“You saw him die. You knew him.” You heard his voice; you saw his face.

Andry shifted, uncomfortable. “A bit.”

“More than me.”

Sorasa’s shout forced them apart. She stood in the saddle, the cowl back around her neck, a dirty shawl or blanket draped around her shoulders. She could pass for a farmer or a beggar, if no one looked too hard.

“It’s three days’ ride to Adira,” she called. “I’d prefer to do it without a Gallish army on my heels.”

“Adira?” Corayne and Andry said in unison, both gaping. But while Trelland was incredulous—stunned, even—Corayne felt a rare burst of excitement.

Dom seemed to share Andry’s trepidation. He launched himself into the saddle, wheeling his horse up alongside Sorasa. He loomed down on her, eyes flashing. “You can’t be serious.”

“The witch said seven,” Sorasa said neatly. “Adira will get us to seven.”

“Adira will get us killed,” Andry sighed, climbing neatly into the saddle.

After a moment of scrambling, Corayne got her foot under her in the stirrup and swung a leg gracelessly over the saddle. Still, she smiled. Adira. There was not a sailor aboard her mother’s ship who did not have a tale of the Adoring Port, a pilgrimage for all below and beyond the laws of any crown.

“You were at the temple, Trelland,” Corayne said, leaning over to eye the squire. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a few drunks and cutthroats.”

Sorasa grinned and snapped her reins. “More than a few.”

“Gods save us,” Andry murmured under his breath.

20

BLEED FOR ME

Erida

“The suitor is next, Your Majesty,” Lady Harrsing said in her ear, bending over Erida, who was seated on her throne.

Both sighed in annoyance. The old woman and the Queen had seen a hundred of their like over the years, petitioners noble and peasant, both men and women, rich and poor, handsome, ugly, and everything in between. They had only one thing in common—they were stupid enough to think they could tempt the Queen of Galland.

In most courts, petitions were heard in public, in a throne room or great hall jammed with courtiers feeding their own amusement. Not so in Galland. The petitions chamber was small and comfortable, wood-paneled with tapestries on the walls, one end of the room raised to seat the Queen, her chosen advisors, and her knights of the Lionguard. Today the odious honor fell to Lady Harrsing and six guardians, half of them nearly asleep. There were more knights stationed just outside, in the halls and passageways branching off the throne, should the need arise. Erida guessed they were dozing as well.

She could not blame them. She wanted nothing more than to sleep too, but she had another hour of hearings to suffer through. I can manage another starry-eyed dreamer, she thought, dismissing the Madrentine diplomat in front of her with a wave of her jeweled hand.

He bowed low and left the throne room, clearly dissatisfied. The Queen cared little for the whims of Madrence and forgot him as soon as he disappeared, leaving the space before her dais empty and waiting for the next person brave enough to approach.

Erida blinked, surprised when not one but two men approached the throne. Most petitioners were easy to read, by either the heraldry on their clothing or the set of their faces. Not so with these two. One was some kind of priest, cloaked in scarlet, his hood thrown back to show pale skin and white-blond hair. He walked with his hands folded, hidden in his sleeves. She guessed him to be a dedicant of Syrek, Galland’s patron god, though his robes were unfamiliar from any service she’d ever attended.

The other had no heraldry and no immediate look. He was pale with dark red hair—definitely of the northern continent, but she could not place him further. He had come far, if his muddy boots and dirty cloak were anything to be believed. His hands were gloved, but she wagered his nails were dirty. A soldier, she guessed, judging by his gait and the hard set of his jaw, the squaring of his shoulders. Some captain from an outpost, drunk on glory, victorious in an insignificant skirmish somewhere, and now he thinks to conquer me too.

The sword beneath his cloak gave her pause. As he walked, the folds of his clothing parted, and she glimpsed the wink of jewels. Ruby and amethyst, red and purple. No simple soldier carries a sword like that, she thought.

He did not kneel like the others, and neither did the priest. A cord of tension drew through the room, her knights rousing in their armor.

“Welcome, petitioners,” Erida said aloud, looking between them as she recited the words hammered into her skull. “What would you ask of the Lion?”

The man met her gaze slowly, raising his face. Even in the throne room, well lit by many torches and chandeliers, his eyes were dark, black as jet but without its gleam. They seemed to swallow the room. In spite of herself, Erida felt a pull to them.

“I have nothing to ask, and the world to offer. I would give you my hand in marriage, and I would give you the realm entire.” He reached out, and even from a distance, she thought she could feel his fingers. “I am Taristan of Old Cor. I carry Spindleblood in my veins, a Spindle­blade in my fist. Take them both.”

For a moment, Erida felt fear. Pure terror.

She had heard that name before, from the lips of a squire with blood on his hands.

Her well-practiced mask never wavered, as good as a shield now. She hid behind it, taking even, steady breaths. Only a few seconds passed before her fear melted like iron in the forge.

It took shape again, becoming steel.

Then there was only resolve. A plan.

A choice.

Thanks to the antics of the Spindleblood mouse, the squire, the lumbering Elder, and whoever that woman was, Erida’s wedding ceremony had to be moved from the Syrekom. The Queen of Galland couldn’t very well be married surrounded by broken glass, with evidence of catastrophe looming over everything. The court would already be talking about the feast for weeks. She didn’t need to throw any more kindling on that fire.

Luckily, there was no lack of cathedrals within Ascal. The Konrada was close enough and grand enough for a royal wedding. The Queen had an army of servants at her disposal, not to mention an actual army, and they worked tirelessly through the night to prepare. They hung the spire of the Konrada with new banners, golden as a sunbeam, and scattered roses throughout the sanctuary. They polished marble, cleaned windows, dusted pews, and shooed off the beggars at spearpoint. In the morning, the procession from the palace made for a breathtaking sight. While the court paraded over the Bridge of Valor, the citizens of Ascal crowded along the neighboring canals, craning for a glimpse.