Corayne
The coast was only a night’s ride from the Heir’s encampment. The journey reminded Corayne of a royal procession, with lin-Lira and the Falcons riding in broader formation, allowing the Companions more room to move. Isadere and Sibrez rode with them, their own guardians tailing along, the flags of Ibal held high. The royal blue silks were dark beneath the night sky, but the dragons flashed in the moonlight, gold turned to silver.
Corayne kept her eyes on the horizon, squinting into the night, waiting for the first glimpse of sunrise—and the Long Sea.
Hour by hour, the world faded from inky black to shades of blue. A sapphire line gleamed in the distance, reflecting the moon. Corayne knew it was the coast, and the waters beyond. She sucked in a fortifying breath, the air tinged with the smell of saltwater. It hit her like a blow, and she thought of home. The Empress Coast, the docks in Lemarta, the Cor road along the cliffs, where the waves kicked up sea spray every morning. The old white cottage on the cliffside had never seemed as far away as it did to her now.
By the time sunrise came, the sky streaking pink and gold, they were close enough to the water for Corayne to feel the cool breeze on her face. When the horses met the beach, the sand fine as powder beneath their hooves, Corayne nudged hers into the shallow, lapping waves. The others gathered behind her, out of the water.
Corayne dismounted with a splash and nearly wept. She wanted to go farther, until the waves were at her throat, the salt in her teeth. She wanted to feel the sting of the Long Sea, the smallest piece of home. Would it bring me there, if given the chance? she wondered, as the waters kissed her boots. But Corayne knew better. The current ahead of them did not flow the way she wished, just like the path she walked now. Neither would take her anywhere she wanted to go.
Isadere’s galley anchored offshore, a shadow against the sky. It looked nothing like the Tempestborn, her mother’s ship, but if Corayne squinted, she could pretend.
There’s no time for this, she told herself, wiping away a single tear with the heel of her hand. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. It felt silly to cry over something so familiar as the waves.
Corayne looked back over the sand dunes glowing golden. From the beach they were beautiful, shimmering in the sunrise, almost inviting. Corayne knew better. The Great Sands were as good a defense as anything in the realm, protecting the kingdom of Ibal as the fleets and armies did. The desert was no small thing to cross, and she felt as if some marvelous, dangerous creature had allowed her to pass unscathed.
After a moment she dipped her head, acknowledging the long road behind them. The oasis, the Spindle closed, the soldiers dead, and their footsteps all the way back to Almasad.
Sorasa came up alongside her, leading her oil-black mare. She glanced between Corayne and the desert, her brow furrowed in confusion.
“How did you know to do that?” she said. It sounded like a demand.
Corayne mirrored the assassin, looking back to the landscape and then to her. “Do what?”
“Show gratitude to the Sands.” Sorasa gestured, bowing her head as Corayne had. “Did your mother teach you?”
Corayne shook her head, confused.
“My mother has never been this far into Ibal,” she said. Meliz an-Amarat was never out of sight of saltwater, if she could help it. And though Meliz’s father gave her some Ibalet heritage and her Ibalet name, she had never lived in this golden kingdom.
“It just felt right, I guess,” Corayne added, shrugging. “Good manners.”
“Well, it is,” Sorasa replied, her sharp manner softening a little. She offered her curling smirk, then faced the Great Sands, her body squared to the dunes. With her free hand on her chest, she bent forward, lowering her eyes in deference to the desert.
All along the beach, the Falcons, the Dragons, and the king’s children did the same. Isadere swept lowest of all, despite their royal birth.
“The King of Ibal only bows to the desert and the sea, the two things he can never command,” Sorasa offered, following Corayne’s line of sight. “It’s the same with Isadere.”
Andry bowed with the others, matching their customs as any polite, well-trained courtier would do. But the other Companions were not so observant. Sigil and Charlie were eager to be gone, putting their backs to the dunes and never looking back. Valtik was too busy combing the edge of the waves, looking for seashells and fish bones, to honor anything beyond her own two feet. And Dom simply glowered in his usual way, staring out to sea. The northern continent was too far, even for Elder eyes.
He watched the galley and Corayne followed his gaze.
She splashed out of the shallows, falling in at his side.
“It’s a good ship,” she muttered, assessing the hull and sails. Both were immaculate, fitting of royalty. The galley wasn’t as large as the Tempestborn, but looked just as swift, built for speed. Where the Tempestborn was meant to eat ships, Isadere’s galley was meant to outrun them.
Corayne glanced around at her Companions. They formed a circle, their faces turned to her. Their attention still felt strange, unwarranted.
She eyed the galley again, if only to put their focus somewhere else. “She’ll make good time across the Long Sea.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t send us back to Adira,” Andry said, a playful grin rising to his lips.
Corayne matched his smile. The criminal outpost was a haven in her memory, their last bit of quiet before recruiting Sigil and crossing the Long Sea.
“Don’t tempt me.”
Isadere stopped beyond their knotted circle, waiting to be acknowledged. Their brother was not so tactful. Sibrez shifted from foot to foot, impossible to overlook.
“Your generosity might save the realm. Allward is forever in your debt, Your Highness,” Corayne said quickly, before Dom, Sorasa, Charlie, Valtik, or Sigil could ruin the entire endeavor. Andry and I should be the only ones allowed to speak in mixed company.
Again Isadere looked pleased, but also grave. They stepped forward, arms outstretched. Their traveling robes were the same deep blue of their silks, woven with threads of gold.
Corayne took their hands. Thankfully, Dom did not interfere, content to watch from a very close distance.
“I see so much in you, Corayne an-Amarat,” Isadere said, looking her over. Their face grew more grim, and Corayne felt her heart twist.
“I know what you see, Your Highness,” she murmured back, trying to ignore the Spindleblade across her own shoulders. “A girl, barely more than a child. Too small for the sword, too small for the task put in front of me.” Her breath caught. “And you may be right.”
