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“The Elders called to the mortal crowns and I was sent to answer, same as your knights. I know little of Corblood or Spindle magic, and believe even less. A stolen sword, a torn passage? All this seems a conflict between two brothers, not something to concern the great kingdoms of the Ward.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “But it is not for me to believe what the Elder monarch said or what Cortael warned, only to stand against what could be. The risk of turning away is too great. At worst, nothing happens. No one comes.” His warm, dark eyes wavered. “At best, we save the realm before she even knew she was in danger.”
“Kore-garay-sida.”
The language of his mother’s people was easy to reach for, well taught in Andry’s childhood. The words were honey on his lips.
The gods will it so.
Okran blinked, caught off guard. Then he broke into a smile, the full weight of it overpowering.
“Ambara-garay,”he answered, finishing the prayer with a dip of his helm.Have faith in the gods.“You did not tell me you speak Kasan, Squire.”
“My mother taught me, my lord,” Andry replied, drawing himself straight. He was nearing six feet tall, but still felt small in Okran’s lean shadow. Growing up in Ascal, Andry was used to being noticed for his darker skin, and he was proud of the heritage it showed. “She was born in Nkonabo, a daughter of Kin Kiane.” His mother’s family, a kin, was known even in the north.
“A noble lineage,” Okran said, still grinning. “You should visit me in Benai, when all this is done and our lives returned.”
Benai, Andry thought.A city of hammered gold and amethyst, nestled on the green banks of the Nkon.
The homeland he had never seen took shape, his mother’s stories a song in his head. But it could not last. The rain fell cold, reality impossible to ignore. Knighthood was three or four years off.A lifetime,Andry knew.And there is so much else to consider. My position in Ascal, my future, my honor.His heart sank.Knights are not free to roam as they will. They must protect the weak, aid the helpless, and above all serve their country and queen. Not sightsee.
And there is Mother to think of, frail as she has become.
Andry forced a smile. “When all this is done,” he echoed, waving as Okran went down the hill, his steps light on the dampening grass.
Have faith in the gods.
In the foothills of the great mountains of Allward, surrounded by heroes and immortals, Andry certainly felt the gods around him. Who else could have set a squire on such a path, the son of a foreign noblewoman and a low knight? Heir to no castles, blood to no king.
I will not be that boy tomorrow. When all this is done.
At the edge of the clearing, the immortal prince of Iona joined Cortael. His Elder senses were keenly focused on the forest. Even from the hill, Andry saw the grim set of his jaw.
“I can hear them,” he said, the words like a whipcrack. “Half a mile on. Only two, as expected.”
“We should take our precautions with a wizard,” Bress called out. The ax over his shoulder flashed a smile against the sky.
The immortals of Sirandel turned to stare at him as if facing a child.
“We are the precautions, Bull Rider,” Arberin said softly, his voice accented by his unfathomable language.
The mercenary pursed his lips.
“The Red is a meddling trickster, nothing more,” Cortael called without turning. “Ring the temple; keep your formation.” The Corblood was a born leader, well accustomed to command. “Taristan will try to slip through us and tear open a crossing before we can stop him.”
“He will fail,” Dom rumbled, drawing his greatsword from its sheath.
Okran thumped the butt of his spear on the ground in agreement, while the North cousins rattled their shields. Sir Grandel drew himself up, his jaw hard, his shoulder squared. The immortals fell in, their bows and blades in hand. The Companions were ready.
The skies finally opened, the cold, steady rain turning to downpour. Andry shivered as the wet worked down his spine, needling through the gaps in his clothing.
Cortael raised the Spindleblade to the road. Rain spattered the sword, obscuring the ancient design of the steel. Water ran down his face, but he was as stone, weathering the storm. Andry knew Cortael was mortal, but he seemed ageless in that instant. A piece of a realm lost, glimpsed only for a moment, as if through the crack in a closing door.
“Companions of the Realm,” Cortael said, his voice carrying.
Thunder rolled somewhere up the mountains.The gods of the Ward are watching,Andry thought. He felt their eyes.
The rain doubled its onslaught, falling in sheets, turning the grass to mud.
Cortael did not waver. “That bell has not tolled for a thousand years,” he said. “No one has set foot inside that temple or passed through the Spindle since. My brother intends to be the first. He will not. He will fail. What evil intent drove him hereendshere.”
