Realm Breaker Page 16

She didn’t flinch. “We are already beaten, my dear. And I will not send my people to die. You will find no monarch who will.”

Gods damn you, he thought. Both fists clenched at his side. “We die if we do nothing. We are of the Ward as much as any other.”

“You know we are not,” Isibel said sadly, shaking her head. “Glorian waits.”

Dom found himself envying mortals. It was their way to rage and snap and curse, to lose control of themselves and retreat to raw emotion. He wished to do the same.

“Glorian is lost to us,” he forced out.

His aunt reached out again, but Dom shifted away from her touch like a petulant child.

He squared his body to the winged statue of Baleir. The warrior god was supposed to grant courage. Grant some to these immortal cowards, he cursed.

“The balance of Spindles is delicate. Our way back was lost to us, its location destroyed, and so we are doomed to remain here for our long eternity.” She pressed on, undeterred. “But as Taristan hunts his Spindles, tearing what he can, the boundaries will weaken. Spindles will cross back into existence, both new and old. I wish it were not so, but Allward will crumble, and her Spindles will burn. If we can find the realm of the Crossroads—or even Glorian herself—we can go home.”

Dom whirled in shock. “And abandon the Ward.”

“Allward is already lost.” Her face hardened, unyielding as stone. “You have not seen Glorian. I do not expect you to understand,” she said heavily, returning to her throne.

Dom saw his own frustration in Ridha’s eyes, but the princess remained silent, her hands knitted together. She moved her head slowly, an inch to either side. Her message was clear.

Don’t.

He ignored her. His control unwound.

“I understand the Companions were slaughtered in vain.” He wiped a hand across his face, scraping blood from his skin to the stone, spattering the green marble with crimson stars. “And I understand you are a coward, my lady.”

Toracal rose, his teeth bared, but the Monarch waved him down. She needed no one to defend her in her own hall. “I am sorry you think so,” she said gently.

Voices and memories roared in Dom’s head, fighting to be heard. Cortael’s dying breath, his eyes empty. The Vedera already fallen. Taristan’s face, the red wizard, the Army of Asunder. The taste of his own blood. And then, further—tales of Glorian, the legendary heroes who journeyed to the Ward, those courageous, noble men and women. Their greatness, their victories. Their strength above all others upon the realm. All lies. All nothing. All lost.

The floor seemed to move, the marble rippling like a green sea as he stalked from the throne, from the Monarch, from all hope he’d had for the world and himself. His only thoughts were of Cortael’s twin and cutting the wretched smile from his face. I should have ended it at the temple. Ended him or me. At least then I would have saved myself from this disaster and disappointment.

Isibel called after him, a thousand years of rule in her voice. And some desperation too. “What will you do, Domacridhan, son of my beloved sister? Have you Corblood in your veins? Have you the Spindleblade?”

Dom kept silent, but for the slap of his boots on stone.

“Then you are already defeated!” she called. “We all are. We must leave this realm to its downfall.”

The prince of Iona did not falter or look back.

“Better men and women than me died for nothing,” he said. “It’s only fair I do the same.”

Later, Princess Ridha found him in the Tíarma stables. He blundered fiercely through his labors, mucking out stalls and scattering hay, a pitchfork in his fist.

It was easy to lose himself in such a mundane activity, even one that smelled so horrible. He hadn’t bothered to change his clothes, still wearing his ruined tunic and leather pants. Even his boots had mud on them from the temple, and perhaps some gore too. His hair had come undone, blond strands sticking to the bloody half of his face. A wineskin hung from his belt, drained dry. Dom felt as wretched as he looked, and he looked truly wretched.

He sensed Ridha’s judgment without turning to her, so he did not bother. With a grunt, he stabbed a bale of hay and tossed it easily into the stall before him. It exploded against the stone wall. In the corner, a stallion blinked, unamused.

“You always did know when to keep your mouth shut, Cousin,” he sneered, thrusting the pitchfork again. He imagined the next bale was Taristan’s body, the tines running him through.

“I believe you missed that lesson,” she replied. “Just like the one on tact.”

Dom bit his lip, tasting blood again. “I’m a soldier, Ridha. I don’t have the luxury of tact.”

“And what do I look like?”

Sighing, he turned to face the closest thing he had to a sibling.

Gone was her gown. The sword still hung at her side, but the rest of the princess was changed, having traded silk for steel and jeweled locks for tightly wound braids. She rested her hands on her sword belt, letting him look. A green cloak of Iona poured over one shoulder, shadowing her mail, breastplate, and greaves. Ridha was the heir to the enclave, the Monarch’s successor, and she had been taught to fight as well as any other. Better, usually. Her armor was expertly made, well fitted to her form, emblazoned with antlers, the steel tinted green. It gleamed in the dusty light of the stables.

The smallest bit of hope sparked in Dom’s chest. His first instinct was to smother it.

“Where are you going?” he asked, wary.

“You heard my mother: she won’t send her people to die, and neither will any other monarch,” she said, adjusting her gauntlets. Her thin smile took on an edge of mischief. “I thought it best I make sure she’s right.”

The spark grew in leaps. The pitchfork fell from his hands, and Dom moved to embrace his cousin. “Ridha—”

She ducked his arm, her steps light and agile even in full armor. “Don’t touch me—you stink.”

Dom didn’t mind the jab in the slightest. She could have said anything to him, asked anything of him, a dangerous thing to know. I would dance naked through the streets of Iona or marry a mortal woman if it meant she would help me. But Ridha demanded nothing in return. In his heart, Dom knew she never would.

“I’ll ride to Sirandel first,” the princess said. She set a quick pace down the aisle, and Dom was forced to follow. With a practiced eye, she noted the horses, surveying each stall for a steed fast enough to suit her needs. “They lost three of their own to those monsters. And the foxes can be so hot-blooded. Something about the red hair.”

Eager, the prince crossed to the tack wall and heaved a saddle onto his shoulder. The fine oiled leather gleamed. “I’ll start with Salahae. The sand wolves do not run from a fight.”

Ridha snatched the saddle from him. “Leave the enclaves to me. I don’t trust your powers of persuasion.”

“You’re mad if you think I’m staying here,” he said, moving to bar her way. Again she dodged. At the far end of the aisle, the stable hands gathered to watch their bickering. Dom could hear their whispers, but he gave them little thought.

“I didn’t say that,” Ridha said in a chiding voice. “Raising an army to fight the Spindles is one thing—impossible, perhaps. Closing them is another entirely, but it’s something we must do if we have any hope of maintaining Allward.”

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