Isadere’s dark eyes narrowed.
“But I’m all we have.” Corayne tried to sound strong, but her voice quavered anyway.
“And for that, I am grateful,” Isadere said, taking Corayne by surprise. “I see the gods in your eyes, and bravery in your heart. I see the Spindle in your blood, burning hotter than any flame. I only wish I could give you more.”
A flush warmed Corayne’s face. “Passage and horses is enough.”
Isadere’s grip tightened, fingers strong and fierce. “I give you promises too. The mirror showed me the white wolf. Oscovko will help, and I will make my father listen, both to your tale and to Lasreen. The goddess wills us to fight.” They looked back to the desert again, eyes filled with resolve. “I will not stand by and let Erida of Galland devour the realm. You must trust in this.”
Corayne bit her lip. “I will certainly try,” she muttered.
The lies had fallen so easily from Erida. In that small room, where she pretended to care about Allward, pretended to be their savior. Corayne had wanted to believe the Queen so badly. I was an easy target, eager to give my task to someone else, she thought. And I still am, though no one will ever be able to take it.
She tried to see past her own weariness and fear, to look into Isadere and find the same lie Erida told.
Isadere stared back, their eyes like iron.
“Thank you,” Corayne forced out, giving Isadere’s arms a squeeze before pulling back.
“And I do have something else for you. We do, I mean,” Isadere said, gesturing to their brother.
Sibrez bowed his head and unclasped his vambraces, the black leather guards around his forearms. They wrapped from the wrist to below the elbow, the leather patterned in gold with the same scaled design as his armor.
“You will be the first person beyond the Ela-Diryn to wear them,” he said, holding out the pair to Corayne. She looked them over, wide-eyed, before taking the vambraces with trembling hands. “Dirynsima. Dragonclaws.”
They were heavier than she expected, a good weight, with worn leather buckles on the underside to keep them in place around her arms. She turned them over, examining the finely made armor. With a gasp, she realized the extra weight came from a steel splint reinforcing the vambraces. Tiny but lethal triangular spikes stood out along the long outer edge, marching from wrist to elbow. Corayne tested one, and nearly drew blood.
Sibrez looked on proudly. If he missed his Dragonclaws, he did not show it.
“These vambraces can absorb the strike of a blade, if used properly,” he said, tapping a finger against the steel-enforced edge.
Sorasa appeared then, peering at the vambraces with discerning eyes. Whatever she saw in the leather guards, the Amhara certainly liked.
“She’ll learn,” she said, eyeing Sibrez.
Begrudgingly, he nodded in return.
“Thank you both,” Corayne said, her fingers tight on the gift. She wouldn’t wear them yet. Sailing with a set of spikes strapped to her body didn’t seem prudent. “I hope we meet again.”
Isadere nodded, sweeping back their arms, their trailing sleeves like the wings of a beautiful bird. “The mirror has not shown me the end of this road yet, but I hope so too.”
With another low bow, Corayne stepped back. A rowboat waited to take them to the galley, the Ibalet captain already at its prow. The others followed, breaking off to unload the saddlebags. It would take some time to ferry the horses to the galley, and Corayne knew it might be hours until they truly set sail. Still, it felt good to get on another ship, to set off in the right direction again.
The Companions made to go, but Isadere reached out, stopping Charlie with a hand, bidding him wait a moment.
Charlie met Isadere’s eye in silence. He could not have been further in appearance from the Heir: a short, heavyset young man with inky fingers and pale skin streaked by sunburns. But something seemed to unite them too. A reverence Corayne could not understand.
“We may not see eye to eye, but the goddess sees us both,” Isadere said, taking on the grave air of a prophet again. “She is with you, whether you feel it or not.”
Corayne braced for Charlie’s reply. To her surprise, he touched his brow and kissed his ink-stained fingers. A salute to the gods. Isadere matched it.
“On that we can agree,” Charlie said before tromping off to the boat. His saddlebags dangled from one shoulder, his many parchments, wax seals, and bottles of ink poking out.
What they would need on the road ahead, Corayne did not know yet. But she was eager to find out.
Once the horses were on board and settled below, thanks in large part to Sigil’s gentle coaxing, the galley left the coast behind, heading north. The oar deck held twenty-five rows split down the middle, with two rowers on each side, and they made good time into the Long Sea. Corayne stood at the rail, breathing deep of the sea air again. It fortified her somehow.
Sailor-soldiers crewed the Heir’s galley. Many were trained archers, taking turns defending the raised forecastle at the rear of the deck. They waited for the monsters of Meer, for krakens and sea serpents, but the Long Sea stretched blue and empty in every direction. No enemies, at least not any Corayne could see.
But she certainly still felt them. Erida and her army marching through Madrence, gaining mile after mile. Her uncle Taristan growing stronger by the second, hunting for Spindles to tear apart. How long until he tears too many?
Every passing moment could be the last, Corayne knew, though she tried not to dwell on it. Such a burden was too much for her to bear on top of everything else. She flagged against the ship railing, content to stay still, glad for the moment of quiet. Behind her, stacked crates hid her from most of the deck, and most of its occupants.
But for one.
“How long until we make port again?”
Corayne smiled as Andry rounded the crates. He leaned up alongside her, his elbows on the rail, his long brown fingers knitted together. The sea breeze played in his hair, rustling the heavy coils.
“Your hair’s getting longer,” Corayne said, remembering what he looked like when she first saw him. A young man at the door to his mother’s apartments, his eyes kind and welcoming, ready to help the unknown girl before him. But there had been a darkness to him even then, the memory of a massacre tearing at his insides. It clung to him now. She hoped it would not last.
The squire ran a hand over his scalp with a sheepish smile. A few tight curls spiraled against his fingers, growing more defined by the day. “I’ve been a bit busy for haircuts.”
