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“It is not Vergon that concerns me,” he growled low in his throat. It shivered her. “But what came from it.”
Erida shivered again, this time with fear.The dragon.It was still loose in the Ward, somewhere. Beholden to nothing but its own will. She bit her lip sharply, and tried not to think about what a dragon could do to her cavalry. To Taristan. And to her.
But I refuse to burn, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut.I refuse to burn.
At her core, the river turned hot, as if it could wash away her fear. Her skin flamed, her eyes stinging. She blinked rapidly, wishing for a splash of cold water.
“We must trust in Ronin,” she finally said, moving to stand.
On the bed, Taristan scoffed in disbelief. She could not blame him. She hardly believed herself, or her own sudden faith in the red wizard.
“And above all things,” she added, the words tumbling, “we must trust in Him.”
On the table, the candles jumped and danced, each tongue of flame a little golden star. Erida watched them for a moment, before turning to face their own shadows on the wall of the tent. Like the candles, they wavered, shifting, never holding steady. Taristan’s hunched, mirroring his position as he sat.
Her own shadow grew tall, distorted. For a moment, she glimpsed the silhouette of a crown she did not wear.
No, not a crown, she thought, narrowing her eyes.
The shadow changed again, sharpening.
Horns.
Come spring, Erida knew the hills would flourish green and bountiful. She imagined shimmering fields of golden wheat and woodlands filled with game, the Alsor flush with snowmelt, overflowing its banks. Merchants and caravans would rut the roads, not armies. But the land still clung to winter, the first bursts of spring some weeks away. The trees hung bare, the fields pitted and gray, the river low over smooth stones.
She recognized the landscape anyway. The first march to Rouleine was still fresh in her mind, and growing sharper by the mile. The same road unfurled now, eaten up by the Queen’s cavalry as they charged along the river. Overhead, the green flags of Galland streamed out, the lion roaring above the great army. Roses of Old Cor wound around the lion’s neck, a thorny necklace of flowers and vines. Beneath the lion’s paws ran the silver stallion, the mermaid, and the blazing torch.
Madrence, Tyriot, Siscaria, Erida knew.United beneath the lion, beneath me.
No flags flew over Rouleine.
Erida looked down on the scarred ground where the city once lay, wedged into the joining of the Alsor and the Rose. It would be their rally point for the legions, until the full army could assemble and march into Calidon. She could hardly picture it, the entire might of Galland gathered to win the realm. The low thrum of power sang beneath her skin, enveloping her like a warm embrace.
The city walls remained below, blackened by fire. They formed arough outline of the city that once was. The rest lay in ruins, burned or flooded. Buried in ashes or mud.
Let it burn.
She could still taste the command on her tongue, still see Lord Thornwall nod. It was his own suggestion, to destroy Rouleine so that no enemy might use the border city against Galland. But the border it marked no longer existed, swept from the map like pieces from a game board.
More than anything, she remembered the girl she was before the siege of Rouleine. Nineteen, but a girl still. Unknowing of the world, simple. She did not truly know what it meant to fight a war, let alone win it.
It was not Erida’s army that beat down the gates and drew surrender from the city. It was something else entirely, crawling up out of the river. Corpses with dangling flesh, half skeletons, born of another realm and another Spindle. They frightened her then, as she watched across the river, under the shroud of night. Taristan held her back, forcing her to see what their conquest actually looked like.
Erida looked on with open eyes.
And she was never a girl again.
29
Roots and Wings
Domacridhan
The Elder ventured he would never get used to sea travel. He cursed the waves as the ship rocked beneath him. He wished for a horse and the open wilderness. He would rather gallop the Ward twice over than suffer another minute at sea.
They were long free from Ascal, but his torture wore on.
He was seasick no less than an hour into the next leg of the voyage. Domacridhan avoided the incredulous looks and backhanded smirks from the crew, going down to the little cabin to sleep off the worst of his illness. He felt Sorasa on his heels, silent as a mortal could be.
