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Corayne doubted they could fight in such a monstrosity. But both bore spears, the tips sharp and glinting.
They did not move as Valnir approached, his own horse left behind. No one stood in his way or stopped his company trailing behind.
The oak doors swung inward, revealing only darkness. Corayne could not hesitate, as much as she wanted to.
This was Dom’s home, she reminded herself, trying to calm her rising fear.Dom trusted these Elders, Dom loved them. These are his people.
A sour taste filled her mouth.
These people left him to fight, and die, alone.
Her heart hardened beneath her leather armor, the Spindleblade heavy along her spine. Grimly, she hoisted the sword higher over her shoulder. As much as she hated Taristan’s blade, it brought her some comfort as they entered the castle.
Here is proof of what we have done, and what we must still do.
The castle felt cold as the streets, its vaulted ceilings and arching halls devoid of all warmth. There were no crackling fires in merry hearths, nocourtiers peering from corners. Not even servants scurrying to and fro. If there were guards, Corayne could not see them. Though she strongly suspected they could see her.
Like the city, all was gray and white and green. But instead of cloud and snow and moss, it was granite and marble and green velvet worked through with silver thread. She glimpsed a dark feasting hall set with long tables, big enough to hold two hundred at least. Corayne wagered there were real gemstones sewn into the tapestries, while the glass windows sparkled without a hint of stain. A wall of arched windows looked down on a courtyard, a tangle of dead rosebushes at its center. The vines spiraled and climbed, working up the courtyard walls with thorny fingers.
Beautiful as it was, Corayne could not help but feel uneasy. It reminded her too much of Domacridhan. Worse than that, it reminded her of Cortael, the father she would never meet.
This was his home once too, she thought, swallowing around a hard lump in her throat. She tried not to picture him, a man, a teenager, a young boy, mortal among the Elders, given all and nothing at the same time.
She blinked rapidly, refusing to be betrayed by her own tears, and followed Valnir through an intricately carved set of doors. Corayne glimpsed magnificent animals worked into the wood—stags, bears, foxes, and so many others. Representing all the enclaves, and every Elder still clinging to the Ward.
With wide eyes, she drank in the carving. In her heart, she reached out to every sigil, every enclave. The shark, the panther, the stallion, the hawk, the ram, the tiger, the wolf. Hope beyond hope exploded in her heart, almost too much to hold.
Her breath caught when the doors flung open, beckoning into the great hall of Iona.
Green marble stared up at her, while columns marched the length of the hall, limestone statues between them. Monarchs or gods, Corayne did not know.
Gods, she thought suddenly, raising her eyes to the throne at the far end of the hall.There is only one Monarch here.
Isibel of Iona stared down from her high throne, the living branch of an ash tree across her knees. Its leaves stood out, sharply green against her muted clothing.
She wore soft gray silk embroidered with jewels, sewn in the pattern of stars or snowflakes. Sunlight flared through one of the high windows, filling the hall as the clouds blew past. Her gems caught the light, winking across her gown and in her long, blond hair. She had no overcoat or furs, despite the chill clinging to the marble hall.
Corayne remembered Erida, resplendent in velvet and emeralds, hair coiled to complex perfection, a heavy golden crown across her brow. She smiled, charming even as she lied, manipulative as she was beautiful. Erida was a burning candle, throwing off a deceptive warmth, her sapphire eyes holding every promise of the world.
Isibel was the opposite. Ancient, distant, cold as the winter.
Her eyes promised nothing.
Only her resemblance to Domacridhan gave Corayne pause. They shared the same carved features and tall frame, evident even as Isibel remained sitting. But her eyes were not Dom’s. His were a merry, dancing green. Her own were gray, impossibly pale, with a faraway look.
Corayne saw the same eyes in Valnir.
She is Glorian-born, and carries the light of different stars, she thought, remembering the old phrase. She felt such light in her own blood, in the little pieces of another realm long forgotten. It lay in the steel of theSpindleblade, forged in the heart of a Spindle crossing. Such a light blazed from Isibel now, too ancient for a mortal to grasp.
The Monarch was not alone on her dais. Two pale advisors flanked her, one with long gray braids and the other with short bronze hair streaked silver. Both watched the company with calculating eyes.
Corayne felt dirty and windblown, a gutter rat before a swan. Ruefully, she wished they’d had time to clean up before meeting the ruler of an immortal city. She halted behind Valnir, and instinctively bowed.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Charlie and Garion do the same, along with the rest of the Sirandels. Only Valnir remained upright, barely inclining his chin.
On the throne, Isibel offered the same, dipping her head.
“Valnir.”
