It was Sorasa’s turn to harden. “That’s not something I can do anymore.”

“Fine,” Charlon said, his eyes on the table. “Fine.” Then he glared at Corayne, his voice forceful again. “What do you think, Cor girl?”

Corayne blinked, taken off guard.

“About all this,” he clarified. “Your quest to save the realm, and my place in it?” He gestured to the sword on her back.

She felt it down her spine, cold steel and leather. Most of the time it was a deadweight, an anchor. Now it reassured her, and she leaned into it, hoping to bring some of its steel into her bones.

Corayne raised her head, tossing back her braid of black hair.

“I think we’re being hunted by a kingdom and a devil. The devil, there’s not much you can do about that.” So far to climb, but I cannot look up, or look back. “But the kingdom, an army . . . it will be good to have someone like you to smooth the way.”

That seemed to agree with Charlon. He leaned back, clapping his hands together. “I can get you passage papers by the end of the day. Diplomatic envoy seals. Marks of travel. No city gate will be barred, no palace closed; no patrol would dare stop you. Only the Queen herself could demand your arrest. All at a price, of course,” he added, cutting a glance at Dom.

The Elder scowled. “I’ll have sold Iona before all is said and done.”

“But what good is that to a Spindle burning in the wild? Two Spindles?” Charlon added, asking the question they all had. “What good will I be?”

Sorasa didn’t seem to share his sentiment. “We’ll certainly find out.”

“But I’m not going,” Charlon added sharply. “And you don’t even know where you’re headed!”

“Leave that to us,” Corayne heard herself say.

Leave that to me.

Already the threads were pulling together, inch by inch. She needed only weave them into something that made sense, a simple direction.

She felt Sorasa’s copper-flame eyes. The assassin did not smile, but there was victory in her all the same. She reached across the tea table, taking Charlon by the shoulder.

“Would I be here if this weren’t real?” she murmured, leaning so she was all he could see. Her voice dropped an octave, stern. “Would I risk my life for anything less than the end of the world?”

The forger’s jaw tightened. “No, you wouldn’t,” he said thickly, then fell silent. Sorasa let him think, giving him a long moment to make his decision. “What of Garion? He must be warned.”

The assassin fought the smile on her lips. “Between the two of us, I’m sure we can figure out a way to get a message through,” she offered. “He doesn’t exactly bother to cover his tracks.”

A corner of Charlon’s mouth lifted. “No, he does not.”

“I’ll help you pack up, Charlie,” she said, pulling him to his feet with a pat on the back.

In the street, the rain hissed.

“I bet you will, Sarn.”

Corayne and the others stayed in the tea shop, bent over a pot that never seemed to go empty. The Ishei keeper was a diligent man, quick with his hands. Andry happily engaged him in a whispered conversation about brewing. What sort of spices, which roots, what did the Ishei use to clear the chest or encourage sleep? Over the brim of her cup, Corayne watched him chattering animatedly.

He doesn’t belong here with us, as much as he tries to. The end of the world is no place for Andry Trelland. He doesn’t deserve it.

The squire felt her examination and glanced over his shoulder. Goose bumps rose along his forearms. They were toned and leaned, corded with muscle from years of squire work and sword training. He rubbed them smooth, fingers working.

“What is it?” he muttered, looking back to her.

Corayne tightened her grip on her cup, trying to draw the warmth into herself. It warred with the cold down her spine. She shook her head.

The tea shop was quiet and peaceful. Too much for her liking. She wanted noise, activity. She wanted to see and hear what was going on.

“The Long Sea is quiet in the summer,” she finally said, chewing over Charlon’s words back in the crypt. “Few storms at all, but shipwrecks? Running aground out at sea? Impossible. There are no reefs, no shoals. And what did Charlon say about Gallish soldiers on the move? Where are they going? Why would Erida send them beyond her own borders?”

“Well, she is hunting us,” Andry offered.

“I doubt she’s hunting in the wrong place. We aren’t exactly hard to follow, and we were obviously going in a certain direction.” We rode west. But where are the armies going? Her mind lit on fire, the blaze leaping up from always-burning embers. “She’s sent soldiers after us, but there are more elsewhere. Looking for something. Or guarding something. Perhaps both.”

Dom grasped his cup so tightly a crack broke down the clay side, like a black streak of lightning. “The second Spindle.”

“It could be.”

Corayne ran a hand through her hair, exasperated. It was like chasing the sunset. Impossible, just out of reach, even in the fastest ship or astride the swiftest horse. Something brushed the edge of her fingertips before dancing beyond her grasp again.

“Valtik?” she said, raising her voice to catch the witch, who was still examining the rainy sky. She swilled the rain in her cup. “What do the bones tell?”

The old woman responded in a loud tangle of Jydi, too fast for Corayne to decipher, or even to pick out a single word. It sounded like a melody, the rhythm soothing. And useless.

With a huff, Corayne began to stand. “Valtik—”

But another spill of Jydi cut her off. Spoken not in the old woman’s voice, but in a booming one. Deep, masculine, joyful. Familiar.

Corayne fell back into her seat with a painful thunk, the backs of her thighs digging into the hard bench. She dropped her face, dropped her eyes, dropped her hood, trying to curl into herself as quickly as she could. Suddenly the quiet shop was too loud, the walls closing in. She wanted to disappear; she wanted to stand up and draw as much attention as she could. Her body felt torn in two.

Warm hands took her shoulder, Andry’s fingers closing over the corner of her cloak. “Corayne, what’s wrong?”

Dom spread his arms wide, bracing himself against the table. He looked to the doorway, hawk-eyed, ready for anything. An assassin, an army, even Taristan himself.