famed lighthouse rising over the port. The autumn chill of the woodlands was gone, replaced by the calm, temperate air of the southern coast. Everything was still in bloom, the air perfumed with flowers and a fresh salt breeze. Erida drank it down, greedy for more.
The Madrentine capital sprawled alongside the bank where river met sea, the strong current carrying out to Vara’s Bay. Part of it was dug out to form a moat around the city, a green canal forming a second barrier alongside the city walls. There were several gates, all formidable, far more imposing than the gates of Rouleine. And far richer. Partepalas was a city built not for conquest or trade, but for the eye. The Madrentine kings were wealthy, and their city showed it, down to the cobblestones. There were shields of hammered silver decorating the walls and watchtowers, each one etched with the stallion of Madrence.
King Robart’s residence, the Palace of Pearls, more than lived up to its name. It jutted out into the river, walled with polished gray and pink stone, its many windows like jewels. Smaller than my own palace, Erida knew, but far more beautiful. Built for pleasure and comfort, for a monarch without fear of war. Until now.
Only one thing was missing from the city, conspicuously absent. There were no flags: no burgundy silk, no silver horse of King Robart. They were all gone, replaced by a single white banner hanging listless in the still air. The flag meant only one thing.
Surrender.
The entire capital was a perfect, delectable cake, ready to be devoured. And the feast had begun.
Half of her legions were already camped outside the capital, ten thousand of them ready for the occupation. Gallish ships floated in the bay. Only three war galleys, double-decked and green-sailed, but they were more than enough warning. Erida’s fleet was coming. It was only a matter of time before the entire port was blockaded. Most of Robart’s ships were already gone anyway, leaving the bay half empty.
Erida felt as if she could fly, all but vibrating in her skin. It took every bit of her court training to restrain herself and keep her horse at a trot, holding pace at the head of the column of courtiers. The wary murmurs of her nobles and generals were long gone, replaced with buzzing excitement. For once, Erida shared the sentiment of her court. They wore their finest—steel and silk and brocade reserved for a coronation or funeral. A rope of emeralds winked on Harrsing’s neck, with Thornwall’s gold chain strung between his shoulders, dangling the image of a roaring lion. Marger, Radolph, and all the rest shone like coins. They knew this was a day to remember, a day to be seen.
For Erida most of all.
Her ladies had outdone themselves in styling her, even so far from Ascal. Her braids were heavy, hanging to the small of her back, woven with gold pins and red silk ribbons. Erida’s cheeks blushed the softest pink, the rest of her skin pale white, flawless as the finest Ishei porcelain. She knew she contrasted beautifully with her golden armor and red skirts, the edges embroidered with rose vines in green, gold, and scarlet. The Gallish lion snarled over her crimson cloak, the folds thrown back over her horse’s flanks. Even Erida’s mare looked the part, her red leather tack oiled to a high sheen, with gold buckles and a rose-patterned blanket beneath her saddle.
While most of Erida’s jewels were still locked away in the treasury, she’d known to bring the crown of her father for this very purpose. It was hardly her most beautiful treasure, but certainly it was the oldest. A masterwork of black gold and rough-cut gemstones in every color, worn by the first Gallish king. It had been altered to fit her head, and sat snugly. The ruby at the center of her brow warmed against her skin, big as a thumb. The gem was older still, dating back to the Cor emperors, and the empire she sought to rebuild.
Her appearance was better than the green flags flapping over her army. None would mistake her for anyone other than the victorious Queen of Galland.
She swayed in the saddle as they approached the bridge and main gates of Partepalas. A thousand of her legionnaires were already stationed inside the city, welcomed in ahead of the queen’s retinue.
The Ashlanders hung back, the corpse army unneeded. They loomed on the horizon, a dark ribbon over the hillside on the opposite side of the river. Their numbers fell long and black, heavy across the land. Far enough away for her lords and their discomfort, but close enough for Erida to summon; close enough for the corpses to intimidate any who might cross her. Even so, Erida was glad for their distance. The decaying bodies poisoned the air, the corpses stinking and sickly as they marched through the countryside.
Taristan watched them too, with cool satisfaction rather than disgust. He cut a sharp silhouette in his armor and red cloak, his face raised to the sun, though the light somehow never seemed to reach his eyes. They remained black and consuming, immune even to daylight.
Ronin, on the other hand, only looked increasingly agitated with every day of the march, the dust clinging to his robes and face. He sneered at the city ahead.
“What if the King of Madrence has a change of heart?” he hissed, his white fingers clawed on his horse’s reins. The mare shuddered beneath him, wary of the wizard.
Erida twitched a smile. “I wish he would.” She extended a hand to point, her long sleeve trailing. “There’s your archives, Wizard. As promised.”
The Library Isle was not an island, not truly, but a tower at the far end of a bridge, the river current breaking around its base. It rose like a sword set on end, taller than a cathedral, with silver-tipped ramparts and a domed observatory at its crown. The Library Isle was known the Ward over as an unparalleled seat of knowledge. If there was any clue as to whereabouts of the next Spindle, Ronin would certainly find it there, among the spiraling shelves and dusty scrolls.
