“Have a drink with me, Brother,” Lemon slurred. He caught Andry around the neck. “And introduce me to your maiden,” he added, putting out his other arm to bar the way. The goblet collided with Corayne’s middle, spilling wine on her shirt. His smile widened as he took her in. “Good evening, my lady.”

Corayne looked down at her stained clothing, then back to Andry, her eyes snapping to his. Frustration flared in her, hot as coals. Don’t, he wanted to say. Just keep moving.

“Enjoy the feast,” she said in a small voice, taking Andry by surprise.

She angled out of Lemon’s grip, careful to keep her back to the hedges and the Spindleblade hidden. Luckily, Lemon was too drunk to notice Corayne’s lack of ladylike attire, not to mention the sword sheathed over her shoulder.

“All right,” Andry muttered, trying to pull free.

The torches closed in. There was only so much time before all hope of escaping was gone.

But Lemon’s hand tightened, fingers digging to get a better hold on Andry’s collar. He finally noticed the flickering lights and shouts echoing over the gardens. “Who’re they lookin’ for?” he said, his gaze sharpening. He licked his lips. “They called the garrison, Trell. We should help.”

“You do that, Lemon,” Andry replied, trying to pry his hand away.

The other squire bristled, his mood shifting. He brought up his other fist.

“There you are, Trelland,” Lemon hissed up into Andry’s face. His breath stank of wine and onions. “Still think you’re better than the rest of us, even with your lord dead and gone. Failed worse than any squire here.” The insult dug into him, sharp as a knife. But Lemon wasn’t finished. He looked again at Corayne. “You know he got his knight killed, don’t you?”

Andry felt his cheeks go red with heat.

She scowled, dropping all pretense, her eyes boring into Lemon’s. “He survived, which is more than the knights can say.”

Lemon only scoffed, and glared back at Corayne with a curl of his lip, his eyes raking over her. This time Andry watched him notice her ruined braid, her travel-worn clothing, the old leather boots on her feet. “What’re you staring at, you ratty bitch?”

Andry’s rage was like a thunderbolt. He broke the squire’s hold in an instant, taking him by the scruff of his shirt. “Davel,” he growled.

Corayne didn’t seem to mind such language. She raised her chin, continuing to glower. Her eyes were flat, black and yawning, unsettling to see.

“I’m trying to figure out exactly how long until you piss yourself, Squire,” Corayne said in response to Lemon’s question.

Lemon sputtered and lunged, but Andry held firm, using his height and sobriety to their full advantage. “That’s enough,” he said in a low voice. As if Lemon were an animal to be soothed.

It only incensed him further, and Lemon ripped himself away, spitting mad. But he didn’t have a chance to speak again. The dagger was a golden mirror at his neck, full of torchlight.

“Yes, quite enough,” the woman said, materializing out of the path. Her hand clawed Lemon’s straw-like hair, pulling his head backward, exposing more of his throat. He couldn’t see her, but the squire went rigid, feeling the blade against his skin.

“Sooner than I thought,” Corayne muttered, glancing at the squire’s legs.

As much as he wanted to see Lemon grovel, Andry knew better. He stepped forward, reaching out to the Ibalet dagger, a bronze artistry with a hilt like a coiling snake. The woman holding it was calm, her face too still.

“Don’t kill him. Please,” he said, his voice filled with force. The last thing we need is more blood spilled.

The woman’s mouth twitched in annoyance. “Remember Trelland’s mercy, boy,” she breathed, lowering the blade from his throat.

Lemon met Andry’s eyes, showing what little remorse he could. “Thank—”

Her fist connected with his jaw, knuckles on bone, snapping his head to the side with crackling force. The squire fell forward in the dirt, out cold.

“Was that necessary?” Andry gaped. Lemon lay flat, a puddle of drool already forming.

The woman sheathed her dagger with a snap. “You wanted him alive.”

Andry felt another burst of cold. He swallowed hard, watching the woman’s back. Dom joined her from the shadows, still limping. She moved like a predator, all angles. The court of Galland was no stranger to the women of Ibal, but this one was like none he’d ever met before. Her gown was torn to shreds, and there was blood on her hands and face. Not her own, but Dom’s. And some knights too. She killed Sir Welden in the hall, he thought, remembering the old soldier as he bled to death, his neck cut open. The memory threatened to make him sick.

Corayne fell in next to him, her arm inches from his own. She looked pale in the moonlight, glancing back at Lemon’s unconscious body as they ran from it. It didn’t seem to unsettle her quite so much.

“Who is she? What the hell are we doing?” Andry muttered.

Corayne huffed out a breath. “I’ve been asking myself that for a while now.”

They burst through another gap in the hedge, nearly careening into a shallow pond of lilies and lazy fish. On the far side, a gateway opened onto a plaza of cut stone, the tiles arranged like sunbeams spilling out from the cathedral. The walls of the New Palace ran up against the sanctuary without gap or flaw. The vaulted windows were dark and looming. Lights like fireflies moved along them, the reflections of torches as the garrison wove through the maze in hot pursuit.

Dom kept pace now, his legs moving furiously without any rhythm. He surged with the Ibalet at his side, her sword unsheathed and gleaming. It was plain but well made, flashing darkly. Still nothing compared to the Spindleblade.

The Syrekom yawned, a mouth of vaulted portals and gargoyles—winged gods and stone kings—looking down with empty eyes. The curved doors were solid oak, locked fast for the evening. It took the Elder only two tries to kick them open, even with his wound. He panted, fading, his skin paler than the moon. On top of everything else, Andry felt a squeeze of fear for Domacridhan’s life.

The nave of the cathedral stretched, tall enough to house a forest, its columns marching in double rows to the far wall of windows. They clambered down the aisle bisecting the empty pews. Only a few candles guttered in their stands. Most went dark as they ran past.