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Without hesitation, Erida seized the soft velvet at his throat and pulled it away to reveal a swath of burned flesh. Her eyes widened, raking over the skin. It was healing, but slowly.Normally.Like any other mortal man.
Erida felt her mouth open in shock. Then she grabbed his sword hand and raised his knuckles. The white skin turned pink over the bones, showing common scrapes and scratches. It looked like the hand of any swordsman in her army, any knight in the training yard.
Battered, battle-worn.
And mortal.
She felt his gaze like a weight across her shoulders. Grimly, she met his eyes.
“Taristan, what is this?” Erida bit out.
It sounded like an accusation.
Taristan heaved a long, slow breath. The flush crept down his face, making the white veins in his neck stand out even sharper.
“Corayne and her Companions closed the first Spindle,” he said, fighting to keep his voice level. Even so, she heard the rage trembling in him. “The first one I opened.”
Her stomach dropped. Puzzle pieces fitted together in her mind, and she hated the picture.
“The first gift given,” Erida hissed. “So if a Spindle closes, you lose—”
“What He gave me.” Red edged slowly back into his eyes. Taristan twitched and Erida wondered what he felt, what he heard in his head. “That is the nature of failure, I suppose.”
“Then go back!” Erida put her palm to his chest, pressing against him. “Right now. Take an entire legion if you must.”
As much as she wanted to pull Taristan into their bedchamber, Erida wanted this more. She took his shoulders and shoved with such force even Taristan staggered, surprised by her ferocity.
She gave no quarter, shoving him again. This time he braced, firm as a brick wall. Her vision went hazy at the edges, the room wavy around her.
“Take the sword andripthe Spindle back open,” Erida snarled. Suddenly her collar felt too tight, her armor heavy and constricting. The entire chamber seemed to close in. “You’re too vulnerable this way.”
Taristan caught her wrists when she pushed him again, his fingers locking in a gentle but unyielding grip.
“I’ve been vulnerable most of my life,” he said evenly, glaring into her.
Erida’s head throbbed in rhythm with her heartbeat. She dropped her gaze to his hip, to the sword belt that was always there. Until now.
Her knees almost buckled beneath her.
“Where is your sword, Taristan?” she breathed, desperate.
Stoic as he was, Erida saw her own rage mirrored in him. In his clenched jaw, the narrowing of his eyes. The shame was still there too, ugly and unfamiliar.
“I suppose you can lend me another,” he answered dryly, his voice hollow. He was never one for jokes, even in victory. In defeat, it was like watching a fish try to walk.
Erida ripped herself from his grasp. “There are no Spindleblades in the vaults of Galland.”
With shaking hands, she undid the jeweled belt and threw it to the floor. The ceremonial armor soon followed. The gold-dipped iron clanged dully. Trembling, Erida found her way to a chair by the window. She sank into it, combing her fingers through her hair until her braids fell undone, her maids’ work turned into a mess. She took a steadying gasp of air, schooling her breathing. She willed herself to calm down, tothink logically, even as the chamber spun around them. One by one, she dropped her many rings, gemstones the size of grapes rolling over the fine carpets. Only the Gallish emerald remained, green fire on her finger. It ate up the red light of sunset, the heart of the jewel dark and endless.
She stared into it. For a second, she thought she glimpsed a sheen of bloodred.
Her eyes snapped back to Taristan.
“Where is Corayne an-Amarat?” she growled.
Silence was his only answer.
Erida wanted to strike him again.
