Dom turned back to their corner, satisfied with himself. “We should do the same,” he said to the others, now sprawled around their pitted table. “Rest is what we all need right now.”

Four cups were slapped down on the table, sloshing with ale and foam. Dom sighed, watching the mortals eagerly reach for their drinks. Charlon grabbed the first, downing it in one gulp. Corayne was quick to follow.

She glanced up at Dom over the rim of her cup. “It’s not just sleep he’s after,” she said. “I don’t think taverns agree with him.”

“A squire who doesn’t like taverns or barmaids or drinking on another man’s coin,” Charlon laughed, gesturing for another beer. “Rare as a unicorn, that boy. Not that I’m exactly clear on what that boy is bringing to the table, if I’m being honest.”

“Andry Trelland is the reason we have the Spindleblade and even a chance of saving the realm,” Corayne answered coldly, her Cor eyes inscrutable.

Charlon raised a hand in placation. “All right, all right. Ca galle’ans allouve?” he muttered, raising an eyebrow at Sarn.

Dom failed to hide a smirk. He did not speak Madrentine, but by now he knew that Corayne most likely did. With the same twist of her lips, Sarn met his eye, sharing his sentiments for once.

Corayne’s face flushed, her grip closing on her drink. “I can think of nothing more ridiculous than being lovestruck in times such as these,” she said tightly. “And if you’d like to talk about me, I suggest you do it in Jydi. I can follow in almost everything else.”

Valtik cackled merrily into her cup.

And Charlon laughed too, his face flushing with surprise. He laid a hand on his chest, blue fingers bare. “Well, m’apolouge.” He sounded truly sorry.

Unless he can lie to faces as well as he lies on parchment.

“So, why Ibal?” Sarn said, her voice sharp, turning them back to the great task at hand. As if it could really be far from anyone’s mind. She took her first gulp of ale and pulled a face, setting the cup aside with an Ibalet curse.

In the yard of the Priest’s Hand, she’d looked just as disgusted by the prospect of returning home. For what reason, Dom could not say. But I would do well to find out, before we set foot in the sands, and she brings whatever she fears crashing down on us.

“I heard enough in Adira.” Corayne darkened like a storm cloud, her voice low as conversation turned to the Spindle. “A pirate galley nearly sank in the Long Sea, on the Sarim current along the Ibalet coast.”

Charlon frowned. “Is that odd?”

“Something with tentacles tried to tear the ship apart. Yes, I’d say that’s odd,” Corayne said. Across the table, Charlon lost his jovial manner, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. “It had sailors from the Golden Fleet in its belly.”

“Worn to bones, worn to blood,” Valtik crooned, upending her empty cup. She motioned for another with wrinkled fingers. “A Spindle torn for flame, a Spindle torn for flood.”

Sarn gritted her teeth, frustration written all over her tensing body. I don’t blame her.

“Some months ago,” Corayne pushed on, ignoring the witch, “I heard word the Ibalet court had moved from their palace in Qaliram. Heading to the mountains. I thought it was nothing—strange, but nothing.”

“I heard the same.” Sarn nodded. “You think they knew something was wrong, knew long before any of us?”

“Ibal did not become the wealthiest country upon the Ward by being foolish,” Corayne said, nodding. “Taristan could’ve torn the desert Spindle before the Companions ever went to the temple. Or he did it soon after, racing south when Dom and Andry escaped. That Spindle has been open for gods know how long, spewing its bile into the Long Sea. Somewhere on the coast, or a river.” Corayne clenched her jaw, her eyes sliding out of focus as her mind left the tavern. It was obvious where it went, flying over waves and water. “I didn’t know there were sea monsters in the Ashlands.”

“There aren’t,” Charlon said, ruddy in the candlelight. “That is a burned realm. If what you heard is true, if creatures of the deep are coming through a Spindle and into the Long Sea . . .” He trailed off, eyes flashing. “You’re talking about Meer.”

A chill went down Dom’s spine, and he pushed off the wall, shifting closer to the table. “The realm of oceans,” he said, saying what they all knew. His brow furrowed. “But why would Taristan choose a doorway to a realm he doesn’t control? Beyond the influence of What Waits?”

“If he’s only tearing what he can find, then there’s not much choice to it,” Charlon answered, shrugging. “According to scripture, the goddess Meira came to us from Meer, bringing with her the waters of the realm and every creature below the waves. The truth of that remains to be seen, but the realm itself—clearly it’s real. And it’s here.”

Dom felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. He wished he’d paid more attention in his lessons half a lifetime ago, when Cieran had lectured the young immortals on the gods and Glorian, on the lost crossings to their realm and so many others. His mind had been in the glens, in the training yard, in the rivers. Not the classroom.

He shook his head. “Then Taristan does not care what he’s tearing, so long as it is torn.”

“Or he knows exactly what he’s doing,” Corayne broke in. “And he means to fill the Long Sea with monsters, cutting off half the realm from the rest.” Her fist clenched. “Ibal, Kasa, Sardos, Niron, their armies, their fleets. Any help they might offer,” she hissed, her exhaustion giving over to anger. “It’s a good strategy.”

“And weakens the Ward, no matter which realm he tears to,” Charlon said, heaving a breath. It was like throwing a heavy shadow over their number, darker even than the shadows before. “Every Spindle forced open is a balance unmade. An abomination to the gods.” His eyes tight, Charlon kissed his palms and raised them quickly, hands open to the sky. A holy gesture.

“You were a priest once,” Corayne murmured, eyeing his hands.

Charlon winked. “For a little while. But that vow of celibacy,” he said, grinning, “wasn’t for me.”

As the others laughed, Dom heard the creak of wood beneath heavy feet, felt the shift of air from a moving body. He turned to see a broad woman, nearly his height, striding across the common room.

She carried herself well, in boiled-leather armor and greaves, her boots knee-deep in mud, an ax slung across her back as easily as a cloak. The woman was of the Temurijon steppes, judging by the armor and her high-boned face, her skin a deep bronze like polished coin. Her hair was raven, cut short but still thick, falling over one brow. Her eyes narrowed, keen as a bird of prey, fixing on a single figure. She had the look of his fallen Companion, Surim of Tarima enclave, who rode half the realm just to die.

The room cleared a path for her, travelers pushing out of her way before she could remove them. Her face was known and respected here, if not feared. Dom stood to bar her way, but she stopped short, bearing a smile like a knife.

“A pity you went from illuminating manuscripts to forging them, Charlie,” she sneered, bracing a hand on her hip. Her fingers were scarred and knobbled, broken and healed a dozen times.