“Shocking,” she answered with a dry laugh.
His eyes flickered over the waves, searching the depths. She saw unease in him.
“I’m beginning to suspect you don’t like sailing,” Corayne said, shifting to face him. Her hip bumped the rail.
“Not when there could be krakens and serpents under every wave.”
“Well, there’s one less than when we crossed. That’s something.”
“That’s something,” he echoed, his eyes distant. “I’m beginning to suspect you’re hiding.”
Corayne glanced at the stacked crates around them and shrugged.
“If Sigil and Sorasa see me idle, they’ll make me train,” she muttered. A wave of exhaustion broke over her at even the thought of more fighting lessons. “I just wanted a moment to myself. Give the bruises a little more time to heal.”
Andry nodded, his grin still fixed, but it no longer reached his eyes. “Of course, I’ll take my leave.”
“No, don’t you run off.” She caught his arm before he was out of reach, pulling him back to the rail. His smile widened, and so did Corayne’s. “You’re too polite for your own good, Andry Trelland,” she said, nudging him with her shoulder. “Remember, you’re running with criminals and castoffs now.”
“I’ve been aware of that for some time.”
His eyes hardened and found the sea, looking not to the waves, but to the horizon beyond it. East, Corayne knew, tracking his gaze. To his mother? To Kasa, her homeland, where she waits for a son she might never see again? She remembered Valeri Trelland, ill but resolute, a pillar of strength in her wheeled chair. Or does he look to Ascal, where he left his honor in the shattered hall of Erida’s palace?
“You should let your bruises heal too,” Corayne said in a low voice, hesitant.
He sucked in a harsh gasp. “There’s a difference between healing and forgetting, Corayne. I will never forget what I’ve done.”
The words stung. “And you think I will?”
“I think you’re trying to move forward in any way you can, but—”
“But?”
“Don’t lose your heart along the way.”
Corayne felt her heart now, still stubbornly beating inside her chest. She put a hand to it, feeling the pulse beneath her skin. “It’s not going anywhere. I promise.”
It wasn’t a lie. But it certainly felt like one.
“Less than a week to land,” Corayne said, looking back to the sea for an easy change of subject. “If the weather remains favorable.”
“Will it?”
She twisted her lips, thinking. “The worst of the autumn storms are to the east, where the Long Sea meets the ocean.” The sky above them was perfect, a sailor’s dream. “I think the winds will hold for us. It’ll be the first bit of luck we’ve had.”
Andry squared his shoulders to Corayne and looked her over. His expression pulled in confusion. “I think we’ve had a great deal of luck.”
She tossed back her windblown hair. “We must define the word differently.”
“No, I mean it.” Andry drew closer, his voice firmer than before. “We came to Ibal to close a Spindle. We did it. And we’re all still breathing. I certainly call that luck.”
“And what about me?” Corayne’s mouth filled with a sour taste. She knew it as regret. “Would you consider me lucky?”
His eyes flashed. “You’re alive. That’s enough.”
“Alive,” Corayne scoffed. “Born to a mother who leaves with every good tide. A father I never met, who still somehow holds sway over me, his influence in my very blood. His failure, this curse of what I am—and I don’t just mean the Spindles.” Her hands shook at her sides, and she shoved them behind her back, trying to hide her emotions as best she could. But she couldn’t hide the way her voice quivered. “Corblood makes us restless, rootless, always yearning for the horizon we can never reach. It’s why Old Cor conquered, spreading in every direction, searching for some place to call home. But they never, ever found it. And neither will I.”
Andry looked stricken, his face twisting with pity. “I certainly hope that isn’t true.”
She could only flush, embarrassed by her outburst. She put her back to Andry and the sea, one hand white-knuckled on the rail. The deck of the ship creaked beneath his boots as he took a step, closing the distance between them. She heard him draw a breath, felt the lightest brush of a hand on her shoulder.
And then Sorasa rounded the stack of crates like a leopard prowling her den. She crossed her arms, looking them over. Corayne pursed her lips, trying to will all trace of her feelings away.
Thankfully, Sorasa Sarn felt pity for no one, Corayne included.
“Hiding?” the assassin said, ignoring Corayne’s blotchy face.
“Never,” she answered, pushing off the rail.
“Good.” Sorasa spun on her heel, gesturing for her to follow. Corayne did so eagerly, happy to leave Andry and all thoughts of her wretched blood behind. “Let’s teach you how to use those Dragonclaws.”
But Corayne did glance back, finding Andry still at the rail, his warm, soft eyes following her every step.
“I’ll put on some tea,” he said, going for his pack.
And so the days went, slipping by like the waves against the ship. Corayne’s eye was true. The weather remained clear, though the air grew thick with moisture the closer they came to the shores of Ahmsare, the nearest kingdom. Clouds formed on the western horizon, toward the warmer waters of the Tiger Gulf, but no storms came close to the galley. Neither did any serpents or krakens, though the sailors and the Companions kept watch every night, lanterns blazing the length of the galley. It was the only time Corayne ever saw Dom, who spent most of his time with his head in a bucket, retching up whatever he’d managed to eat that day.
Sigil and Sorasa worked Corayne through her lessons in the morning, allowing her the afternoons to recover. Valtik would join them to watch, her rhymes dancing between Paramount, a language they all knew, and Jydi, which Corayne could barely comprehend. She even prayed over Corayne’s new vambraces, rubbing the Dragonclaws down with her old bones. As usual, the witch made little sense, but her presence was a comfort all the same. Especially after what she’d done to the kraken at the oasis, shoving it back into a Spindle with some spell. The sailors avoided the old witch as best they could, giving her a wide berth on the deck. A few made signs of the gods in her direction, sneering at her collection of bones.
Charlie passed the time in far more interesting fashion.
Still fighting the aches and pains of the morning, Corayne found him one afternoon, tucked away at the bow of the ship. He was standing, bent over a small workspace, little more than a plank set across two barrels.
