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Lemarta is not terrible,she thought, listing absolutes. My lot is not horrible. My mother loves me—she knew that in her bones.I am lucky. Allward is wide, filled with danger and risk. Famine, war, disease, all kinds of hardship. None of it touches me here.
This is a good place,she told herself, looking back to the harbor.I should be content.
And yet I cannot be. Something in me will not take root.
On the horizon, the Unicorn rose, twinkling with stars. It battled the Dragon every year, each chasing the other through the centuries. Dragons were long dead, but there were tales of unicorns still hidden across the Ward, deep in the guarded enclaves of the legendary Elders, or racing through distant steppes and sand dunes. Corayne did not believe those stories, but it was good to wonder.And if I stay here, how will I ever know for sure?
Two shadows on the road jolted her out of her misery. With a start, Corayne realized she was not alone on the cliff.
The travelers were almost upon her, their footsteps impossibly silent, softer than the wind in the grass. Both were hooded and cloaked, black against the night. One was small and lean, with a weaving stride. The other, far larger, made no noise at all. Strange, for someone of such great size.
Corayne set her feet. They were already too close for her to run, even if she wanted to. It would do her no good to turn her back now. She thought of the knife in her boot. It had never been used, but it was a small comfort.
“Good evening,” she muttered, standing aside so they could pass.
Instead they halted, standing shoulder to shoulder. Or shoulder to chest, rather. One towered over the other, standing at least six and a half feet high. At this distance, Corayne could tell he was a man, broad and well built. He held himself like a warrior, his posture rigid. The shape of a sword poked out beneath his cloak. His hood kept most of his face obscured, but there was a scar she could see, even in the blue darkness. It dragged at one side of his pale jaw, ragged, wet, and...still healing.
Corayne’s stomach turned.No spineechoed in her head.
“The port is behind you, friends,” she said. “This way’s the road to Tyriot.”
“I do not seek anything in Lemarta,” the man answered from beneath his hood.
Fear clawed inside her. She moved before the man, stepping back, but he stepped forward to meet her, his motions too smooth, too quick. The other figure remained still, like a snake coiled at the roadside, waiting to strike.
“You keep away!” Corayne snapped, drawing the dagger from her boot. She waved it between the travelers.
To her dismay, the man lunged forward, and Corayne tightened her grip, willing herself to fight. But she couldn’t move an inch.No spineroared, and she braced herself for a blow.
Instead the man sank to a knee before her, his sword suddenly in hand, the tip of the gilded blade pointed to the dirt. Corayne eyed the silver hilt and good steel. He bowed his head and pushed back his hood, revealing a golden curtain of blond hair and a beautiful face half ruined with scarred flesh. A strange design edged his cloak, antlers worked in silver thread.
“I beg your forgiveness and your mercy, Corayne an-Amarat,” he said softly. His eyes glinted green, but he was unable to hold her gaze.
Corayne blinked, her eyes darting between the travelers. She was torn between fear and bewilderment.
Finally the smaller person sneered, revealing the lower half of a woman’s face. She crossed her arms over her chest. Each finger was tattooed with a black line stretching from knuckle to nail. The pattern was familiar, but Corayne could not place it.
“Did you intend to frighten the girl to death, or are you simply incapable of interacting with mortals properly?” the woman drawled, her glare leveled at the man’s back.
Mortals.Corayne’s head spun.
He gritted his teeth. “I must beg your forgiveness again. Killing you is not my intent.”
“Well, that’s good,” Corayne sputtered. Her hand dropped, the dagger useless at her side. “Who are you?”
Even as she spoke, her mind supplied the answer, remembering corners of a children’s tale or a sailor’s story.Immortal. He’s an Elder. Born of the dead Spindles, ageless and without flaw. Children of a lost realm.
She had never seen one before. Even hermotherhad never seen one before.
The immortal tipped his face up so that the stars illuminated him fully. Something had cut—no,torn—the left side of his face, ripping ragged lines from cheek to neck. Her eyes lingered, and he recoiled beneath her scrutiny.
He is ashamed,Corayne knew. Somehow it made her less afraid.
“Whoareyou?” she asked again.
The Elder sucked in a heavy breath.
“My name is Domacridhan of Iona, nephew to the Monarch herself, blood of Glorian Lost. I am the last of your father’s Companions, and I seek your aid.”
