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She itched under his attention, his yellow gaze excruciating.
“Thank you,” she said begrudgingly. “I am eager to be on the road, sir.”
“I know this,” he answered, his eyes dropping to the Spindleblade. With a jolt, Corayne realized there was nothing she could do if Valnir decided to seize the blade or smash it to pieces.
Her heartbeat rammed against her ribs.
Valnir went still for a long moment, as if weighing his words. Then he drew aside his purple cloak, shifting to show more of his neck. A mighty vein thrummed under the white skin. With a single finger, he traced the line of gnarled flesh across his throat. The scar looked wrong on an immortal body.
“They only need rope to hang you mortals,” he muttered, half his mouth curling into a scowl. “For us, the executioner must use weights and steel chain.”
As much as she tried, Corayne could not stop herself from picturing such a sight. Cords of steel wound around Valnir’s neck, heavy iron hooked to his feet.
“Why?” she said, eyes going round.
His voice was gentle. “I was not the only one.”
Her mind spun, recalling another Elder.The same eyes, the same hair. The same face, nearly.Slowly, Corayne understood.And the same scar on her neck.
“Eyda. The Lady of Kovalinn.”
Valnir dipped his head and backed into the training circle, giving her some space.
“My sister,” he said. “So it was, the two scions of our great family became its ruin.”
Corayne remembered Eyda on the shores of the Watchful Sea, leading an Elder army and a Jydi clan.To their doom, she thought bitterly. Part of her wanted to twist the knife, to make Valnir admit his own mistake. His refusal to fight doomed Princess Ridha, and his sister too.
But Corayne saw the sorrow behind his eyes, and the terrible shame.He knows it already, and he is doing everything he can to make it right.
“As there were Spindles in Allward then, there were Spindles in Glorian too.” Valnir folded his hands while he paced. “Doorways to many realms. Irridas, Meer, the Crossroads, the Ward. It was our belief that these Spindles posed a threat to our own realm and needed to be closed at all costs.”
Corayne heard the controlled anger roiling in his voice. “Your people did not agree.”
“Glorian is the light of the realms, and light must always spread,” he replied. “Our king said so himself. It was our duty to cross the infinite lands, bringing Glorian’s greatness wherever we roamed.”
“My own blood is of the Spindles,” Corayne offered, wincing as Taristan’s face rose in her mind. “I understand the call to wander, as much as someone like me can.”
Valnir barely seemed to hear her, his eyes sliding out of focus.
“I am comforted in knowing I was right about the Spindles,” he murmured. “In the end.”
Swallowing hard, Corayne looked down at the sword on the bench, tracing the familiar blade. Some days it was a burden, others a crutch.Today it felt like a compass, its needle pointing in no direction she knew.
The Elder watched with yellow eyes.
“Forged in the heart of a Spindle,” he breathed, reaching out to touch the sword.
“May I?” he asked, indicating the hilt.
Somehow Corayne knew he would accept whatever choice she made. Slowly, she nodded her head.
His long fingers wrapped around the hilt, and with a flash of steel the sword pulled free, the bare blade held up to the forest.
“A thread of gold against hammer and anvil, and steel between all three. A crossing made, in blood and blade, and both become the key.”
The edge turned in Valnir’s grip, catching the sun, every strange letter flashing against the patterned light.
“That’s what it says on the sword,” Corayne breathed. As she had so many times, she tried to read the language of the blade, woven in beautiful, inscrutable script. “You speak Old Cor?”