Corayne chose her steps carefully, letting the crew and the slap of waves mask the sound of her boots on the deck. It was almost too easy to sneak up on Charlie and peer over his shoulder.
His fingers moved painstakingly slow as he inked a piece of parchment. Corayne eyed the page and recognized the emblem of Rhashir—a four-tusked white elephant on bright orange. It was excruciatingly precise work, and he timed his marks between dips of the sea.
“I do not enjoy being spied on, Corayne,” he drawled, making her jump.
She flushed, but he turned around with a half smile. The fugitive priest had ink on his brow and a spark in his eyes.
Corayne grinned, nodding to the parchment behind him. “Practicing?”
“Something like that,” he answered, careful to keep himself between Corayne and the tabletop.
“Can’t say I’ve ever seen a Rhashiran sigil before.” She tried to step around him, but Charlie moved with her, using his broad frame to keep her back. “Teach me?”
He chortled, shaking his head. “I’m not going to tell you my secrets. You think I want to give your pirate mother free rein throughout the Long Sea?”
Corayne all but rolled her eyes. She pursed her lips, huffing. “You assume I’ll see her again, and if I do, I’ll tell her what you teach me.” Certainly not after she left me to rot in Lemarta.
“Bitterness is unbecoming, Corayne,” Charlie replied. “I should know,” he added with a wink.
“Well, Sorasa did turn you into live bait. It’s warranted.”
“On the long list of things I have to fret over, Sorasa Sarn dangling me in front of my own personal bounty hunter is not one of them,” he sighed, turning back around.
It was a tactic Corayne knew too well. Charlie was trying to hide the sadness welling in his eyes. Her natural curiosity flared, but her sense of propriety won out, and she let it be. She was no fool either. Charlie wore the look of heartbreak. Though Corayne had never felt it herself, she saw it in the sailors of Lemarta, and in their families left onshore. Charlie was the same, going distant in the quiet moments, his mind and his heart elsewhere.
Slowly, he slid the parchment away, leaving the work unfinished.
“Teach me how to cut a seal, then,” Corayne begged, weaving her fingers together in a mocking prayer. She didn’t bother batting her eyelashes, knowing full well Charlie had no interest in her—or any other woman, for that matter. “Just one.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. He was a man defeated, a castle overthrown. “Just one.”
She jumped with glee. “My choice?”
“You are a Spindlerotten little imp,” he snapped, poking her with the quill. Then he reached for his pack. “Yes, your choice.”
Delighted, her mind whirred with possibility. A Tyri seal would be most useful, but Ibalet is more valuable—
“Sail!” a voice shouted from above.
Charlie shaded his eyes, turning his face up to the mainmast, where the lookout kept watch. Corayne didn’t bother, more focused on the forger’s wares. It was not uncommon to spot other ships in the Long Sea. The Strait of the Ward was positively crawling with them. Her mother liked to joke they couldn’t raise an oar without striking another ship. And they were in Sarian’s Bay now, only a few days from the coast. Other ships would be common, heading for the port as they were.
The Ibalet sailors scuffled up and down the deck in a flurry of activity. There wasn’t much cargo to secure—Isadere’s galley was no trade ship—but they checked it over anyway, tightening ropes and rigging. They muttered to each other in hurried Ibalet, too fast for Corayne to catch.
But not for Sorasa Sarn.
“They don’t like the look of it,” she said, sidling up to Charlie’s workbench. She listened to the sailors and watched the horizon with a cruel, keen eye.
Corayne barely glanced at her. She weighed a set of seal dies in her hands, both wooden cylinders with silver ends. They were heavy, so well made she suspected they’d been stolen from a treasury. One held the emblem of Tyriot, the mermaid brandishing a sword, and the other was the Ibalet dragon. Her mouth watered at the prospect of either.
But Charlie plucked the seals from her grasp, stuffing them back into his pack. “Let’s put those away until we know we aren’t being boarded by pirates,” he said, offering a tight smile.
“Sarian’s Bay isn’t a hunting ground,” Corayne scoffed back. She knew better than anyone aboard where the pirates of the Long Sea stalked their prey. “No pirate with sense hunts in these waters. It’s just a passing trader.”
At the rail, Andry pointed to the horizon. A dark smudge bobbed in the wind, almost too small to make out.
“Purple sails. Siscaria,” he said, squinting into the distance. “They’re a long way from home.”
The waves rolled beneath the deck and Corayne’s stomach rolled with them. She raised her eyes to the horizon. Her heart leapt and sank in equal measure, as if torn in two.
“Where’s Dom?” she hissed, crossing to the rail.
“Sharing his lunch with the sharks,” Sorasa sneered, jabbing a thumb in his direction. The Elder hulked at the bow, head over the side. “I’ll get him.”
He’ll know. He’ll see what the ship is—and isn’t, Corayne thought, her lip caught in her teeth. She braced her ribs against the rail, leaning forward as if a few more inches might reveal the shape on the waves. Andry stood at her side, torn between watching the ship and watching her.
“Do you think—” he muttered, but Dom shouldered between them, his pale face whiter than usual. He swayed a little, unsteady, and Sorasa rolled her eyes behind his back.
The Elder gripped the rail, using it to straighten himself. “What are we looking at?”
Corayne only pointed, her finger finding the distant ship. “Describe it to me.”
He blew out a shaky breath and fixed his stare far out to sea, his emerald gaze sharper than anyone else’s.
“I see a galley,” he said, and Corayne clenched a fist. “Purple sails. Two masts, a lower deck. Many more oars than we have.”
Even though the ship was still too far off to see properly, the ship took form in Corayne’s mind, drawn together from too many memories to count.
“How many oars?” she ground out. Her throat tightened, threatening to close.
“Forty rows,” Dom answered.
