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Erida thought of the realm, the lands of Allward spread wide and vast, filled with so many places to hide.
All of them, somehow, out of her magnificent reach.
“Perhaps we sent Ronin off in haste,” Taristan murmured from the bed.
As much as all mentions of the wizard annoyed her, especially in their private quarters, Erida could not help but nod.
“I can’t believe I agree,” she hissed.
“Have you grown fond of the wizard?” Taristan replied, a smirk in his voice.
“Hardly,” she answered, pulling on her nightdress. “But if he returns with a dragon I’ll kneel and kiss his feet.”
“I will hold you to that.” He chuckled darkly.
Erida turned to watch him sit up, a sheen of sweat across his pale skin. His many collected injuries stood out sharply, red against white, haloed by the fall of light from the window.
He tightened beneath her scrutiny, a muscle flexing in his jaw.
“Does it feel—different? The loss of the Spindles?” she breathed.
To be vulnerable, mortal.Her mouth filled with a sour taste.Like any other man upon the Ward.
Taristan took a long time in answering, chewing his words as one would a tough cut of meat.
“I spent most of my years as I am now,” he finally said. “But it is strange, to wear the skin of a god, and then be stripped of it.”
Erida understood.It would be like losing my crown, she thought, shuddering. She could hardly picture what it would mean, to feel the throne in her bones, but never sit it again. To be queen. And thennothing.
“The temple. Nezri. Vergon.” She spit out each word like poison. “All destroyed by that wretched child.”
“Gidastern remains,” Taristan said coolly.
He shifted to put his bare feet on the floor, the thin blanket across histhighs. One hand flexed in mid-air, white fingers long and callused. He stared at it as if transfixed.
Erida knew what those hands could still do. She remembered the corpse army too well, marching in their huddled ranks. Many were Ashlanders, but others were of Gidastern now, dead farmers and dockworkers and merchants alongside the obliterated remains of her own soldiers.
My soldiers serve Galland still, even in death.
“Gidastern remains,” Erida echoed, reaching out to take his hand. “And with the gift of that Spindle, our armies will never waver. No matter how many of our soldiers fall. They will always rise again.” Her grip tightened as his fingers wound through her own. “As will we. Together.”
Together.
The word lingered in her head. After so many years alone, with only the crown for company, the thought of another still felt unfamiliar. Even Taristan.
The pain began in earnest, a dull needle stabbing at her temples. Erida winced again, shaking her head.
“Erida?” Taristan said, pulling her closer.
“Just a headache,” she answered sharply. Whatever brief respite she found from her burdens steadily slipped away, water through her fingers. Her teeth clenched, bone on bone, even as the pressure made the headache worse.
Taristan watched with his endless black eyes.
Erida waited, expecting the flash of red in them. It never came.
“Can’t He tell you where she is?” she bit out, dropping his hand. “Isn’t He part of you? Is What Waits not a god?”
With the grace of an alley cat, Taristan rose to stand, looming over her. A lock of wavy red hair fell over one eye, the rest brushing the top of his collarbone.
