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“If only,” said Sarn’s poisonous voice.
The sting returned, piercing the skin. A gliding sensation followed, sharp and pulling. With a jolt, Dom realized she was stitching him up, weaving his torn flesh back together. He couldn’t see her at all, only feel her deliberate, careful fingers as they worked.
“I’ve never seen anyone lose so much blood and survive,” she said dryly.
Dom tried to sneer at her, but only shifted a little on the rough table. The wood creaked beneath him, groaning against his weight. He realized his shirt was gone entirely, even tatters torn away.
“Where’s Andry?” he said suddenly, craning his head. Again, Corayne and Sarn held him down.
“The squire saw the truth of Corayne’s words, and good that he did. They were closing the port when we escaped,” Sarn said. “He followed us out of the city.”
“I remember...someof that. But where is he now?” Dom answered, frustrated. “I can’t hear his heartbeat.”
Corayne came around the table, one hand braced against his upper arm. She wasn’t terribly strong. “You can hear heartbeats?” she said, sounding impressed. “Since when?”
“Ah, birth?” Dom answered tentatively. He looked over the room again, mostly at the thick layers of dust coating every surface.
Sarn worked another suture. “We’re on an abandoned farm, some miles west of Ascal. Trelland is plundering the house while we huddle in this broken-down mill. Or at least that’s what he’s pretending to do while he frets over his mother.” Her disdain was bitterly clear.
This time, Dom didn’t let Corayne hold him back. He rose up on his elbows, turning to put himself face-to-face with the assassin. Her cowl was gone, hanging loose around her neck, showing her full lips pressed together so tightly they almost disappeared. Like Corayne, she had dark circles beneath her eyes, and the black powder lining her lids was smeared away. Neither had slept, and mortals were so very dependent on sleep. Even so, the rage in his chest, born of grief and failure, rose up like embers being stoked to flame.How dare she judge the boy so?He bared his teeth, fists clenching. She didn’t flinch or move her hands from his side. Her needle pulled insistently.
“You are truly without a heart, Amhara,” he growled.
She stuck him again. “Thank you.”
Dom scowled. “We’re too close to the city.” The mill suddenly felt stifling, as if it might collapse on them at any moment. “We should still be on the move.”
Sarn took the accusation in stride, to his chagrin. “We were a bit limited in how far we could go, thanks to someone’s attempt at field surgery.”
He tried to knock away her hands, reaching for the needle. “I can do this myself, you know,” he snapped. Now that he could see the wound in the daylight, he realized how serious it was. And, he noted begrudgingly, how well the assassin could stitch.
“Somehow I have a hard time believing that,” she replied, intolerant.
“Somehow I thought I escaped this nonsense bickering,” Corayne finally butted in, pressing her hands to Dom’s shoulders. He fell flat with a huff. “I’ve got the Queen, her army, and my damned uncle to worry about. Let’s not add to the list, shall we?”
Dom felt oddly scolded, his cheeks going warm. “I’m not paying you another coin, Sarn. Not apenny,” he said, trying another tactic.Without payment, certainly the Amhara will disappear.“You are free to go and do as you like.”
“Well, I’d like to survive the next few years, in a realm that isn’t claimed and conquered by a hellscape,” Sarn answered smoothly, killing his hopes. “I suppose the best way to do that is to stay with the girl, since you aren’t much use.”
“And a single assassin is?” Dom spat. She tugged the needle again, harsher than she needed to be. He let her; his body was already healing. The flare of pain faded with every second, and he felt rather smug about it.
Until she lowered her face, her mouth inches from his ribs. He could feel her breath on his skin, ghosting along the ridge of the closed wound. Dom nearly sprang off the table as she bit through the thread, tying off the last of his stitches. Her face was still, impassive, but smirking victory danced in her eyes.
Behind him, Corayne failed to smother a laugh. “I’ll take who I can get,” she said, patting Dom on the shoulder, “to accomplish what we need to do next.”
Her eyes trailed, fixing on the corner. Dom sat up and followed her gaze to see the Spindleblade, propped up and half hidden. A beam of sunlight spilled before it, swirling with motes of dust. Inside the mill, the Spindleblade seemed unremarkable, not even a relic. The jewels of the hilt were dull, the steel dim. Dom remembered it in the vaults of Iona, surrounded by a hundred candles, the reflections dancing. It had sat there for centuries, free from the ravages of time. He remembered it in Cortael’s hand, when it was time for him to take the Spindleblade as his own. There was no magic in the steel beyond its tie to the Spindles, but it seemed to bewitch him. The sword was a relic of a world dead, a people all but lost. It spoke to him in ways even Dom could not fathom. He wondered if the blade spoke to Cortael’s daughter in the same way. He could not know. She was more difficult for him to read, her eyes always darting, her mind working in furious motion. She changed paths too quickly for him to follow.
“We can’t hope to close the Spindle at the temple now,” Dom murmured. Gingerly, he stepped off the table, testing his legs. They held, the weakness of his wound fleeing. “Not without an army to fight our way through. He’ll have thousands of those specters assembled, many thousands. The wrath of the Ashlands and What Waits gathers.” Despite the warm air of the mill, he shuddered, hair raised on his bare arms. “And then there’s Taristan himself. I don’t know how to kill him.” He thought of Cortael, his sword plunging through Taristan’s chest.It did little. It didnothing. “If he even can be killed.”
Corayne’s eyes ran the length of the blade again, losing focus. Then she blinked, coming back to herself like someone rising from sleep. She turned her back on the blade and went to the wall, where a few crates were piled, not to mention some stolen saddlebags from the stolen horses outside. After a moment, she produced a dark gray, rough-spun shirt and tossed it at Dom. He pulled it over his head, nose curling at the smell and the touch of the poorly made clothing.
“Let’s focus on what we can do, not what we can’t,” Corayne said. “We’ve got a Spindleblade. We’ve got Spindleblood. We’ve got an immortal prince of Iona who witnessed the tearing of a Spindle and Erida’s alliance to my uncle. We’ve got—all this,” she added, gesturing vaguely at Sarn, now leaning against the window. “Certainly there are others who will listen. Other monarchs, Elders,someone.”
Dom rolled the sleeves of the shirt, which were somehow too long. “I have a cousin, heir to the throne of Iona. She rides the Ward now, seeking aid from the other enclaves. If anyone can rally the Vedera, she can,” he said, as much as the thought of Ridha pained him.
Corayne bobbed her head. “Well, that’s something.”
“It’s basically nothing,” Sarn muttered from the window.