“What flag are they flying?” Her eyes fluttered shut. She tried to picture the Siscarian flag, a flaming golden torch on purple. But it would not hold in her mind’s eye.
The Elder shifted next to her. “I see no flag.”
Her eyes snapped open and Corayne pushed off the rail.
Noise roared in her ears, a buzzing to drown out her Companions even as they shouted after her. She felt Andry match her steps, with Dom behind him, both trailing her. But she didn’t turn, her boots hammering against the deck as she wove through the errant sailors, fighting her way to the forecastle at the rear of the galley. Oars slapped on either side of the ship, every splash a taunt.
The Ibalet captain saw her coming and abandoned his post, leaving his second on the raised forecastle. He met her at the bottom of the steps, dark brows furrowed.
“Put every man you have to the oars,” she barked. “Let’s see how fast this ship is.”
He blinked back at her, perplexed. Two days ago this man sailed for the Heir of Ibal, and now he sails for our ragged band of nobodies. Thankfully, he bowed his head.
“We can handle pirates,” he said, nodding back to his second. Orders carried down the deck, commanding every sailor to prepare for battle. Below deck, a drumbeat went up, setting a faster, more brutal pace for the oarsmen.
Corayne nearly bit her tongue. Not this pirate, she wanted to say.
A warm hand took her arm. Andry Trelland glanced down at her, his soft brown eyes looking over her face, noting every twitch and tightness. Corayne tried to mask her fear and frustration, and even her excitement. But there was nowhere to hide, on deck or in the waves.
“Corayne?” he said, his voice still distant, almost inaudible.
She clenched her teeth, bone grating bone.
“It’s my mother.”
Immediately, she wished she could call the words back and somehow make them untrue.
Instead Corayne looked back to the horizon, and the ship growing closer.
The Tempestborn.
“I’ve never seen her this way,” she murmured, half to herself. But Andry listened. “On the open sea, in the wind. A wolf on the hunt instead of returning to her den.”
The galley was a marvel, cutting through the water with ease. She seemed to be gaining speed, despite the many oars working beneath their own deck. The Tempestborn would be on them soon, and no power upon the Ward could stop her.
“She’s beautiful,” Corayne whispered, meaning both the ship and the woman she couldn’t see, the captain upon her ferocious, hungry throne.
Sigil swaggered past, joining the flow of sailors down to the oar deck. She rolled up her sleeves, probably eager to show them all up.
“I don’t know what the problem is,” she called out. “Certainly your own mother can’t be worse than krakens and sea serpents.”
The sails above filled with wind, as if the Ward itself were pushing them onward. Corayne willed it to push harder, but deep down she knew better. She looked to the Tempestborn once more, now even closer. This race was lost before it even began.
She scowled.
“Clearly, you’ve never met her.”
The minutes stretched, each one more painful than the last. Corayne almost wondered if the Tempestborn was holding back, inching along at the perfect pace, closing the distance so slowly it might drive them all mad. She stood at the bow of the Ibalet galley, beneath the Heir’s blue-and-gold flag. It flapped over her, its shadow wagging back and forth, dragging Corayne between sunlight and shade. The Spindleblade dug into her back, bared to the world.
Her gaze never wavered, fixed on the galley a hundred yards off. Glorious as the ship was, she saw signs of its battle with a kraken. One of the masts was new, and there were long sections of replaced railing. The prow ram was gone entirely, probably snapped off by a curling tentacle. But Corayne still knew the hull, the ropes, the wine-dark sails. She knew exactly how many rowers sweated below deck, how large the boarding party was, and how fearsome the crew.
She could almost see them, the familiar faces crowding the Tempestborn, the most familiar of all at the helm.
“Hell Mel,” she heard one of the Ibalet sailors cry, his voice stricken. The rest of the crew mirrored his dismay, the message carrying down the ship.
Her mother’s reputation was known throughout the Long Sea to sailors of many kingdoms. The Ibalets were no exception.
When the captain joined her in the forecastle, a sword belted to his hip, she knew the time had come. There would be no outrunning the Tempestborn.
Corayne wanted to scream. Even after the Spindle in Nezri, the blood she’d spilled, Taristan’s torn face, Erida’s betrayal—no matter how far she’d come, she was no match for her own mother. You don’t have the spine for it, Meliz had told her once. It felt like another life, and yet here it was again, catching up with every passing second. Corayne heard her voice now, the words surrounding her like the bars of a cage.
“You won’t need that,” Corayne said to the captain.
The captain blanched, putting a hand to his blade. “I don’t intend to surrender my ship.”
“She doesn’t want your ship; she wants me.”
Corayne pushed past him, numbness stealing over her. She took measured steps back down to the deck, her fingers shaking on the rail.
“Take up no arms and no harm will come to your crew,” she called over her shoulder, loud enough for the captain and his sailors to hear.
“Do as she says,” Sorasa snarled, the Amhara assassin shouting down any opposition before the sailors could think to voice it. “Even Hell Mel would not attack her own child.”
Dom fell in next to Sorasa and Corayne. He had his sword too. Despite his nausea, he was still an imposing sight. “But she will try to take her.”
“Not if we have anything to say about it,” Sorasa spat back, her copper eyes flashing. She tightened the belts around her body, checking her daggers. There wouldn’t be any need for blades, but Corayne suspected they were a comfort all the same.
Even Valtik seemed on edge, slumped against the mast, her bare feet splayed out in front of her.
“You should get below deck,” Corayne muttered, looking down at the witch. She tried not to flinch as Dom and Sorasa took up her flanks, and Sigil the rear.
Valtik leered up, smiling her manic grin. “The bones will not speak,” she chuckled. One gnarled finger pointed, not to the Tempestborn, but across the deck at the empty north sky. “The way beyond is bleak.”
“Enough, Witch,” Sorasa grumbled.
