“You know an army of Ashlanders is not all the Spindle gave me.” Though the sun was bright, a darkness seemed to pool around Taristan. Erida felt it on her bare skin, a weight like a feather touch.

“Yes, the temple did something to you,” she said, tentatively brushing his arm. Her eyes trailed over his chest, where a sword had punched through his heart. To anyone looking, they might have seemed the picture of cautious newlyweds. Instead of wolves sizing each other up. “The Spindle did something to you.”

Taristan watched her trailing fingers. He remained as still as the surface of a pond, and just as inscrutable.

Erida swallowed, pulling her hand away. She was glad for their small table, away from the prying eyes and ears of a court that would not understand. To Konegin and the rest, Taristan was a blood match, a son of Old Cor with little more than his dynasty to offer, an inheritance for their children. A stepping-stone to the old empire, a path to be forged by her heirs. A birthright they could claim in conquest. Emperors and empresses reborn. But Erida remembered what Taristan had said in her petitions chamber, when she’d commanded the rest away. When he’d cut his palm and bled and healed before her eyes. When he’d told her of his destiny, and what it could buy them both.

She could not resist the opportunity, then or now.

“And you have another Spindle ripped in the desert, its forgotten realm bleeding through.” She threw his own words back at him, the promises made with his proposal. Spindles torn, armies won. At the temple, in the dunes. More would follow, if Taristan and his wizard held up their end of the bargain. “As you said, you gain strength with every Spindle, and therefore so do I. In your body, in your army. So gain it,” she whispered.

Her fist clenched on the table, knuckles bright with jeweled rings. She wished for Prevail in her hand, or the Spindleblade sheathed at her husband’s hip. For a weapon to match the fire she felt inside.

“Take your sword and bleed for me, and I will bleed for you. Win us the crown our ancestors could only dream of.”

He inhaled sharply, returning her scrutiny, and Erida almost felt the breath drawn through his teeth. He was thirty-three years old, fourteen years her senior. In royal circles, that was not so terrible. But he seemed older than his years. Because of the life he had lived or the Corblood in his veins, Erida did not know. A crown sets you apart, she knew. She’d felt one all her life, even before it landed on her head. Perhaps it’s the same with him: the weight of destiny never lifting. Until it becomes second nature.

He continued to stare, black-eyed, a muscle feathering in his jaw. The son of Old Cor, a rogue and a murderer, did not enjoy being ordered around by anyone. Men never do.

“A marriage is a promise, and we promised each other the world entire,” Erida said hotly, looking away from him with wrenching force. She set to her plate, but it held no taste for the Queen. She wanted nothing more than to be finished with all this nonsense. I’m better suited to the council chamber than the feasting hall.

Taristan’s laugh was low, and as rough as his hands.

She looked back at him, braced for disdain. Instead Erida saw a sliver of pride.

“The Lion should take you as its sigil,” he said, gesturing to the banners all over the tents. Green and gold, roaring true. “You’re twice as fierce, and twice as hungry.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“It was meant to be,” he answered.

At the closest table, still several yards away, the red wizard sat and glared. He ignored the council around him, for all of Harrsing’s efforts. Konegin pretended Ronin didn’t exist at all, speaking only to his lump of a son. Both were gray-faced in defeat. Erida spared them little mind. Lord Konegin was an obstacle, yes, but small in comparison to the road ahead. And she had an ally against him, a powerful one, who could not be killed by man nor steel.

The wizard drew her eye instead.

“At first I thought Ronin was a priest.”

Taristan finished the meat on his plate, leaving the rest undisturbed. “Silent and useless gods do not hold my interest,” he muttered.

“In Galland, we pray to Syrek above all. God of war, god of victory, god of conquest, god of life. And, in some scriptures, some teachings, the god of death too. The god of hell and heaven, in equal measure. You need only decide which side to worship and believe in.”

She thought of the statues, the idols, the many stained-glass windows and tapestries depicting Syrek and his bleeding sword, his flaming spear, sunlight like a halo around him, smoke and victory in his wake.

“The scriptures say he brought forth Old Cor, ushering your people into Allward from their lost realm.” Erida leaned forward. “Perhaps he means to do so again.”

Taristan did not hesitate. “Perhaps.”

When the servant returned, Erida did not refuse another glass of ruby wine.

“Where does Ronin guide you next?” she asked when he was gone. The drink was cold, at least, a relief in the heat. And it numbed her a little, smoothing her edges after a long night and longer morning.

“He’s found some promising leads in the cathedral records, whispers of Spindles through the centuries and further.” Erida wanted to ask precisely what but refrained. “We’ll head east.”

“And what will the next Spindle bring us?” Invulnerability granted. One army given. And in the desert, the power to rule the seas. What more comes?

“I don’t know until the crossing is made. I could open a door to any realm in existence, known or unknown. To Glorian, the home of the Elders, or the lost realm of my ancestors. To Infyrna’s furious blaze, the frozen wastes of Kaldine, Syderion, Drift, Irridas, Tempest,” he said, rattling off realms Erida only half-remembered from religious lessons and Spindle tales.

“Even the Crossroads, the door to all doorways.” Taristan’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Or Asunder herself.” He looked to his wizard, holding his red gaze. Something passed between them, a message even Erida could not fathom. “If the girl cannot be found by nightfall, you must set a guard in Ibal, and in the foothills.”

A corner of her mouth lifted in a smirk. Corayne of Old Cor is barely more than a child, a sparrow alone while the hawks circle. “You’re afraid of her getting through burning sands and an army? She barely escaped my palace—”

“But escape she did,” Taristan bit back. The red sheen was in his eyes again, a glimmer like the edge of a coin. “There’s more at play with her, and the others traipsing after her.” His face darkened, his black brows swooping together. “Set the guard, Your Majesty.”