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Corayne bit her lip to keep from screaming.
“I am Castrin of Sirandel. Glorian-born son of Bryven and Liranda.”
She waved him off with a shake of her head. “That isn’t necessary.”
Castrin leapt to his feet in a blink, wringing his hands. “My apologies, my lady.”
This time, memories of Dom and his incessant apologies, his useless titles, almost knocked Corayne to the ground. She turned her head and lowered the sword, hiding her face from Elder scrutiny. Her eyes burnedand her throat went tight, every breath a hard-won gasp. She wished for Dom with all her heart, for any of them. Some part of her wondered, if she reached far enough, with all the will she had in her body—would they appear?
“My lady, are you injured?”
It took all her restraint not to snap at the Elder, bewildered as he was. She remembered Dom long ago, before he gained some insight into mortal ways. Castrin was somehow worse.
“No,” she bit out, turning back around. Slowly, she returned the Spindleblade to its sheath.
The other Elders looked down with unsettling eyes, tracking her, like wolves at the edge of a forest clearing. Strangely, she felt some relief. She was safe in their company, as much as anyone could be in a realm breaking apart.
“I suppose I should ask why you sought me out,” she said, shifting her weight to lean up against her mare. The horse’s warm body felt good beneath her shoulder. “But I think I know. Has your monarch seen reason, now that a Spindle burns at the gates of your forest?”
Castrin’s lips thinned. He glanced past her, in the direction of Gidastern.Does he see the smoke of a city burned, or the charred paths of Infyrna hounds loose upon the Ward? Does he know what lies behind me?
Judging by the revulsion on his face, Corayne guessed he did.
Shaking his head, Castrin looked back to Corayne. “We bid you come with us, to the safety of Sirandel, and our monarch’s protection. Valnir is keen to meet you.”
Her back against the horse, Corayne crossed her arms.
“I’m going to Iona,” she said quickly, her mouth moving faster than her brain. The plan formed as she spoke. It felt right somehow, almostdestined.For there is no other plan to make.“You are welcome to guard me as far as your enclave, and offer me respite for a night. Your Valnir and I will talk, but I must be on my way.”
Behind Castrin, his Elder warriors exchanged slow, shocked glances. Castrin blinked, sharing their confusion. They clearly did not expect her opposition. These Elders had little experience with mortals.
Finally he bowed again. “Very well, my lady.”
Corayne grimaced, the title like sand in her mouth. “My name will suffice, Castrin.”
He bobbed in acquiescence. “Very well, Corayne.”
Her eyes stung again, albeit less than before. The more pain she felt, the more she numbed to it. Like spending too long in the cold, until there was no cold anymore.
“I heard tell of your companions, Corayne. Mighty and cunning. Noble heroes all,” Castrin added, searching her face. Corayne did her best to remain calm. “Where are they?”
Her voice stuck in her throat, lips barely parted. She could not bring herself to say it, but the Elder did not relent.
“Domacridhan of Iona?” Castrin pressed. “He is a friend.”
Corayne’s breath caught and she spun on her heel, putting her back to the Elders. She all but leapt into the saddle, her blood pounding in her ears.
“He was my friend too,” she whispered.
Every mile behind her, every day passed, was another stone in the wall around Corayne’s heart. She focused on the rhythm of the horse beneath her. It was easier to count hoofbeats than it was to remember her Companions, and their fate. Even so, they haunted her, their faces swimming in her dreams.
The Castlewood was ancient and twisted, a maze of roots, brush, and branches. At first, every direction looked the same. Gray with winter, green with pine, brown with the needles and dead leaves underfoot. But the Elders knew paths no mortal could find and their horses charged through the tunneled branches. Corayne could only follow, feeling lost, swallowed up by the labyrinth of trees. She even lost track of the days, trailing their number like a grief-stricken ghost.
“Corayne an-Amarat,” Castrin called out, his voice filtering through the haze of memory.
She reined to a halt and turned to find the immortal riders already dismounted.
They looked back at her expectantly, their yellow eyes like darts of sunlight through the trees. Castrin bent at the waist and swept out a graceful arm, the picture of a courtly gentleman.