The red wizard eyed the great archives of Partepalas with relish. Erida half expected him to lick his pale lips.
“What realm will it be next?” she said, dropping her voice. Thornwall and the others rode only a few yards away, her Lionguard around them all.
Taristan tore his eyes from the Spindle army to meet her gaze. As always, his stare felt like a sword through her chest. “I do not know.”
What more could come? Erida wondered, gritting her teeth. Even with the crown of another country in her grasp, she still felt herself at a disadvantage. What more could there be?
“How many does What Waits need?”
Taristan only looked to the Spindleblade, then to Ronin. “I don’t know that either.”
“We have two still open, and one lost. More must come. Soon,” Ronin urged, his expression going sour. “And Corayne must die. We can’t afford to lose another Spindle to her.”
“She will be dealt with,” Taristan ground out.
“My bounty has brought no leads, for Corayne or Konegin.” Erida sighed in frustration. We can overthrow a kingdom but not find a single Corblood girl or my scheming cousin. “And the Amhara are so far unsuccessful.”
“She will be dealt with,” Taristan said again, every letter cut sharp, his teeth on edge.
Strangely, his feral focus was almost reassuring. Erida wondered if he had some sort of plan already in place, but the gates of Partepalas rose up before she could ask.
The drawbridge of the city passed beneath her mare’s hooves, iron shoes ringing on wood and nails. It felt like entering Rouleine, multiplied a thousand times. She feared her heart might burst, every emotion in her mind rising to the surface. Joy, pride, worry, relief, and regret too, everything steeped in an odd bitter sense. She wanted to laugh and weep in equal measure. But she was a queen—she kept her head high and her expression placid as she emerged from the gate onto the streets of the foreign capital.
Her legion lined the way. They shouted in unison, a mighty cheer to greet their queen and her prince. The people of Partepalas who hadn’t been able to flee the city watched Erida’s procession too. They stared out from every door, window, and street corner, tracking her movement. Most were silent and blank, their true feelings hidden, their children squirreled away. A few, the bravest, looked down on the conquering queen and her army with disgust. But none raised a hand against their conquerors. No one shouted or threw stones. No one moved at all, frozen to the spot as Erida rode deeper into the city.
“They hate us,” Thornwall said, a raw edge to his voice.
Erida looked back to her commander. “They fear us more. And that is victory too.”
The Palace of Pearls echoed, its great polished courtyard of white stone and pearl inlay quiet as a mausoleum. Lionguard armor clanked and cloaks swished, boots rapping across the square. The river lapped at one side, the walls open to the water. It threw off wavering sunlight, dappling the procession in gold and blue as they walked.
“No guards,” Erida murmured, noting the emptiness of the palace. She glanced between Thornwall and Taristan. “No soldiers in the city either.”
“Whatever army King Robart assembled is long gone from here,” Taristan replied, his eyes narrowed.
Thornwall dipped his head. “The legions have their orders. The watchtowers are manned and ready; our scouts are ranging the countryside. If Robart means to catch us unawares, he will have to try very hard indeed.”
For not the first time, Erida was glad to have the old commander at her side. “Good.”
Her knights threw the doors of the palace wide, ushering them all into the great chambers within. The receiving hall came first, patterned in pink-and-white tile, each stone set with real mother-of-pearl. Erida wanted to tear down the palace brick by brick, so she could ship back every precious gem or stone to her treasury. The marble statues of the Madrentine kings glared down at her as she passed. Erida daydreamed about smashing every face to pieces, until nothing remained at all.
“Where are the courtiers?” she asked. Her voice echoed off marble and limestone, carrying up to the painted ceiling.
“In the throne room, waiting with Robart.” Thornwall gestured onward, through another arch. “Not to worry, the Lionguard will be with you every inch of the way.”
“I do not fear Robart or his sniveling nobles,” Erida said hotly. “These Madrentines are weak.” She eyed the chamber again. Every fleck of paint and pearl. Her lip curled with disgust. “They have grown lazy after years of peace, better suited to the coin or quill than the sword or crown.”
When she stepped through, she found that the throne was empty, raised on a dais, standing in silhouette against a bank of diamond-paned windows. The blue waters of Vara’s Bay flashed in the afternoon sun, a shield of sapphire and gold, the reflections dappling the pale walls of the chamber.
The King of Madrence waited some feet below his former throne, standing on the steps of the dais, his hands clasped behind his back.
Erida didn’t break stride as she walked toward him.
“At least Robart is smart enough not to posture,” Erida whispered to Thornwall, her eyes falling on the throne.
Even without his throne, Robart still looked a king, done up in burgundy velvet, a jeweled belt around his thick waist. He wore his silver crown, the rubies standing out against blond hair given over to gray. Erida saw his son in his blue eyes and strong jaw, as well as his natural disdain. They scowled the same way.
His courtiers, few as they were, stood in silence like the rest of the city. They looked sullen, eyes downcast, in rumpled clothing with mussed hair. Either these lords and ladies had chosen to stay or were forced to. Erida cared little for either explanation.
