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Lord Thornwall chose the rally point at Rouleine. He sent word to the legions and forts across Galland, as well as their emissaries in Siscaria, Madrence, and Tyriot. Armies were called from every corner of Erida’s vastly growing empire, their spears pointed toward Rouleine.
In the first campaign, Erida had despised the long march and the military camp. She hated the dust, hated the smell, hated the heavy ache that came with bouncing in a carriage or swaying in the saddle. Most of all, she hated the council tent, the posturing up and down the long table of every lord and half-stupid heir. All that changed now. Thornwall handled most of her council, with few advisors daring to disturb the Queen andher consort. So long as the army moved, the eastern horizon fixed in front of them, Erida was satisfied.
Every mile on felt like a good meal sucked through her teeth. Her blood surged, heart thumping, the cold winter wind a mild breeze against her fevered face. She felt the river current always. Today it wound around her like a happy puppy, bouncing along. It was a firm reminder of her place, her purpose, and what promise lay ahead.
As much as What Waits frightened her, Erida delighted in Him too.
She felt meant for this, as she was meant for the throne.
Mile by mile, her army grew, its length a shadow across the sprawling countryside. The supply train alone doubled their number. There was cavalry, infantry, men-at-arms, archers, pikemen, and knights. Professional soldiers of the legions or peasant farmers clutching shovels. Noble lords with their infinite sons, done up in ridiculous armor and brocade. And the corpse army too, following at a distance so as not to terrify the living.
Taristan was careful to keep them downwind.
By now, her lords knew their worth. What’s more, they knew better than to argue against an army of the undead.
There were reports of villages picked clean, barren farmland stripped to the roots, forests burned for fuel or chopped down for firewood. Rivers ran with refuse from the grand camps. Open fields turned to muddy wastes. Erida waved off every concern. Such was the price of empire.
All will give. As I have given.
The days blurred. She practiced balance, awash in the hissing love of What Waits, but never slipping under the surface. Even so, she had to be reminded to eat, to sleep, to acknowledge the existence of her ladies as they dressed her or tended to her body.
She understood Taristan’s mask now. His placid, unconcernedmanner. The still surface hid a churning whirlpool beneath. Erida felt it too, her mind balanced between her own thoughts and the creeping wishes of What Waits.
For many weeks, her army navigated the stretch of land between the waters of the Old Lion and the dark shadows of the Castlewood, hemmed in between river and forest. The army line moved like an inchworm, stretching and contracting. Supplies traveled upriver with them, making it easier to outfit the grand legions and keep their bellies full. That was enough for soldiers, as well as raised wages, promised by the Queen herself. Their loyalty was easy to buy, with promises of glory and good coin.
The land was familiar. It was the same road the first campaign took, the wake of their passing still evident across the ground. Erida watched as the hooves of her horse navigated the ruts of cart wheels and churned earth, the eaves of the forest glittering with frost.
There were no borders here anymore. Not with Madrence or Siscaria. The horizon belonged to Erida and the army did not fear enemies as it did before. They moved like the victory was already won.
Her retinue traveled at the head of the line, with the cavalry, moving faster than the slow carts and foot soldiers. Their aim was Rouleine, where the rest of the legions would rally, and Erida’s company made for it with all speed.
Taristan rode beside her through it all, ramrod straight in the saddle of his horse, a red cape billowing behind him. The light shimmered oddly on him now, as if she glimpsed him through a chink of thick glass.
“Vergon is near,” he said one morning, his shoulders still squared to the road. But his head turned, his eyes raised to the hills above the river valley.
Her teeth clenched. Erida could not see Castle Vergon from their place on the road, but she knew the ruins lay only a few miles off. Sheremembered the hill of thorns rising up to the castle walls, the chapel, where stained glass still sparkled among the moss, the face of a goddess broken in two. A Spindle burned there, a single thread of gold, a seam in the making of the realm.
It burned no more, and never would again.
Taristan had no Spindleblade, no blessed steel. He could not tear the Spindle open again even if he marched up to Vergon and clawed the air himself.
Erida reached across the space between their two horses, grasping for Taristan’s gloved hand. He gripped her back, almost too tightly, and his face flushed, lips pulled into a scowl.
“I’m sorry” was all she could think to say.
He gave no reply, but his thoughts were easy to read.
Near a month ago, he’d crumbled to the floor of the Konrada, clutching at his own chest. He felt the loss of the Spindle as Corayne tore it apart, with his Spindleblade in her hand. Erida knew he felt the agony of it again, so close as to touch the Spindle lost.
But without a Spindleblade, there was nothing to be done. By either of them.
Anger curled in Erida’s mind, weaving with the same anger of What Waits. Both seethed. Neither knew what it was to be helpless, without power.
We have that in common, Erida thought, still holding Taristan’s hand.
She felt another presence nudging at their joined fingers. What Waits wove between them, a coursing river of hunger.
Erida hissed with annoyance when Thornwall stopped the march for the evening, the whistles of his lieutenants carrying up and down the line. The sun had barely begun to set, red behind the low clouds. They hadhours yet until darkness, and Erida wanted nothing more than to press on.
