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“The other dragon wasn’t,” Corayne said flatly. A rare look of confusion crossed Valnir’s face. “It attacked him as much as the rest of us. Dragons must be difficult to enthrall, even for Taristan and his wizard.”
Charlie rolled his eyes. “Oh lovely,” he said. “Some good news at last.”
“And what about me?” Corayne added, raising her chin.
More than a few Elder gazes flew to her, yellow and blue and brown. They eyed the mortal girl as they would a walking fish, or a fire-breathing rabbit. Unnatural and confusing.
Castrin raised an eyebrow, his disbelief apparent. “Are you skilled with a bow, my lady?”
Intimidating as the Elders were, a hundred of them more deadly than a mortal army, Charlie felt his composure break. He glared at Valnir with frustration.
“Your aimshouldbe to get Corayne to the Spindle, before anything else can pass through from the next realm,” he all but barked, pointing a finger at Corayne. “One young dragon is obstacle enough. Allward cannot afford another full-grown dragon burning its way across the realm.”
Down the stone, a few Elders murmured among each other, the reststaring at Charlie. The weight of their focus felt like being hit with an avalanche.
“Or anything else that may come from Irridas,” Corayne added. “The black knight was enough.”
Charlie’s spine turned to ice.
“Black knight?” he sputtered, whirling to her. “What knight?”
She only blinked up at him, confused.
“In Gidastern. There was a knight in black armor. Not steel, but something stronger, like jewels. Or impossibly hard glass,” she said. Every word made Charlie feel sicker and sicker. “He rode a black stallion with red eyes. I don’t know who he was or who he fought for, but he hunted the dragon—and anyone who got in his way.”
Suddenly Charlie was back in his little church, his sure hands running over the dusty pages of an old manuscript. The fine lettering beneath his fingers bled, black and red ink curving to form the figure of a rider on a murderous horse. He was armored all in black, a single sword raised above his head.
“Morvan the Dragonsbane.” The name made Charlie’s knees tremble. “You sawhim?”
At the edge of the lantern light, Valnir looked down his long nose at them, his lips pursed. “I do not know this name.”
“You wouldn’t,” Charlie snapped back, still looking at Corayne. All thoughts of courtesy, good manners, or common sense fell away.
At Valnir’s side, Castrin bristled. “Mind your tongue, mortal.”
Charlie ignored him. “The Dazzling Realm is not your own, but Tiber’s.”
“Your god,” Corayne replied. “What do you know of the black knight?”
“I used to paint dragons all day long. For Tiber’s manuscripts, in church records.” His words trembled as he sifted through distant memories. “Iillustrated the Dragonsbane too. The scriptures differ, depending on which you read. He could be Tiber’s son, the child of a god. He could be an immortal of Glorian, lost to wander the cold jewels of Irridas. Either way, he spends the ages hunting dragons, with no regard for anything in his path.”
Something glinted in Corayne’s eyes. A well of fresh tears, unshed. She sniffed them away before any could fall.
“He was in Gidastern,” she managed to say. “Dom turned back to—to stop him.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Charlie saw Valnir bow his head. His lips moved, speaking an Elder prayer even Corayne could not translate. In this pain, at least they were united.
Garion broke the silence when no one else would. He shifted, planting his palms on the stone.
“We can only hope the knight is still in the north and does not turn his sights back to his Spindle,” he said.
In spite of himself, Charlie banged a closed fist on the rock beneath him. He immediately regretted it, his hand smarting.
“I’m sick to death of hope,” he grumbled.
Sick of Spindles and dragons and this wretched cold.
With one last swipe of her eyes, Corayne shrugged. Her shoulders bowed.