“Enough, Forsaken,” Valtik shot back, her lurid blue eyes like two blades. Sorasa flinched, feeling their bite, and dropped her gaze, a child scolded. Satisfied, the witch looked back to Corayne. “You are not mistaken.”
“About what, Gaeda?” she said. Her eyes darted between Valtik and the Tempestborn gliding closer and closer. The oars pulled in. Neither galley needed them anymore. Slowly, the Tempestborn’s shadow fell across the Ibalet ship, its sail blocking out the sun.
“You walk a different line.” Still grinning, Valtik slashed her bony finger through the air. “You hold a different spine.”
No spine. A cold jolt shot through Corayne. She started forward, meaning to kneel. How could she know?
“Valtik—”
“Prepare to be boarded!” someone shouted, his voice carrying the short distance between the two ships.
It was Kireem, the navigator of the Tempestborn. He stood at the galley’s rail, one boot planted, a rope in hand. He looked better than he had in Adira, when Corayne saw him last, battered and bewildered by the kraken that had nearly destroyed the ship. His single good eye found Corayne among the crew, and his black brow furrowed.
The Ibalet captain stepped forward. Though clearly outnumbered, he showed no fear. “This is the royal galley of Their Serene Highness, the Heir of Ibal. You have no right nor cause to waylay us in our voyage.”
“I have both right and cause, Captain.”
Meliz an-Amarat’s voice carried all the storms her ship was named for. She climbed up the rail alongside Kireem, using the ropes for balance. Her salt-worn coat was gone, leaving only breeches, boots, and a light shirt. Nothing marked her as the captain of the Tempestborn, but no man alive could have mistaken her for anything less. The sun blazed at her back and she cut a terrible silhouette, her black hair wild around her face, the edges going red. She leaned into the space between the two galleys, her teeth bared. She seemed more tiger than woman.
Corayne couldn’t help but tremble under her gaze.
“Give me my daughter, and you’ll never see the Tempestborn again,” she said. It was not a question, but a command. Meliz didn’t draw her sword, but her crew behind her was armed to the teeth, axes and swords and daggers loose.
No one moved.
Meliz’s fingers curled around the ropes, her grip tightening in frustration. They were red with welts, her knuckles bruised and cut. There was a healing bruise on her exposed collarbone too, purple and yellow. Corayne knew the marks of a kraken’s tentacles all too well.
Pursing her lips, Meliz stared at Corayne. She radiated rage.
“Corayne an-Amarat, do as I say.”
Corayne’s fear dissipated in the steady breeze. You might be a pirate captain in all your glory, but you are my mother first.
“I will not,” Corayne shot back, raising her chin. She inhaled a steadying breath, gathering herself. I have faced worse than you, she told herself.
Meliz drew her sword with ease, never losing her balance on the rail. The blade danced a looping arc. “Get off this ship, or every person upon it dies.”
For once, Corayne conquered the urge to roll her eyes.
“Not even you would stoop so low, Mother.”
The ropes snapped and a dozen pirates of the Tempestborn swung between the ships, landing hard on the deck. Corayne knew them all, her mother’s most fearsome sailors. And Meliz was worst of all, burning brighter than any flame. She stalked across the deck, her sword raised in warning. The Ibalet sailors gave her and the others a wide berth.
Meliz sneered at them, snapping her teeth. Hell Mel reared her terrible head, threatening them all.
“For your life, I certainly would,” the pirate captain snarled, rounding on her daughter.
Corayne held firm, bracing herself. Meliz stopped only at the last moment, her face but inches away. She glared, the anger rolling off her.
It took everything to keep still. But Corayne held her ground, even if she felt like a little girl again, one who made a stupid mistake and needed to face the consequences.
The Companions did not move, unyielding. They had seen far worse too.
Meliz eyed them all, her gaze flickering from one Companion to the next. She barely looked at Andry or Charlie, and Valtik was gone again. But Sorasa and Dom, they gave her pause. Corayne tried not to gloat. She knew her mother well enough to see the hesitation cross her face.
“An Elder and an Amhara?” Meliz muttered, looking between them. “You’ve made strange friends in my absence.” Then the Spindleblade caught her eye, as Corayne had meant it to. She stared, wide-eyed, her fascination eclipsing her anger for a moment. “And this?”
“The sword of my father,” Corayne said. “Cortael of Old Cor.”
Meliz raised her eyebrows. She hmmed low in her throat. “I suppose he’s dead, then.”
Dom glowered at Corayne’s shoulder. “Speak of him with respect or not at all.”
“I think he spoke of you once,” Meliz said neatly with a cold smile. She looked Dom over again, reading his figure as she would a tide. “I’m afraid I can’t remember the name—it was something long and ridiculous. But he said you were somewhere between brother and nursemaid.” A sneer Corayne knew all too well crossed her face. “Were you his undertaker too?”
Wincing, Corayne whirled to Dom, but Sorasa Sarn was already there. She stepped between them, planting her body in Dom’s path. He growled over her head, near to an animal, his eyes alight with vengeful green fire. Sorasa was hardly enough to stop him, should he wish to defend Cortael’s honor, but she was enough to give him pause. He growled again and fell silent.
“I didn’t realize Elders were so feral,” Meliz scoffed. “Come, Corayne. It’s a miracle you’ve survived so long with these people.”
“Indeed,” Corayne answered, steely. She crossed her arms and set her feet. You will have to drag me off this ship, Mother. “I survived skeleton shades, the Queen of Galland, sea serpents, a kraken, a Gallish legion, and a Spindle torn. Because of them. Not you.”
Her mother’s eyes went round with shock, then fear. She wasn’t the only one. It rippled through the crew like a wave. They knew the monsters of Meer too. And some, Corayne realized, would never know anything else. She looked through them again. Familiar faces were missing. Dead, she realized. It felt like a kick in the gut. Lost to the Spindle and the Long Sea.
Meliz stumbled for the first time Corayne could remember, her mouth working to form the right words.
