The rock passed between them, Dom never breaking their gaze. Sorasa felt his focus like a spear through her gut, his eyes that stormy, unyielding green. But not as angry as she knew, not as disgusted. They rode apart, weaving around the break before colliding back together, Corayne sprawling between them, the girl shuddering against Sorasa’s back.

A shout sounded above, the barking voice of a soldier. Another volley of arrows peppered the herd, needling the horses around them. Sorasa felt the arrows as keenly as if they were embedded in her own flesh. Her heart bled for the Shiran, now bleeding for her. She loosed a curse under her breath and snapped the reins, kicking the sand mare to her limits.

“Faster,” she hissed, to herself and the horse. “Faster.”

The canyon opened out onto desert, the sand here whiter than the gold of the dunes. They rode with the Shiran, the great stallion pulling his herd along. The soldiers would follow. They were probably already clambering down the cliffs or signaling to the rest of their company. Whatever element of surprise Sorasa hoped to use had disappeared.

But we are alive. And that is enough.

The water was a few miles ahead, the gulf of the Aljer so close she thought she could smell it. After days in the desert, the salt tang of seawater was impossibly heavy on her tongue. But the oasis stood between, a dark smudge a mile ahead. The shadow whispered of palm trees, cool water, and a small outpost town for caravans and pilgrims. A blessed place, Spindletouched.

And now Spindletorn.

“Keep going,” she shouted, to anyone who could hear her, to anyone who made it through the canyon.

Corayne’s grip shifted on her waist, the pressure fleeting but unmistakable. To their right, Dom had the sword. Sorasa nearly wept in relief, choking out a triumphant cry.

We are enough.

She dared not look back, lest she see the others broken or trampled.

On the horizon, the oasis glimmered. An odd sight, like the edge of a blade laid against the earth. Steel. Silver. Mercury.

Her breath caught.

Mirrors on the sand. The Eye of Haroun.

And this.

The sand turned to liquid, her horse’s hooves kicking up water instead of dust. But the mares kept on, the Shiran never stopping, every horse plunging into the shallow layer of water laid across the harshest desert upon the Ward.

It was shockingly cold.

Sorasa shivered as she never had before. The merciless sun of Ibal beat down on her face while the water of Meer splashed around her, lapping up the legs of her mare.

“I think this is the right place,” Corayne said weakly in her ear.

31

BLOOD AND BLADE

Corayne

Corayne flinched as a spray of water broke across her face, stinging her eyes and spurting up her nose. It tasted too cold, and a gray edge to the water left streaks on her skin. She tried to wipe them away, staining her hands. She’d never seen anything like this. The oasis was flooded, a new lake forming across hot sand, turning everything to sucking mud. She could barely make out the slight hills of the oasis, palm trees bending brown and green. The town nestled within, small and unassuming, its buildings blue paint and decorated white stone. She heard crashing waves somewhere, or a waterfall, or both. This doesn’t make sense, Corayne thought, blinking at the shining water, nearly blinding as it reflected the sun overhead.

But there was no time to wonder. The Gallish soldiers guarding the canyon would pursue, and there were more in Nezri, to protect the Spindle. She leaned forward, pressing her cheek against Sorasa’s warm back. The assassin’s firm, steady heartbeat grounded her.

“Did we make it?” Corayne panted, fighting to be heard over the splashing hooves.

The Shiran fanned out, snorting and tossing their heads. Their formation lost its tightness without the canyon, and Corayne felt like she could breathe again, no longer surrounded. She searched the horses, looking for riders, in the saddle or dangling from it.

There was no one behind them but the dust cloud and, in it, the telltale flash of sun on steel. The Lion is already coming. Corayne hissed through her teeth.

“We’re here!”

Andry panted as he rode up alongside their mare, back in the saddle, his face streaked with red dust. Blood bloomed along his sleeve, seeping from some wound. Corayne’s eyes flickered to it.

“One of the horses bit me,” he said, catching his breath. “Could’ve been worse.”

Another mare joined their number, breathing hard beneath the weight of Charlie Armont. “No shit. I nearly died,” he crowed, his face purple. There were angry burns on his arms, lines from the reins. He must’ve been dragged all the way through the canyon. “I nearly lost my supplies! My ink, my seals . . .”

Sigil rode out of the mirrored sand, her figure rippling into solid form. The horse danced beneath her. “A child could outride you, Priest,” she said dryly. “What of the witch?”

Corayne could not say what swelled in her, an instinct or a feeling or something deeper. But she didn’t bother looking for Valtik, in the herd or on the horizon. “She’ll come when we need her.”

Sorasa tightened under her hands, glancing over her shoulder. “I think we need her now.”

Soldiers ahead, soldiers behind. A Spindle between them.

Corayne looked to Dom, one hand on his reins, the other on her Spindleblade. He followed her gaze and dipped his brow. Again she saw him on the cliffs of Lemarta, kneeling on the road and begging her forgiveness. Asking me to save the world.

The water deepened the closer they rode to Nezri, until it was up to their horses’ knees, forcing them to slow to a trot. The Shiran pranced and bucked, snorting at the strangeness in their lands. Whatever protection they’d offered disappeared as the sand mares left the herd behind.

“Mirrors on the sand,” Sorasa murmured, the sun reflecting in her eyes. The strange water flecked her cheeks. She raised a hand to shade her gaze, inspecting the outpost ahead.

Corayne did the same, peering around the assassin’s shoulder. The palms sparkled, jeweled with dark droplets. A column of water like a gigantic fountain spouted into the air, a hundred feet high, wide as a tower, an impossible spring exploding out of the oasis basin. It roared with the crashing of a hundred waves, raining down on the city beneath. Like the water on the ground, it had an odd gray color, like oil or corruption. Corayne could feel it on her skin, tracking dirty lines down her face and neck.

Nezri was otherwise vibrant, but there was no one on the outskirts that Corayne could see. No citizens, no merchant caravans or pilgrims to the oasis temple. Perhaps the Spindle drove them away—or Erida’s men killed them all.

“There are at least two hundred men of Galland in that town,” Sorasa growled, pulling her bronze sword from the sheath strapped to her saddle. “Stay fast; don’t stop. Find the Spindle and get Corayne to it.”

Blades sang loose. An ax bit the air. A hook on a string swung in a lazy circle. Corayne felt for her stabbing dagger, somehow still at her hip. The hilt was unfamiliar, wrong in her hand, despite the little training she’d had from Sorasa and Sigil.

Seven against two hundred soldiers of Galland, a Spindle at their backs. Impossible, but then so was everything else up to this moment. We’ve overcome impossible before, Corayne told herself, trying to believe it, trying to be brave. For her mother somewhere, for her father dead. For her friends around her, and the realm threatening to collapse on them all.