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“Unfortunately it’s all we have,” she said.
Then Valnir laid his sword upon the stone, the blade pointed at Corayne. With quick hands, he pulled out his fine yew bow, the curved wood gleaming as he placed it next to the sword.
“Not all,” the Elder ruler said.
All down the stone, his warriors did the same, laying down sword and bow and dagger and bare hands. Their deadly weapons and deadlierresolve thrummed with power beneath the winking stars. Garion wasted no time drawing his own weapons, putting them down in a magnificent array of dagger and sword. Charlie felt stupid putting down his single blade next to Garion’s many but did it anyway.
He eyed Corayne, small as she was, dark-haired and dark-eyed, a shadow among them. With shaking hands, she drew the Spindleblade from its sheath. The language of Old Cor winked up at them, inscrutable and ancient. It was not Cortael’s blade anymore but Taristan’s. The dark steel was long clean, but Charlie still saw blood all over the sword.
She did not speak but Charlie heard her voice. He remembered what she said back in Sirandel, in the sanctuary of the Elder enclave. It was difficult to accept then.
And even more difficult now.
He said it back to her anyway.
“We will have to be enough, Corayne.”
17
Mercy
Corayne
We will have to be enough.
Castle Vergon was a giant against the dawn, a broken fist of towers and tumbled walls. A maze of thornbushes grew around the hilltop, forming another wall around the ruins, broken by a long-abandoned road. Overhead, the clouds cleared, leaving only a soft pale blue.
What was once a Gallish legion pockmarked the hillside. Corpses lay burned or dismembered, half-eaten or left to rot among the thorns. Corayne was darkly grateful for the winter. The cold kept the worst of the stench at bay, freezing the bodies left in shadow. A single flag remained standing, its banner tattered, flapping weakly in the light breeze. Half the golden lion was gone, torn apart like its soldiers.
Worst of all was the silence. Not even carrion birds dared the dragon’s roost, leaving the massacred legion where it lay.
Bones scattered over the road beneath Corayne’s boots. She did her best to avoid breaking any, careful in her steps. The Elders had no such trouble. They moved in disarming silence. All were armored and armed, with blade and bow.
The Spindleblade weighed heavy over Corayne’s shoulder, her cloakdiscarded to give her the best range of motion. The frozen air on her cheeks kept her alert, despite a long night of little sleep. She avoided looking left and right, focusing on the Sirandel company instead of the corpses all around. Her memory filled with too many dead faces.
I don’t need to carry any more.
She searched among the ruins for any sign of the young dragon. A curl of smoke, the flashing gleam of a jeweled hide, a bat-like wing.
She searched for the Spindle too. A thread of gold, a glimmer of another realm. She could feel it humming somewhere, barely a breath against her skin. But enough to know their assumption was correct. A Spindle was close, though she couldn’t see it yet.
Ahead was nothing but the empty castle and the empty sky.
Valnir and the immortals of Sirandel were a formidable force, armed to the teeth. The Monarch led silently, half crouched, his great black bow aimed with an arrow to the string. His hair ran down his back in a single braid of red and silver, one jeweled hand glinting purple in the sunlight. Corayne admired his bravery. Most rulers would hardly lead an army into battle themselves, let alone against a dragon.
She dared not speak, but glanced sidelong. Next to her, Charlie did his best to move quietly too. He lips moved without words, one hand on his brow as he walked.
Save your prayers for us, she wanted to say.These men are already dead and in the hands of their god.
He felt Corayne’s gaze and tried to smile, his mouth pulling in a weak gesture.
Corayne did not blame him.
His fear was her own, all-consuming, threatening to swallow them up.
Her only comfort was knowing the fear was in them both.
I am not alone.