“You met the kraken too?” she said, the air of command dropping away. There was only fear in her now. “My dearest love—” she whispered, her voice breaking.
Corayne’s muscles were stronger, her body leaner, her fingers and feet surer after weeks of training. Even so, she felt like a child when she took her mother’s arm, pulling her close.
Meliz let her without question and Corayne maneuvered them both into the forecastle. The door shut behind them, closing them off in the tiny, low-ceilinged room. It felt so much like their cottage, Corayne nearly wept.
But Meliz beat her to it. Tears sprang to her eyes, and her battered hands shook as she wrapped Corayne in her arms. With a gasp, Corayne realized that her mother’s knees had given out. Her own eyes stung and she did her best to hold them both up. Corayne an-Amarat refused to fall, even here, with no one but her own mother to see. She looked at the ceiling, little more than stained canvas bowing in the wind. The tears almost won, but she blinked them away, heaving a deep, bracing breath.
She counted out ten long seconds. Ten only. Within them, she was Meliz’s daughter, a young girl safe in her mother’s arms. Nothing could harm her here, and Corayne let herself forget. No monsters. No Spindle. No Erida and Taristan. There was nothing but her mother’s warm, familiar embrace. She held on too tightly, but Meliz did the same, clutching her only child like a rock in a stormy sea. Corayne wished she could stay in those seconds forever, frozen in that single moment. I was drowning, she realized, sighing out another precious second. I was drowning and she is the surface. She is air.
But I must go down again. And I don’t know if I’ll ever come back up.
“Ten,” she murmured, helping her mother into a chair at the captain’s table.
Meliz wiped a hand over her tearstained face, her bronze cheeks ruddy with emotion.
“Well, that was shameful,” she said, smoothing her hair. “I’m sorry for such a display.”
“I’m not.”
Corayne watched as Meliz changed before her very eyes, shifting from mother back to captain. She leaned forward in her chair, legs bent, her black hair falling over one shoulder. Her gaze took on that hard glint again. A challenge rose in her throat.
“There’s more than one monster upon the Ward now, Mother,” Corayne said, cutting her off. “And I’m the only one who can stop them.”
The pirate scoffed, planting her elbows on her knees. “You’re a brilliant girl, Corayne, but—”
“I am the blood of Old Cor whether I like it or not, and I carry a Spindleblade with me.”
The buckles of the sword were second nature now, and she laid it across the table with a thunk. Meliz studied it with a skillful eye, accustomed to all kinds of treasure. The Spindleblade seemed to stare back, its purple and red jewels thrumming with Spindle magic. Corayne wondered if Meliz could feel it too.
“I am marked, Mother. I’m sure you know that by now.”
“Why do you think I came after you?” Meliz snapped. “I abandoned all the riches of Rhashir to get you out of whatever mess you’ve made.”
She reached into the sleeve of her shirt, pulling out a ratty piece of rolled parchment. She threw it to the floor. It was water-damaged and salt-stained, the ink running. But nothing could disguise Corayne’s own face looking up from the wanted poster. Her bounty and her many so-called crimes were scrawled at the bottom. It looked similar to the posters in Almasad, though this one was scribbled in Larsian alongside Paramount.
“Queen Erida casts a wide net,” Corayne said, tearing the poster in half. She wished she could do it to every scrawled drawing of her face all over the realm. “The mess isn’t mine. But I have to clean it up.”
Meliz narrowed her eyes. She had a new dusting of freckles over her bronze cheeks, born of long days at sea. “Why?”
Corayne’s nails dug into her palms, nearly drawing blood. “I wish I knew,” she sighed, focusing on the sharp bite in her flesh.
The pain anchored her and made it easier to recount the long days since Lemarta, since she stood on a dock and watched the Tempestborn sail into the horizon. She spoke of Dom and Sorasa, an Elder and an Amhara assassin united in their quest to find her. She told Meliz of the massacre in the foothills, when Taristan loosed an army and Cortael fell. Corayne was not there, but she heard the story so many times it felt like half a memory. Then there was Ascal, Andry Trelland, her father’s sword. Erida’s betrayal and her new husband, Corayne’s uncle, who meant to rip the world apart. For himself. For the Queen. And for a hungry, hateful god—What Waits. When Corayne spoke of Adira, and her near brush with the Tempestborn, Meliz dropped her gaze, staring at the floor with lifeless eyes.
Corayne could not remember the last time her mother kept silent and subdued. It was not in Meliz an-Amarat to listen, but somehow she did.
“The Heir gave us their ship, and we land on the Ahmsarian coast the day after tomorrow. From there we travel north, up the mountains to Trec, and then . . . the temple,” Corayne finished, swallowing hard. She wished for something to drink but dared not move. The entire realm relied upon this moment, a pirate captain and her child in a stuffy little cabin.
Finally, Meliz stood. Her hand hovered over the Spindleblade, hesitant. She looked at the sword like it was a snake coiled to strike.
Then she raised her eyes, meeting Corayne’s black stare.
“The Tempestborn is prepared for a long voyage,” Meliz said.
Corayne’s stomach dropped. This was Hell Mel speaking, not Meliz. Her tone was firm, unyielding.
The captain tightened her jaw. “There are pieces of the Ward even the Queen of Galland cannot reach.”
Corayne wanted another ten seconds of her mother’s love and protection. She wanted to say yes and fall back into a child’s life, safe at her mother’s side, sailing to the ends of the realm. Beyond the darkness spreading over the Ward, to new kingdoms and new horizons. Such a life was Corayne’s to take. She needed only relent.
Instead she stepped back. Every inch was a knife. Every lost second a drop of blood.
“With all my heart, I wish that were true,” Corayne whispered. A single tear won its war and rolled down her cheek. “But nothing is beyond the reach of What Waits.”
Meliz mirrored her, lunging for the cabin door. She fell flush against it, barring the way out.
