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“Well,” Oscovko said, crossing his boots on the tabletop. “Out with it, Corayne an-Amarat. I’m eager for a tale.”
Corayne heaved a breath. First Erida, then Isadere, then her mother—and now Prince Oscovko.Perhaps I should just write it all down, and save myself the trouble of explaining everything all over again.She clenched her teeth and sat. The others mirrored her. Before Corayne could ask, Oscovko slid a glass of wine across the table, nudging it into her hand.
She took a fortifying swallow and spoke.
Her voice was low and hoarse as she recounted their tale. The gray light went gold in the windows, the clouded sky turning tobrilliant shades of orange and yellow with the sunset. Dom did not sit, but stared out at the city, his figure casting a shadow across the narrow room, cutting it in two.
“Twelve Amhara assassins tracked us along the Wolf’s Way,” Corayne said finally. “They attacked a few days north of the Dahlian Gates.”
She never saw the clearing where the assassins lay, their blood spent on the grass, but she remembered the aftermath. Sorasa’s ruined hair, her hollow gaze, her silence. And Dom’s great concern for her, more jarring than anything.
Corayne glanced at Sorasa, unmoving in her chair, staring at the pitted and stained tabletop, her face blank and eyes glassy. She hid behind a wall of her own making. Whatever weight she still carried from that day was not for any of them to see.
Oscovko watched her too, his eyes ticking over her tattooed hands, her neck, every mark of the Amhara on her skin. He pulled at his fourth glass of wine, somehow unaffected by the dark red vintage.
“They were clearly unsuccessful,” he said, gesturing to the six of them. “I’m impressed. Twelve Amhara turned back by the likes of you.” His gray eyes swept between Dom and Sorasa. “Though I suppose it’s easy to kill what you know.”
At the window, Dom turned to look over his shoulder. He sneered, his scars pulling at one side of his mouth. “Your Highness—”
“Don’t.” Sorasa’s voice cracked like her whip, a single syllable filled with command.
The Elder knew better than to argue. He shut his mouth with an audible click of his teeth.
Corayne pushed on, eager to be finished. “After the Amhara, we continued north, meaning to enter Galland through the Gates of Trec.”
The prince put down his glass and leaned forward, toward Corayne. His pale cheeks were stubbled, rough-shaven with haste. She guessed he had little need to keep up appearances in the war camp, with his father’s court all but abandoned.
He looked her over. “But you are not through the Gates of Trec now. Instead you rode to my city, seeking Treckish blades and Treckish blood.”
“Seeking anally,” she replied tightly.
“And what might I get out of this so-called alliance?” Oscovko pointed to his own chest, then to his quiet lieutenants. “Besides dead men.”
Sigil drummed her fingers on the table, her face pulled in distaste. “You get to survive.”
“Tempting,” he shot back, his voice dry as old bone.
Corayne set her jaw. She felt the dagger in her hand, the correct answer so easy.
“Glory,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Oscovko’s eyelids fluttered, his lips parting to show tongue and teeth. His eyes followed her as she stood, throwing back her cloak. Here was a prince who preferred battle to banquets, mercenaries to courtiers. If duty to his kingdom could not sway him, then surely his pride could.
“Glory for Oscovko the Fine, Blood Prince of Trec,” she continued. “The histories will remember you, if they survive to remember anything at all.”
The Spindleblade sang from its sheath as she drew, pulling the long blade over her shoulder in one smooth, clean motion. She set it gently on the table, letting the Prince of Trec examine the Spindleborn edge. He stood from his chair, hands outstretched, but he would not touch the blade.
“Finer even than Treckish steel,” he murmured, touching the sword on his hip.
Indeed, Trec’s mines and forges produced the finest swords and steel throughout Allward. But the Spindleblade was not of their realm. Even to his eyes, it stood apart, the metal rippling with the cold light of different stars. The gems of the hilt paled in comparison, beautiful as they were, winking red and purple with the sunset.
Oscovko licked his lips, as if he stood before an opulent feast. “I’ve never seen a Spindle before,” he said, raising his eyes to Corayne.
“I can’t say I recommend it, but... it’s where we have to go.” She crossed to the windows, joining Dom and his watch upon the Ward. “The Spindle in the foothills must be closed.”
“Why? What happens if it remains open? What happens if I stay here behind my walls?” Oscovko jerked his chin at the windows. “What exactly is going on out there?”
For the first time in an hour, Corayne faltered, the words sticking in her throat. She had only seen shades of the Ashlands, images conjured by Valtik’s own magic.
