The Tempestborn is far away now. I’m on my own.

Sorasa and Dom navigated well, avoiding the clank of armor that meant guards or knights. It was only a few minutes, but the seconds dragged and Corayne’s heartbeat thundered.

“Servants,” Dom breathed at her shoulder. “Through the archways.”

Corayne’s jaw clenched and she felt herself nod. Up ahead, the passage widened, one side scalloped with columns and arches opening onto a flourishing garden of roses. Steeling herself, she walked forward while the others hung back. You work in the kitchens.

A pair of women knelt among the roses, filling their baskets with scarlet flowers. Their faces gleamed with sweat, and they wore thick leather gloves to defend against thorns.

“Please tell us Percy sent you to help,” one of the women said with a gasp of breath. She wiped her brow with the back of her hand. “We’ll be cutting flowers all night at this rate.”

Corayne’s voice faltered. “I—”

The other maid, older than the first, waved a fistful of roses in her direction. “Hope you brought gloves, dear.”

“No, sorry—” Corayne said, speaking around the lump in her throat. She swallowed, eyeing the two. “I’ve got a message for Lady Valeri Trelland. A letter, from a courier—”

“Trelland?” The young maid blanched. “Isn’t she dead?”

Corayne’s stomach plummeted to her feet.

“She’s not dead,” the other answered, still wagging her roses. “She’s just sick is all. Sick the long, slow way. Doesn’t leave her chambers much anymore. But she’s still kinder than all the rest put together.” Then she pointed with the flowers. “Keep on the way you’re going. Her quarters are at the bottom of Lady’s Tower. Look for the painting of King Makrus.”

Corayne bobbed her head in a grateful nod. “Thank you.”

The older maid screeched as she moved on. “And tell Percy we need more hands if we’re to cut enough flowers by morning!”

“I shall,” she replied, though she had no idea who Percy was and even less inclination to seek him out.

The tightness in her chest unwound and she turned back to the passage, only to find Dom and Sorasa waiting idly on the far side of the arches. Both had passed by without the maids, or even Corayne, noticing. Sorasa jabbed her thumb over her shoulder, her lips forming words with no sound. This way.

The Lady’s Tower was otherwise empty, its occupants asleep or elsewhere, perhaps feasting, perhaps getting into all kinds of court mischief. There was something happening in the morning, if the maids were to be believed.

Corayne had no idea what King Makrus looked like, but Sorasa led the way. Eventually they found a painting of a man more troll than king, with mottled skin and a hulking figure. Paintings are supposed to make people look better than they were, Corayne thought, glancing over the dusty portrait. She could not imagine how ugly he must have been in life.

He loomed next to the door to the Trelland apartments, and they closed the last few yards at speed, hurtling forward as if something might stop them at the last moment.

Corayne felt odd, detached from her body, as if she could watch herself from afar. None of this seemed real, even against the dusty smell of the passage, the soft carpet beneath her boots, the stone wall cold against her fingertips. She took a deep breath and blinked, half expecting to wake up in her bed in Lemarta, with Kastio preparing breakfast in the next room. It’s just another dream. My father, my uncle, the Spindle torn, the Elder and the assassin. All of it will disappear, fading in the morning light.

But the world remained, unmoving, insisting to be seen and felt. Impossible to ignore.

Corayne stared at the door.

Dom stared at the door.

They stared at each other, both hesitant, both frozen. Black eyes met green, iron on emerald. Centuries separated the two of them, but they were alike for a moment, standing on the edge, terrified of the unknown below.

What if the sword is gone?

What if the sword is here?

“Should we knock?” Corayne forced out, her mouth suddenly dry.

“Yes,” Dom said hoarsely. “Sarn—” he added, looking over his shoulder.

But there was no one behind him. No woman in unremarkable clothing, her cloak pulled up tight, a single tattoo bared in the torchlight.

Sorasa Sarn of the Amhara was gone, leaving no trace, as if she’d never existed at all.

Her absence set a fire in Dom, burning away his fear. He rapped his fist on the door. “Ecthaid willing,” he hissed, naming a god Corayne did not know, “the tunnels will collapse on her murderous head.”

Her stomach twisted as the lock turned. When the door pulled open, she found herself face-to-face with a young man. Her stomach dropped again.

He was tall and muscular, but still coltish, growing into himself. His skin was smooth and perfect as polished amber, glowing warmly. There was only the shadow of a beard, the first attempts of a boy. His black hair was cropped short, for function. Of course he was the squire Andry Trelland, who had survived the slaughter at the temple where so many had died. Corayne didn’t know why, but she had pictured him as a man, a warrior like the others. But he can’t be much older than me, no more than seventeen. At first she found his face kind, with a gentleness to it. But, like Dom, he had something raw beneath his pleasant expression, a wound still torn open that might never heal.

“Yes?” he said plainly, his voice deeper than she expected. Trelland kept the door close to his shoulder, obstructing her view of anything behind him except for flickering firelight. He stared down at her, expectant. She was the only one he could see, his focus absolute and entire.

“You’re Andry Trelland,” Corayne said softly, all pretense forgotten.

Andry’s mouth twitched in amusement. “I am. And you’re new to the palace,” he added, looking her over with sympathy. He eyed her dirty hands. “Kitchens?”

“Not exactly.”

“Squire Trelland.” Dom’s voice was thunder as he stepped around Corayne, putting her between them. He looked right over her head.

Anything soft or friendly about Andry’s face disappeared, a slate wiped clean. His dark eyes widened and he leaned heavily against the door, like his knees might give out.

“My lord Domacridhan,” Andry breathed. He ran his eyes over Dom’s scarred face, tracing the ripped flesh. “You live.”

Dom put a hand to the door, pushing it wide. His brow furrowed.

“For now.”

My name is Corayne an-Amarat. My mother is Meliz an-Amarat, captain of the Tempestborn, lady scourge of the Long Sea. My father was Cortael of Old Cor. And this is his sword.

The Spindleblade lay sheathed across Andry’s knees. Corayne couldn’t take her eyes off it as Dom and the squire spoke, trading tales of their journeys after the temple. The dark leather sheath was boiled and oiled twice over, if her eye was true. Good, sturdy, old. But not old the way the sword was old, the steel of it cold even from a distance, humming with a force she could barely feel and hardly name. Andry had not drawn the blade yet. She did not know what it looked like. If there was still blood on it, from her own uncle, who should have died and had not. From her father, his life running red over his hands. The hilt was clean, at least, the cross guard set with winking stones. In the firelight, they flickered between scarlet and purple, like sunset or dawn. The grip was wrapped in black leather, worn to a different hand. There was no gemstone in the pommel, but an etching like a star, or a many-armed sun. The symbol of Old Cor, a light since lost. Forged in another realm, imbued with power she could not understand.