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Isadere’s voice shook with fury. “We will spill our blood to save the realm, but you could have spilled your own first. And saved thousands for it. This I have seen.”
Valnir eyed Isibel with distaste. Then he leaned forward in his seat, to address the assembled with a softer manner.
“I have sent word back to my enclave, calling my folk here,” he said.“They are to leave behind a skeleton force, enough to make trouble for Erida’s legions should they march through our territory.”
Across the hall, Corayne shot him a grateful look.
“The Elders of Kovalinn fought bravely against the dragon of Irridas,” she offered.
Lady Eyda gave a grim nod while Dyrian perked up on his chair.
“Twice,” the young lord added, holding up two fingers.
Next to her, Andry stood, his wolf pelt fastened around his shoulders, its jaws wide as if frozen mid-bite. He puffed out his chest a little, drawing himself up to face the chamber. To everyone else, he seemed stoic and calm.
Corayne saw the worry beneath, written in the trembling of his hand. She wanted to grab it and squeeze, to give him some support. Instead, she gripped the Spindleblade tighter.
“The Jydi will guard the Watchful Sea, and Trec holds the north,” Andry reported. “They will attack what legions they can, and hopefully slow Erida’s progress.” A muscle flexed in his cheek. “Her armies are many, but it will take time to rally the full might of Galland. They will have to travel overland, across the mountains. That is our advantage.”
Corayne rose to stand next to him, if only so he did not have to stand alone. The backs of their arms brushed, sending jolts of lightning under her skin.
“But when she does come,” Corayne said, “her fist will be powerful indeed.”
The legions, the Ashlanders, and whatever else Taristan rains down on us.Her heart skipped a beat. As always, she felt the shadow over her, heavy and cold.Or What Waits Himself, waiting no longer.
“Erida and Taristanwillstrike here.” Isadere’s voice rang hollow. “I have seen it.”
“You see what lies in front of you, mortal. Little else,” Isibel bit back at them. One white hand waved dismissively through the air, her white sleeve shimmering like snow.
The Heir of Ibal fumed, their face burning.
“I see what the gods of the Ward show me,” Isadere growled, forgetting all manners or etiquette. “I see by the light and dark of Blessed Lasreen.”
“The gods of the Ward.” Isibel surveyed the chamber, letting her voice echo. Then she shook her head, the branch of the ash tree trembling across her knees. “The gods of the Ward are silent. They will let this realm shatter. Perhaps that is your fate?”
“Ourfate,” Corayne snapped, boiling over. With a clang, she let the tip of the Spindleblade smack the marble floor. “If you do nothing.”
Next to her, Andry shifted just an inch, so that his arm pressed into her own, steady as a wall. It was both support, and a warning.
With blurring motion, Isibel suddenly stood from her throne, her eyes downcast. She contemplated the branch in her hand, and for a moment, Corayne could not breathe. She remembered how Valnir threw down the silver branch of golden leaves, the aspen replaced by his yew bow. It roused his enclave to war.
Isibel did not do the same. Her grip only tightened on the branch of the ash tree.
“If your armies have need, give word,” she said, waving to one of her advisors. “We will host whoever we can inside the city walls, but I fear Iona cannot shelter all your soldiers. Nor the... elephants,” she added, sounding almost apologetic.
On the floor, Sir Gamon and his knights bowed again.
“We are grateful for your hospitality,” he said.
Isadere stiffly ducked their head, the only thanks they would show.
At her seat, Corayne let go a long, slow breath. She watched as Isibel all but fled the throne room, her advisors in tow.
“That went well,” Charlie grumbled, standing from his chair.
After long weeks of cold silence stalking the halls of Tíarma, the presence of other mortals was almost jarring to Corayne. The Elder castle, once a tomb, bustled like a city market. Much to the chagrin of the Elders themselves, who seemed perturbed by the mortal chaos. Despite Isibel’s promises, her advisors were little help in administrating the new lay of the castle. Thankfully, Andry delighted in the organization, arranging for sleeping pallets and linens until the passages became a parade of laundry. When everyone had a place to sleep, he turned his attentions on the stables and the armory.
Even Charlie made himself useful, quickly dashing off requests for provisions to the King of Calidon in Lenava, and the nobles in Turadir. He included grand promises of payment. For once, the signatures on his letters were not forged. Both Isadere and Sir Gamon signed their names without issue, eager to secure enough food for their army.
