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Someone, Corayne realized with a burst of energy.
“Where do you think this ends forher?” she shouted, taking a daring step forward.
Whatever mask her uncle wore cracked, his face going whiter than she thought possible. A war broke in his mind, his eyes suddenly spiraling between red flame and black abyss.
“What Waits will consume Erida, as He consumes all things,” Coraynepleaded, another step closer. The whispers, the howling wind, the chaos of battle. It all raged, overwhelming her senses. “If you will not save the realm, you can at least saveher.”
A low grunt of pain turned her aside, the voice too familiar. Corayne spun, unguarded, to watch Andry’s sword fall from his grasp and land at his feet. He bowed backward, his arms splayed wide, his mouth opening and sputtering, gasping for breath.
Among the roses, Ronin stood, his fist clenched. He could not see, but his ruined eyes pointed at Andry, his arm thrust out in the squire’s direction. With a horrible smile, he raised a fist. And Andry’s body rose with it.
“NO!” Corayne screamed, forgetting all things as she lunged across the distance.
Ronin did not flinch, throwing out his free hand. A blast of air followed, striking Corayne dead on. She fell backward over herself, the Spindleblade landing inches away.
“Take the sword, Taristan,” Ronin said, his teeth bared, spittle spraying from his mouth. “The Spindleblade is yours.”
In front of him, Andry dangled, toes scraping at the ground as he rose higher and higher.
Ronin’s fist curled tighter, and Andry screamed.
The wizard grinned again, the blood coursing down his face. “Do what you were made for.”
On the ground, Corayne watched helplessly, tears streaming, the sight too horrible to bear. Andry writhed in pain. Dom’s face drained of color, his breath weakening with every second. Behind him, Charlie kneeled, praying to every god. And Sorasa held off Isibel with every trick she knew, dwindling as they were.
Taristan was worst of all. His boots crunched through the roses, trampling red petals underfoot. He reached the Spindleblade, fingers wrapping around the hilt of the sword.
Over his shoulder, the Spindle still danced. It looked like the crack in a door, separating one dark room from another filled with light.
“What I was made for,” Taristan of Old Cor said, raising the Spindleblade.
In front of him, Ronin tipped his head back, his mouth opened wide, his teeth too sharp, the blood still trailing down his face and over his neck, spattered all down his robes.
“It is done, my lord,” the wizard hissed, a rat in all things. Smiling, he tipped his head back, as if basking in the light of a terrible sun.
“It is done,” Taristan echoed, slicing the Spindleblade through open air, the edge of it still red with Corayne’s blood.
And then Ronin’s.
Two men fell to the ground in the same instant. Andry dropped first, released from the wizard’s dark magic. He collapsed to the dirt, groaning.
Ronin made no noise at all. The two halves of his body fell with a dull, final thud.
45
A Queen of Ashes
Erida
Erida hated Iona, every part. The immortal city was an ugly, gray thing to her, little more than another smudge to be wiped from the map.
She expected to meet some opposition in the gateyard of the Elder castle. But most of the guards were wounded if not dead, and she rode through unaccosted. Cobblestone and pavings turned to marble as she galloped into what was once a grand hall. She smelled death in all its forms, fresh and rotting. The marble floor ran slick with blood, a war raging within the walls. The remaining Elders battled at the overwhelming number of undead as they flooded the passages of the castle. Bodies lay everywhere, Elder and mortal and Ashlander corpses. Erida glanced at them, looking for familiar faces. She saw none.
The horse skidded on the slick floor and she leapt from its back, landing in the carnage. Her feet moved without thought, following a path she did not know through the castle. The hooks dragged, the river pulled, the wind howled—Erida felt unmoored in her own skin. It terrified and thrilled her in the same measure.
We are so close.
She turned a corner, her armor heavy on her limbs. But What Waits pushed, until the cloying smell of roses hit her in a wave.
