“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 did nothing. “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.

“It’s something,” Corayne snapped.

The assassin shrugged, unconvinced. She flicked a braid over her shoulder, peering out the window.

Dom could finally hear Andry outside, his footsteps harried as he burst through the door.

The squire was less disheveled than the other two. Even his bruises were not so bad. With his open manner and lanky frame, he could easily pass for a wealthy farmer’s son, or a young tradesman traveling the countryside. He had the kind of face people trusted and overlooked.

“Sorasa, you should—” he began, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. Then he spotted Dom standing and ducked into a quick, practiced bow. “Oh, good to see you awake, my lord.”

Sarn curled her lip. “Don’t call him that.”

Dom ignored her, as he tried to do always. “Thank you, Andry. What is it?”

The wheel churned outside, gears groaning as the stream babbled on. Birds sang in the fields, and the wind was gentle through the leaves. Dom listened hard but could find nothing amiss. After Ascal, the peace of the farm was shocking.

Andry glanced back and forth, one hand braced to keep the door open. He gestured to the farmhouse, a dilapidated wreck across the lane, half hidden by gnarled apple trees. Abandoned, for years if not a decade.

“I think there’s something you should see,” he said. “All of you.”

19

SO THE BONE TELLS

Corayne

At home, time divided into long portions, weeks or months, to suit trade demands, voyages of the Tempestborn, and the change of seasons. The days were a hallway, a clear passage of open doors. In Lemarta that meant days of waiting, plotting around distant storms or political upheaval on some foreign coast. Corayne felt bored more often than not, watching the horizon with her ledger, letters, and reports tucked close. But she had room to maneuver, to think, to plan.

Now Corayne felt like she was back in the hedge maze, running blindly around corners with gods-knew-what waiting on the other side. She could only react and hope to survive. Not exactly ideal.

“What could it be now?” she muttered as they followed Andry out of the mill.

The abandoned farm had a haze to it in the morning light, a golden mist that softened the hedges and overgrown fields. It was as lovely as a painting. Corayne hated it. Too quiet, too safe, she thought, glaring at the rutted lane. Everything felt like a trap. She had strapped the Spindleblade on before they left the mill, and it dug into the newborn welts on her shoulders and waist. That did not improve her mood.

Andry waved them over the threshold of the dilapidated farmhouse. Half of it still had a roof, but it was more cobweb than timber. The rest opened to the sky, like a giant had come along and put his fist through the ceiling. Debris gathered in the corners, and most of the furniture was broken or gone, with only an iron pot half buried in the hearth. Anything else of use piled on the floor, in ordered rows like a regiment of soldiers. Andry has been busy.

Sorasa sniffed at the pot, her eyes narrowed. Corayne followed, peering in to see a pile of boiled bones. They seemed to radiate cold, despite the warm sun spilling over the house.

“Animal,” Sorasa muttered, her eyes narrowed. “But fresh.”

On the other side of the room, Andry stood over a pile of rags, his copper cheeks tinged with red. “I didn’t notice her at first,” he said hesitantly. “I wasn’t quiet, but she didn’t stir.”

Corayne stiffened, eyeing the rags again. It was difficult to tell what lay beneath. The bone cold seemed to thrum. “Did you say her?”

Andry swallowed. “I don’t know if she’s—”

“She’s alive,” Dom answered, cocking his head. Apparently he could hear a heartbeat, one of the more unsettling things about the Elder warrior. There was a steadily growing list.

He bent to the rags, crouching on his heels, and inhaled deeply, like a dog catching a scent. Gently, he pulled back the first layer, a patchwork blanket in every color of dirt. A head of gray, frizzing hair peeked out between his feet, stuck with twigs, leaves, and beaded braids that made Corayne twinge. Why, she could not say.

She took a step forward, her knees shaky with exhaustion. But a fist closed on her arm, the fingers digging in sharply.

“Wait,” Sorasa warned, holding her back.

“Mistress, we’re sorry to intrude,” Andry said, taking a knee next to the pile. The gray head didn’t move. Corayne strained to see her face but Dom and Andry blocked her view.

Dom ran a hand over his blond beard. “She’s in a deep sleep. Too deep for a mortal.”

“Leave her and we’ll be on our way,” Sorasa said. “She hasn’t seen our faces; she won’t be able to aid anyone looking for us.”

The Elder bit his lip. “Are you certain of that?”

The assassin shrugged. “Fine, slit her throat.”

“Sorasa,” Corayne hissed, sucking in a breath.

Andry squared his shoulders. “You’ll do no such thing,” he barked, and Corayne saw the flash of a knight in him.

Sorasa glanced between them, puzzled. “You’re being hunted by the Queen of Galland and a demon king. I don’t recommend making it any easier for them.”

The sleeping woman sat up quickly, as if she’d never been sleeping at all. Her eyes opened, blue as the most brilliant sky. Her mouth was like a gash, her lips thin, lined by wrinkles from a lifetime of smiling.