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Her fingers passed over a folded cloak, red as the velvet behind her. It was dusty but clearly newer than the other artifacts, the collar and hem set with neat gold threading.
“Was this my father’s?” she asked softly. Half of her didn’t want to know.
“It was,” Isibel answered, still frozen to the spot. “I underestimated Taristan and the red wizard once. I will not do so again.”
Corayne forced herself to drop the cloak and turned back to face Isibel. It felt like tearing her own skin.
“I’m sorry it took so much bloodshed to convince you,” she said harshly. “Put down the branch, Isibel. Fight with us now, or never fight again.”
The ash branch trembled in Isibel’s hand, the green leaves turned golden by candlelight. Isibel raised it briefly and Corayne’s heart leapt.
“I cannot,” Isibel said. Her voice sounded like the slamming of a door.
Something snapped in Corayne, her hands shaking with anger, weariness, or frustration. Or perhaps all three.
“You say Corblood makes me different than other mortals,” Corayne hissed, near to spitting. “Better.”
Isibel did not flinch. “It does.”
“Well, Taristan is Corblood too,” Corayne shot back, going to the door of the vault.
“Taristan was fated to break this realm.” Isibel glared at her, finally revealing a bit of her own frustration. “I saw it decades ago, and I see it now.”
Corayne barely heard her, all sense narrowed to the spiraling passage and the halls above. She wanted nothing more than a clean bed, a hot bath, and a pillow to scream into.
“Would you like to know what I see in you?”
In spite of herself, Corayne caught herself by the doorframe, stopping short with a skid of her boots. She would not look back, her jaw clenched tight.
“Hope, Corayne,” the ancient immortal said. “I see hope.”
Your hope feels like a curse, Corayne thought, throat tight and eyes stinging.
Another Spindle born.
Isibel’s words played over and over in Corayne’s head as she committed them to memory. Something twisted at the edge of her mind, another hum too deep to name. Like the Spindleblade in its steel, or the relics of Old Cor calling to her. But bigger. Stronger.
And worse.
Her feet knew what her brain could not, carrying Corayne through the long halls of Tíarma. One of the Sirandels kindly directed her to theupper levels, up a tower of spiraling stairs. Half of them were icy, treacherous for mortal feet.
“Are the Elders trying to freeze us to death?”
Garion’s voice carried down a hall and Corayne followed it, turning into an open room. Garion sat in the open window, one eye on the landscape, while Charlie bent over a brazier of hot coals. He blew on them, coaxing them to life.
Corayne heaved a sigh of relief, both to see her friends, and experience some warmth.
“They don’t feel cold like we do,” Charlie grumbled, still wearing his long cloak. He nodded to Corayne as she entered.
There was no hearth in the bedroom, nor even a small fireplace. The brazier had clearly been dragged in. Even against its heat, Corayne shivered. No tapestries covered the walls to keep the heat in and the beautifully framed bed was thin, with no pillows and a single blanket. Corayne made a mental note to ask someone to better outfit their rooms, as befitting mortal bodies.
“They don’t feel many things,” she said darkly, extending her hands to the brazier. A little feeling returned to her numb fingers.
Garion smirked, one leg dangling out in open air. “Will they even remember to feed us?”
Indeed, Corayne had forgotten her growling belly. It rumbled now, begging for dinner.
Charlie watched her over the brazier, his eyes reflecting the embers. Since the throne room, he’d managed to wash up, his cheeks clean-shaven and eyebrows groomed again. He had not managed to steal new clothes yet, but Corayne wagered he would soon.
