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Valnir’s brow twitched in confusion. “I suppose you mortals are always pressed for time.”
For a moment, Corayne said nothing. Then she pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling a laugh as best she could.
From his throne, Valnir glanced at Castrin, bewildered.
Corayne only laughed harder. It was the only respite she had, a brief escape from the doom awaiting them all.
“I apologize, Your Majesty,” she said, trying to steady herself. “It isn’t often I hear jokes about my inevitable death.”
Valnir furrowed his brow. “I did not intend that.”
“I’m aware,” she answered. Her tone hardened. “Domacridhan of Iona was the same, for a time.”
Silence fell over the chamber, heavy as a cloud.
On his throne, Valnir shook his head. Whatever color there was in his pale face drained away.
“So he is dead.”
“I cannot say for certain.” Corayne strangled the hope still fighting in her heart. “But only death or chains would keep him from me.”
A low snarl escaped the Monarch’s lips. His teeth gleamed and Corayne half expected fangs.
“Like Rowanna, like Marigon, like Arberin,” he hissed, clenching a fist. Fury churned behind his mask of immortal stoicism. “Vederan blood spilled for this wretched realm. Dead for nothing.”
“His death will not be in vain so long as I live, Your Majesty.” Corayne squared her body to the throne and put a hand to the sheath on her back. “And so long as I bear the last Spindleblade upon the Ward.”
All around the chamber, Valnir’s guards put arrows to the string, moving too fast for Corayne’s mortal eyes. They watched, poised to strike, as she drew the Spindleblade, letting the sword reflect the many lights of the hall.
Valnir glared at the sword, his red brow etched in an unforgiving line. With a shrug, he waved down his guards.
Corayne laid the blade on the flagstones, its jewels glowing like coals in a hearth.
“I see you know it,” she said. “And what this sword means.”
Fast as Elders could be, they were more terrifying when they chose to move slowly. Valnir did now, pushing off his throne. He clutched the aspen branch in one hand, the golden leaves shuddering with each step. He sneered at the Spindleblade as he stalked across the floor, long-legged and prowling. Another hiss escaped his mouth.
Corayne fought the urge to run, every instinct in her warning that she was little more than prey before the immortal king.
“I know this sword better than you can possibly imagine,” he said, his eyes wide and glaring. Not at Corayne, but at the Spindleblade. “The Princess of Iona came to us some months ago, weaving tales of woe. She brought word of my kinsmen dead, and this realm on the brink of ruin. She asked for warriors, for my entire enclave to rise in battle.”
Corayne scowled. “And you turned your back on her.”
“Better to turn my back on one instead of many,” he snapped.
Again, she wanted to run, but held her ground.
“She is dead, too, you know,” Corayne said softly. Valnir recoiled, as if struck. His face tightened with anguish. “Princess Ridha burned with the rest of Gidastern.”
The Monarch rounded on his kinsman, moving so quickly his limbs blurred. He pointed the golden branch like a spear. “Is that true?”
Without hesitation, Castrin dropped to a knee and bowed his head, mournful.
“We never reached the city. Our orders were to retrieve Corayne and come back.” He glanced sideways at Corayne, stricken. “But Gidastern burns on the horizon, and Infyrna hounds roam the Ward.”
Corayne let his words wash over Valnir. He stared at the blade again, his grief shimmering with tremendous anger.
“Another Spindle torn, my lord,” she said.
