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The voice rang out over the boat, cold as the icy wind. Both Andry and Oscovko whirled to find another figure standing close at the rail. She was taller than Andry, taller even than Dom was, with dark red hair plaited into braids. Her skin glowed whiter than the moon, pale as milk. And like Dom, she had the look of the Elders. Immortal and distant, ancient, set apart from the rest of them.
Quickly, Andry dipped his brow.
“Lady Eyda,” he murmured.
He remembered her arriving with the Jydi and the other immortals,their boats gliding out of the blizzard. She was fearsome as any warrior, and mother to the Elder monarch of Kovalinn. All but a queen.
Oscovko let go of Andry’s collar, turning his frustration on the immortal.
“You’ll have better luck speaking riddles to the bone witch,” he barked, waving a hand to Valtik at the prow. “The Wolves of Trec have no more patience for immortal nonsense.”
Eyda took a lethally quiet step forward. The silence of her movement was unsettling.
“The enclaves thought as you did, Prince of Mortals.” She said Oscovko’s title like an insult. “Isibel in Iona. Valnir in Sirandel. Karias in Tirakrion. Ramia. Shan. Asaro. And all the rest.”
Andry remembered Iona, and Isibel. Domacridhan’s aunt, the Monarch, with her silver eyes, golden hair, and stony countenance. She called the Companions to her castle, and sent so many of them off again to die. There were other Elders just like her, holed up in their enclaves, ignoring the ending of the world.
The high, cold halls of the immortals felt so far away now. Andry supposed they always were.
Eyda kept on, her eyes on the stars. Venom dripped from her words.
“All my kin, content to sit behind their walls and their warriors, like islands in a rising sea. But the waters will drown us all,” she spat, turning to Oscovko and Andry. “The waves are already at the gates.”
“Easy for an Elder to sneer at mortal dead,” the prince bit back.
Squire or not, Andry winced.
The immortal did not quail. She towered over them both, her eyes flashing like struck flint.
“Count our number, Wolf,” she sneered. “We gave as you gave.”
Like Oscovko, she wore signs of the battle all over her armor.Once-fine steel was battered and scratched, her dark red cloak torn to ribbons. If she had a sword, it was long gone. The prince looked her over then glanced out to sea, to the other boats fighting along through the night.
Despite Oscovko’s opposition, Andry felt bolstered by Eyda’s support. He locked eyes with the immortal lady, her unblinking gaze filling him with fierce determination.
“I must ask you all to give more.”
Andry barely recognized his own voice as it carried over the boat. He sounded older than he felt, and bolder than he knew himself to be.
Sighing, Oscovko wrenched his eyes back to Andry, meeting his glare.
“I cannot do that,” he said desperately.
This time, Andry took the prince’s shoulder. He felt the immortal lady’s attention boring into his back, her gaze like iron. It only strengthened his resolve.One ally is better than none.
“There is one Spindleblade now,” he said.
Andry willed Oscovko to feel the desperation he carried in his own heart. And the hope too, small as it was.
“One key to cracking the realm. And Taristan of Old Cordoes not have it.”
The words landed slowly. Each like a knife in Oscovko’s armor.
“The girl does,” Oscovko muttered. He passed a hand over his head, disbelief in his eyes.
Andry leaned closer, his grip tight.
“Her name is Corayne,” Andry said, close to a growl. “She is still our last hope. Andweare hers.”