The Lionguard fanned out in formation, letting Erida approach the throne. Even Taristan slowed, standing only a few feet ahead of her retinue, with Ronin at his shoulder.
“All hail Erida, Twice Queen of Galland and Madrence,” Thornwall shouted, his voice reverberating around the marble hall. “The glory of Old Cor reborn.”
Her eyelids fluttered, a shiver of delight running down her spine. She felt as if wings had grown from her shoulder blades, spreading wide, filling the chamber with her majesty and power. Every eye followed her steps across the floor, and she reveled in it. Twice queen.
“Your Majesty.” The title felt like an insult from Robart’s mouth, but he bowed low, bending forward with all the skill of a court-born royal. Erida did not miss the disgust on his face.
It would serve little purpose to nitpick. The throne was already hers. Robart was a broken man, a king no longer. I’ve taken everything else from him. I will leave him his ugly looks.
“Robart,” she said firmly, unbowed. Her cloak trailed behind her, the lion roaring across the floor of the throne room. “You are wise to kneel.”
The deposed king flinched, his entire body jumping. His mouth worked, jaw clenching and unclenching. But he knew better than to fight back. Slowly, he sank to the floor, his old bones cracking as he fell to a knee.
“My queen,” he said hoarsely, gesturing to the throne. His disgust melted to shame as she ascended, leaving Robart broken upon the steps.
The throne of Madrence was pearl and silver, cushioned with dark red velvet. It was magnificent but not imposing, nothing to fear. Erida sank into it with a languid sigh, exhaling all the failures of the men who came before her.
It is I who sits on another throne, who wears a second crown. A woman, and no one else.
Around the hall, the others dropped to their knees, Taristan and her own courtiers as well as the lords and ladies of Madrence. They were less reluctant than their king, more eager to get the whole conquest business finished. Erida could not blame them. Already she tired at the prospect of judging their loyalty.
But it needed to be done and done quickly.
Erida twitched her fingers, motioning for everyone to stand.
“I will hear your oaths and allegiances,” she said firmly, folding her hands in her lap. Hawkish, she surveyed the room with a keen eye. She knew a few names already, the more powerful nobles of Madrence. “And I require a chair for my consort, the Prince of Old Cor.”
Taristan’s face didn’t move, but Erida saw the satisfaction in the set of his shoulders, the steady motion of his hands, and his easy, deliberate steps forward, his loping wolf stride more fearsome than any knight in the hall.
Robart’s restraint broke.
“That monster killed my son in cold blood,” he snarled, coming to the foot of the dais with fists curled. He was of a height with Taristan, but still seemed so much smaller, a weak excuse for a king. Taristan halted a yard from Robart, unbothered. His manner incensed the king further, Robart’s face going red.
“How dare you stand here among us,” he hissed. “Have you no shame? No soul?”
On the throne, Erida did not move. She weighed the room quickly, eyeing the Madrentine nobles standing to one side. They shared their king’s disgust, and for some, even his grief. Briefly, Erida wondered how many courtiers the charming Prince Orleon had bedded before meeting his end.
Not that it mattered. Orleon was a fool, far more useful as a corpse than a living prince.
“The death of your son, and the deaths of the people in Rouleine, have saved all your lives,” she said coldly.
It was the truth, and they knew it, even Robart. The fall of Rouleine was a storm cloud over the continent, the news of its overthrow spreading far and wide, shouted in the streets and country lanes.
“Saved us—from something so low as hunger,” Robart forced out, each word quavering. “They speak of it all over the Ward. The Lion of Galland is awake, and hungry. Erida’s army has no equal upon the Ward, and she will make herself empress of all the realm, with a Corblood prince at her side. No matter the cost, no matter how much blood she and her armies spill.”
There was something else he did not say, laced between his words. She could taste his terror, and felt it in the whispers that followed them all the way from Rouleine. Erida heard it on the road, and in the streets. She saw it in Robart now, and his silent courtiers.
Queen Erida controls an army of the dead.
“Are you finished?” she said, flicking her eyes over the fallen king.
Robart hung his head, dropping his eyes from Taristan. Slowly, he shuffled out of the way. Whatever fire the old king had left, it guttered and died, leaving only ashes.
A pair of servants materialized from the corner of the chamber, carrying an ornate seat between them. They put it down and Taristan ascended, taking his place at Erida’s side.
Robart watched with watery eyes, his gaze wavering between them, but he said nothing.
“You are wise to surrender, Robart.” Erida ran a hand down the arm of her new throne; the cool stone and pearl was carved into the likeness of a stallion, she noticed. “Will your daughter do the same?”
The king went white. “My—”
A delightful vindication curled around Erida’s heart. “The Princess of Madrence. Your only living heir now that Orleon is dead,” she said, steely. She did not miss the fear rippling through the courtiers in the hall. Nor the pride on Thornwall and Harrsing. “I do not see her here. Her name is Marguerite, yes? She would be fifteen by now.”