“Don’t make me run from you, Mama,” Corayne begged, going to the canvas wall. She grabbed the Spindleblade, drawing the first inch from its sheath. “If I don’t do this, all of us will die. Every single one. You. And me.”
Meliz’s chest rose and fell with desperate, shallow breaths. Her eyes danced over Corayne, as if she could find some loophole, some shortcut. Something snapped in Corayne’s chest. Is this what a broken heart feels like? she wondered.
“Then I’ll come with you,” Meliz offered, taking Corayne in her arms again. “I can help.”
Corayne stepped out of her grasp, keeping her mother at arm’s length. She couldn’t afford any more time lost, or any more temptation.
“The best help you can give is on the Long Sea. Not on the road ahead of us.”
The coast, the mountains, the road to Trec and a prince’s army—and the temple waiting. A terrifying path, Corayne knew. No place for a pirate.
Meliz tried to take her hands again, and again Corayne stepped away, continuing their twisted dance.
“Give me something I can do, Corayne.” Her fingers curled over themselves, her cut and bruised knuckles impossible to ignore.
Corayne knew her mother was not a person to sit idly by and watch the world crumble. She needs something she can hold on to. Something that isn’t me. She needs to feel useful.
It was an easy answer to reach for. The truth always was.
“Erida tried to fill the Long Sea with monsters.” Her chest tightened at the memory, and she remembered the scars on the Tempestborn. “Let’s give her a taste of what that really looks like.”
“What do you mean?” Meliz said, wary.
“I saw a dozen pirate ships in the Adira port,” she said, trying to sound as commanding as her mother. “There are hundreds more across the realm. Smugglers and pirates and anyone else who dares to run the Straits outside crown laws. You can rally them, Mother. They’ll listen to Hell Mel.”
Corayne told herself not to hope, but hope burned within her anyway.
Meliz set her jaw. “And if they don’t?”
“It’s something, Mother,” Corayne forced out, frustrated. Hundreds of pirates were nothing to sneer at, even for the Queen of Galland.
This time it was Meliz who took the long, endless seconds. She drew in a breath and stared over Corayne, her eyes moving so slowly they were almost still.
She’s memorizing me.
Corayne stared back and did the same.
“It’s something,” Meliz whispered, stepping aside. Her hand went to the cabin door and wrenched it open, spilling bright sunlight across the floor.
Corayne winced, shading her eyes. And hiding the last rush of stinging tears. Meliz did too, sniffing loudly.
What a sight we are.
Corayne’s feet moved too quickly, carrying her to the door too soon. She paused, half in the doorway, close enough to reach out to Meliz.
“Try the Tyri princes too,” she said quickly, another idea taking shape. “They’ll have run afoul of sea monsters by now. Between the Spindle creatures and the Gallish invasion of Madrence, they won’t look kindly on Erida or Taristan.”
Smirking, Meliz tossed her hair back. “The Tyri princes will put my head on the prow of a ship before they let me even open my mouth,” she said with obvious pride.
Corayne laughed darkly. “The end of the world makes allies of us all,” she sighed, stepping out onto the deck.
Meliz followed her out into the sun. The Tempestborn crew lazed about the deck like sleepy cats. Sleepy cats with a ludicrous amount of weaponry. The Ibalet crew and the Companions remained on guard, all but for Charlie, who had returned to his papers. Corayne supposed he had less cause to fear pirates than anyone else aboard. After all, they were criminals too.
Then he bustled into the fray, a stack of parchment in hand, and seals too. They rattled against each other, the cylinders rolling.
“Here,” he said, holding out both hands.
Meliz only blinked, startled. “Corayne . . . ?”
“Charlie, this is—” Corayne’s voice failed her as she eyed the papers in his hands, and the precious seals on top. Ibal. Tyriot. One of the seals winked golden, showing the engraved image of a lion. Even Galland. Marks of passage. “This is brilliant.”
But Charlie ignored her, staring at Meliz instead. “These should get you through any blockades or toll fleets. Erida’s navy will be on the prowl soon, if it isn’t already.” He held out the papers again, his round, kind face looking stern for once. “Take them.”
Both captain and crew knew the weight of such things. The seals alone were greater treasure than most of their bounties. Meliz took them with a deep bow.
“Thank you,” she said. “Truly.”
“Might as well help where I have the opportunity. Rare as it may be,” Charlie sighed, waving her off. But his cheeks turned pink with pride.
Corayne caught his gaze, her own eyes stinging again. Thank you, she echoed, mouthing the words over her mother’s shoulder.
He could only nod.
“The Ibalet fleets will join you, once things are in motion,” Corayne said, urging her mother across the deck again.
The sun glinted red in her hair, warming Meliz’s bronze skin. Her eyes were the same as always, sharp as a falcon’s, a rich chestnut that went gold in the right light, ringed by thick, dark lashes. Corayne had always envied her mother’s eyes. At least one thing hasn’t changed, she thought.
Meliz watched her, perplexed. “The King of Ibal has declared war on Galland?”
“Not yet, but he will,” Corayne said, still walking. She stopped only when she reached Dom and Sorasa, slipping between her two stalwart guardians. Andry was there too, a comfort and a crutch. “Lasreen willing.”
“When did you find religion? Oh, never mind,” Meliz replied. She could not hide her tears anymore, not in broad daylight. They gleamed for both crews to see.
Her voice softened. “Let me come with you, my love.”
I asked you that once. Corayne saw the same memory in her mother’s face. It poisoned them both, an echo that would never fade.
It would be easy to respond in kind. You stay, Meliz had said once, leaving Corayne on the dock, alone and forgotten.
But Corayne would not forget.
“How fare the winds?” she said, trembling. It was the only farewell she had the strength to give.
Meliz’s smile split her face, brilliant as the sun.
“Fine,” she answered, “for they bring me home.”