Maybe he’ll drown, Sorasa thought idly, half a wish.

17

FOR THE REALM

Andry

The New Palace had been a home, a sanctuary, a school, a training yard. Now it was a prison, a hunting ground, an executioner’s block.

Andry felt the ax hanging over his head as he led the others into the maze, sprinting as fast as his long legs would carry him. In the barracks, he’d learned to run in armor. It had made him strong in steel, and even faster without it. But he felt bare now, vulnerable. I don’t even have a knife, he thought in frustration. Not that he could blame himself. How could he have expected Erida to turn on them, on him, on the Ward?

But she didn’t turn tonight, he told himself. His body shook all over, unmoored as the realization swept him out to sea. She’s already been against us, for gods know how long.

She’s been with him, Lord Cortael’s twin. That rogue bastard. The curse smarted in his head. Andry Trelland didn’t care for foul language, even running for his life.

Shouts rose all over the palace grounds, and torches flared through the gardens as the Queen’s knights gave chase. But they only existed on the edges of his mind. To Andry, there was only the maze—and his mother.

At Wayfarer’s Port by now, he told himself. It felt like a prayer waiting to be answered. On a ship already, safe with her carers, tucked into her chair. Sails raised, with a captain bound for her home. His heart tore inside him as he pictured Valeri Trelland at the rail of a ship, waiting for her son. I should have gone with her. This is no place for me. The maze pressed in, the rows perfectly manicured, not a leaf out of place. He wanted to burn it all to ashes. I just need to get off this island. That’s all I have to do. Get out of the palace, and get to the docks. He breathed hard, in through his nose, out through his teeth. Get off the island. Get to the docks.

Corayne panted next to him, fighting to keep up. Back in the apartments, she had not seemed so small, but now, with the sword on her back, with the world on her shoulders, Andry thought she might fade into nothing. Only her eyes were unchanged, somehow blacker than the sky above them. She looked back into the maze, trying to see through the hedges as they spiraled. Lord Domacridhan and the Ibalet woman kept up behind them.

A horn blast echoed and Andry flinched. The sound, heavy and proud, sent a shudder through the air.

“What was that?” Corayne asked, breathless. The horn sounded again.

“The palace garrison,” he replied, quickening his pace. His jaw set painfully.

He’d never seen the garrison summoned before, not for battle. As a boy, he’d always wished for them to be called forth in their armored splendor, to defend the Queen and her court. Well, I suppose I’ll get to see it now.

Domacridhan limped, forcing each step, one hand pressed against his ribs. Blood welled between his fingers, black in the dim light. The last time I saw him, he was being swallowed by corpses, Andry thought. He survived the temple—certainly he can survive this.

The Ibalet woman shoved the Elder onward when he flagged, her teeth bared. “How many in the garrison, Trelland?” she called, her voice sharp with worry.

Though chivalry and etiquette demanded it, Andry doubted asking for the lady’s name would be wise under the circumstances. “Two hundred. Enough to withstand a siege.”

“I’m flattered,” the woman answered.

Two hundred soldiers. Two hundred swords. Two hundred shields. Two hundred men I’ve known and trained with, seen every day in the barracks. Two hundred oathed and sworn, loyal to the Queen, to Galland, to the Lion. Andry did not doubt their resolve, even the ones he counted as friends. They’ll kill me the same as any other enemy. It’s what they were trained for.

And I would do the same, in their place.

“This way,” he hissed, angling his body for what looked like a solid wall of leaves. He slipped easily through the hidden gap in the hedges.

Where the rest of the maze was artistry, with stone pathways and gurgling fountains, this was narrow and scratching, unattended, barely a dirt trail between the towering plants on either side. It was an open secret. Many of the squires, knights, court ladies, and even some royals, brought companions here for a few moments away from prying eyes.

The wind blew cold, sending shivers over Andry’s exposed skin. He gritted his teeth, bracing for the voice that came with the cold, the whispers old and young. The voice he could hardly remember and never forget.

The road runs in one direction, dutiful squire, the voice groaned, splintering.

Andry growled low in his throat as the whispers shattered in his head. He staggered, losing speed but fighting onward.

“Are you all right?” he heard Corayne call, but the whispers gobbled her voice up.

Burn the life behind you, save the realm from the fire.

And then the voice was gone again, receding with the wind, falling to nothing as the shouting outside the maze grew. The spire of Syrekom Cathedral rose ahead, its arches taunting. The shouting grew, and flames flickered in the leaves, bleeding through from pathways, closing in.

Corayne still watched him intently, slowing her pace to match. She reached out with a tentative hand. Without thought, Andry took it, her fingers warm in his own.

“It’s nothing,” he said, his breath coming in uneasy pants. “I’m fine.”

There was a moan behind them as Dom faltered again, falling to a knee. The woman growled a curse in her own language.

“Keep going!” she called to them before either could break stride.

Corayne turned to look back, but Andry tugged her on. “They’ll catch up,” he said, his grip tight. Was that a lie? he wondered. Does it even matter anymore?

The hedge shadows were tall and strange, wavering between starlight and torchlight, white and red. One of them lurched, coming alive. A broad silhouette stumbled out onto the trail, his fine red-and-silver surcoat stained with wine.

“Look at you, Trelland,” Lemon crowed, swaying on his feet. He leered, his face ruddy and sweating. A goblet gleamed in his hand. He waved it between Andry and Corayne, spilling dark red liquid. “Bringing a girl down the paths. I didn’t know you had it in you!”

Andry dropped Corayne’s hand and tried to push her by the other squire. His palm brushed up against the sheath of the Spindleblade. It felt cold as ice.

“Good night, Lemon,” he gritted out. Best to slip around him, leaving him spinning in the dark. “Enjoy the rest of the feast.”