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Death stank beneath the flowers, until she could not distinguish one from the other.
Her eyes burned, every step more difficult. And yet Erida knew she could not stop running, even if she wanted to. She found a courtyard at the center of the castle, the undead leering around its perimeter. Despite the still early days of spring, impossibly large roses bloomed all over the garden. Red as blood, big as her fist. The vines curled before her eyes, spiked and menacing, the leaves an acid green. She sucked in a shallow breath, her chest tight with anticipation.
Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw in the courtyard below.
There was Domacridhan, gasping for air, his bare chest white and heaving. A round little man in ill-fitting armor tended to him, pressing blood-soaked rags to the Elder’s abdomen. Across the garden, the assassin battled like a tiger against a wounded immortal woman.
They meant little to Erida of Galland, in the scheme of things. They were already dead in her eyes, already defeated.
For a Spindle burned, right there in the courtyard of the Elder castle. The golden thread gleamed, almost disarming in its smallness. But Erida knew better by now. Small things changed the course of history.
We were all small things once. And for some, small is all they will ever be, she thought, her eyes landing on Corayne.
The young woman lay crumpled on the ground, her black hair undone. Corayne cut a tragic figure, like some doomed hero in a fairy tale. She wept too, reduced to what she always was.
A little girl at the end of the world, Erida thought.Nothing, and no one.
The Prince of Old Cor stood tall over his niece, his body washed blackby the shadows. His hair clung to his face, damp with sweat. It was a long climb up the vaults of the castle, in darkness and dread.
Erida’s breath hitched. The sight of him was like a cool cloth on a fevered brow, and she felt some heaviness lift from her body.
When he raised his arm, the Spindleblade clutched in his hand, Erida wanted to fly. Taristan was not just alive, but victorious. A conqueror as she always knew he would be.
What Waits hissed inside Erida, His voice joining with her own, until her ears rang with the same three words.
We have won.
Taristan turned the sword over slowly, inspecting the scarlet edge. Blood dripped from its length. Judging by the cut on Corayne’s palm, Erida knew who the blood belonged to. And what it meant for the realm.
“It is done, my lord,” Ronin hissed, his voice somewhere between man and monster. He stood tall for once in his rotten life, one hand clawed into the air, holding a body aloft.
Andry Trelland.
In spite of herself, the smallest pang of regret worked through Erida of Galland. She swallowed hard, trying to push back a rush of unwanted memories. Andry Trelland had grown up a page boy in her palace, and then a squire. Always kind, always noble, everything a true knight could ever be. The other boys despaired of his softness, and even a few knights did too. Erida never could, not then.
And even now, after his betrayal, after all the ruin he brought, Erida still could not find it in herself to hate him.
But she could not find the words to spare his life either.
I am only glad I do not have to give the order myself, she thought, watching as Ronin’s magic tightened around the squire. Andry gave a yelp ofpain, his eyes too wide, a red flush working beneath the warm brown of his skin.
Beneath him, Ronin leered without eyes, his bloody tears still flowing.
“It is done,” Taristan echoed.
With a low grunt of exertion, Taristan swung the Spindleblade. It arced in a flash of steel, reflecting the torchlight and the red stars. For a moment, Erida glimpsed something else in the mirror edge. The shadow of a figure, its outline black, two burning flames where eyes should be.
Erida braced for the feel of a shattering Spindle, waiting for the telltale crackle of power as it hummed through the air. But it never came.
The Spindleblade sliced through Ronin’s body instead, severing him at the waist.
Erida let out a guttural scream as the wizard fell apart, and Andry tumbled back to the ground. She howled out her rage and confusion, even as the steps down into the courtyard tripped away beneath her feet. It was not her body that moved, but something within, pulling at her limbs, guiding her as it guided her wretched horse.
The undead moaned with her, stumbling through the archways around the rose garden. Their wizard was dead, their leashes dropped. Some fell to pieces entirely, whatever magic held them together disappearing.
“Erida,” Taristan said, his voice rasping and low.
She heard him as if he spoke directly in her ear. Her eyes burned, so hot as to be icy cold. The edge of her vision hazed white, pulsing with the beat of her own heart.
