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“I was a squire of Galland, born in the palace of Ascal,” he replied, his voice level. It echoed high into the rafters. “Trained to be a knight.”
Around the church, a few of the chiefs hissed, including the redbeard.
Andry did not react, waiting out their anger.
“Was, my lords,” he finally said, deliberate. “As a boy, I learned about the summer raids. You were a plague on Galland’s northern shore, even to the city of Gidastern herself. The Jydi would glide out of the night to loot shrines and villages, stealing away with anything they could carry. Leaving burned towns and dead bodies behind.”
In front of him, the redbeard puffed out his chest with pride. The raids were not just their livelihood, but tradition.
“I feared you first,” Andry admitted. “Then I dreamed of turning back your raids with my own sword. Protecting the north, bringing peace to the Watchful Sea. Serving my queen, and her kingdom.”
Andry had no skill for speechcraft, but he knew honesty. It was easyto tell the Jydi the truth of his past, so they might better understand the dire circumstances of the present.
“Now I walk among you, and I pray for your help.” He held the redbeard’s stern gaze, expecting the chief to hiss again. “We all do, no matter our differences and long histories. That’s how desperate we are.”
To Andry’s relief, the redbeard did not argue.
“Gidastern is gone,” he continued bluntly. “There’s nothing we can do about it. But we can move forward—”
The chief with the white pelt held up a pale hand. Her fingers were crooked, broken and healed a dozen times.
“Save your breath, Blue Star,” she said, cutting him off.
Blue Star.
Andry glanced down at his own chest, at the tunic over his ring mail. His father’s sigil remained there, across his heart. Somehow, the threadbare blue star still held on, a deep cobalt like a twilight sky.Like my father’s eyes, Andry thought, trying to hold on to a face he could barely remember.
He looked back up to the chief, his breath caught in his throat.
Like Valtik, she only shrugged.
“The Jydi do not need convincing,” she said. “We foresaw the breaking of the realm long before any of your kings or immortals cared to notice. It’s why we have gathered in Ghald. To prepare. And to fight.”
Andry blinked, startled. All attempts at a rousing speech died on his lips. He all but deflated, his shoulders drooping.
“Oh,” he sputtered. “Well. Good.”
From the altar, the blind priest raised his head. Like Valtik, he wore lavender in his braids.
“The Rose of Old Cor lives, does she not?” he asked. “Is there a war left to be fought?”
His weary voice carried through the church.The Rose of Old Cor.Andry heard her name even though no one said it.Corayneechoed off every column and carving, haunting as a ghost.
Is she alive?Andry had asked Valtik only once, and she refused to answer. He was too afraid to ask it again.
When Valtik giggled, Andry turned on her, wide-eyed, only to watch the witch throw up her hands.
“She carries on,” she said lightly, as if talking about the weather. “Her path is drawn.”
Andry’s knees buckled and the earth tilted beneath him. He wanted to laugh and cry in equal measure. The witch only giggled again as he seized her by the shoulders. Andry’s vision narrowed to the old woman in front of him, her lightning-blue eyes threatening to drown him.
Someone grabbed his arm but he shrugged them off easily.
“Valtik, you knew all this time?” he demanded, glaring down on her. “You didn’t say anything, you didn’t tell me?”
“Timing is all things,” she answered, patting his face. “From the saving of the realm to the ruin of kings.”
Again, someone took Andry by the shoulder. Again, he went to shrug them off, only to meet the iron grip of an Elder.
