Broken Souls and Bones (Broken Souls and Bones #1)

Chapter 5

5

Lyra

Thoughts pummeled through my skull in quick succession.

Kael’s storm cloud eyes found me. He tilted his head as though breaking apart the sudden tension in my features. I needed to warn him, needed to tell him the scavenger had undoubtedly been Ashwood.

If I were punished, Kael and his temper would be pushed to the brink to keep from intervening.

The man laughed a great deal, but was protective to a fault, and boiled hot in his blood when he saw what he perceived to be injustice.

Vella, the jarl’s new seer provided to him by Stonegate, stepped forward. The woman was indifferent to folk like me and, after he was disowned, even Kael. As a visionary, she was a prize for the jarl to ask and plead what the Norns might reveal of his fate through her runes and premonitions.

I found her overwrought and pretentious.

Vella faced Ashwood and his blades. Her icy-pale braids were thick and heavy, stacked on her head like a nest. Cracked white paint decorated her slender features and added more mystery than age. Black runes descended from the peak of her hairline to the undercurve of her chin and each nostril was pierced with a gold hoop.

“We bid welcome to the honorable Stav Guard of House Oleg at Stonegate,” Vella said with an airy voice. “A feast has been ordered for your men. Let us sit together and celebrate the future union of kingdoms.”

Baldur faced the elder. A clasp of silver raven wings kept his fur cloak fastened around his shoulder, a mark of his rank. Pale scars littered the edges of his face, and one front tooth was chipped. “After you, Seer.”

Ashwood shifted on his feet, but never pulled back his hood. I remained frozen, locked in a bit of fear and curiosity.

The Sentry’s hand twitched. No—his fingers moved in a deliberate pattern. Gods, did he speak with his hands? The man was known as a silent guard. I’d always taken it to mean he merely did not chatter much with others, but…perhaps he could not speak.

Baldur nodded, watching the Sentry’s gesture, then faced Jarl Jakobson again. “Our guard will take up posts at the gates during our stay. They will be scanning for weak points or potential threats.”

Jakobson opened his arms. “We are here to serve. Do as you must.”

Ashwood pulled back his hood. Wind-tossed dark hair—braided on the sides to keep the wild strands out of his eyes—fluttered around his brow where a clear welt had reddened just above his left eye.

I dug my fingers into my palms, silently pleading he wouldn’t…

He faced me, head tilted to one side, like he could hear my damn thoughts.

The wash of gold in his eyes was shockingly vibrant. Molten pools of ore that would burn should one draw too close.

They pierced through me, holding me entranced, almost like I’d seen such eyes before and merely forgot them.

But no one would forget the face of the Sentry.

Roark Ashwood was quite possibly the most captivating man I had ever seen. Tall, not overly broad, dark brows, sun-toasted skin, and a bit of dark stubble covered the straight lines of his face. A ridged scar ran from the left hinge of his jaw, over his throat, and ended across the right edge of his collarbone.

Harsh features, yet beneath it all was an imperfect beauty.

Roark narrowed his eyes into something hateful, almost violent. He knew—he had to know—I was the woman he’d faced in the Fernwood.

I held my breath, chest burning, and waited for him to look away. He didn’t. If anything, the Sentry took a step closer, a flare to his gaze, like he might see someone else besides the woman throwing bruised plums.

The way his eyes burned in disdain was almost like he’d caught sight of something else—silver in the eyes and deadly craft in the blood.

The feast was held at twilight. Astra, the youngest child of the jarl, leaned close to Baldur, reveling in the captain’s hungry attentions.

Kael’s jaw pulsed in annoyance from where we huddled in the doorway leading to the back corridors of the longhouse. Disowned, unclaimed, and forgotten as he was, his goodness would still see Astra as a sister.

She’d been small when he’d left the family, but as little as they knew of each other, Kael cared deeply about her. And what brother would want a sister who shone like a bright sun to be seduced by a man like Baldur?

“She’s too young,” he said, voice tight.

“Agreed,” I said. “But there is nothing much we can do.”

He grunted, then took up one of the ewers of mead from my hand. “Head down out there, Ly.”

It was what he always said, a sort of promise between us. Alone, Kael told me to keep my shoulders back, to lift my chin. Around so many, especially Stav Guard, he would tell me to disappear.

If it were not my duty to serve the household, Kael would’ve insisted I remain in the back entirely.

Tonight, everyone was expected to keep the Stav comfortable with full bellies and drinking horns and portray House Jakobson as the most hospitable of hosts.

Together, we carried ewers and platters of Selena’s cakes and sugared rolls into the great hall.

I knew this day was loathsome for Kael, knew how much he detested stepping foot into the hall of his childhood as though he had not sat on his father’s left-hand side for a dozen summers.

“Avoid Ashwood,” he whispered.

“You believe me, then?”

Kael scoffed. “No. I think you are uneasy and have convinced yourself your scavenger was the Sentry, but he has a way of sensing craft in the blood. I don’t know how he does it, but keep a distance.”

“You’re saying this now?” My knuckles turned white as I gripped the handle of the wooden ewer tighter.

“I did not expect Sentry Ashwood to be here, or I would’ve made mention of it.” Kael offered a nod to one of the noblemen of Skalfirth, who returned a pitiful smile.

I closed my eyes, blowing out a long stream of air. “Fine. I’ll keep to the young Stav and survive their wandering hands.”

Kael’s eyes darkened. “I trained with the lot of them for six months, Lyra. They touch you, I’ll cut off their fingers.”

“Unless Ashwood cuts out my throat first.” I was being childish, but fear and frustration tangled like barbed vines, leaving me stepping about like a rabid hound about to bite.

Kael filled another horn, then faced me, voice low. “Why would Ashwood be rummaging through a goat cart? Better yet, why would he call you a liar, then leave you be?”

“You’re the one who knows him, so tell me.”

“He wouldn’t, that is what I’m telling you. If Roark Ashwood knew about you, trust me, he would not hesitate to haul you off.”

“I saw the mark on his face where I struck him.”

“Lyra, he would’ve acted by now and I’d be feeding you through bars near the rack.”

My mouth pinched. I used the edge of my smock to scrub spilled ale off the corner of a table. “You never mentioned he does not speak.”

“He does speak.”

“I saw him, he uses gestures.”

“Still speaking, simply in a way that is not the same as us.” Kael lowered his tone. “You must swear you’ll let this go. Don’t draw his attention, Ly. Roark…he’s fiercely protective of Prince Thane. They treat each other like brothers, not guard and royal.”

“Like us.” I forced a smile, a pitiful attempt to lighten the tone, but feared it more or less shone like a grimace.

“Exactly.” Kael frowned. “Swear to me you’ll let this die.”

My shoulders slumped, but I nodded and made my way toward the back of the great hall where the youngest, rowdiest of Stav Guard were placed.

Laughter and chatter echoed over tables alongside the beat of rawhide drums. Sweet hickory smoke floated from a wide inglenook in the corner, hiding the scent of sweat and leather from too many bodies in one space.

Painted clay bowls and plates were set along the numerous tables, and fine horns foamed with honey mead and sweet wines. Vella sat at the right hand of Jarl Jakobson near the head of the long oak table, her silver braids coiled around a headdress of bone and briars. Kohl lined her eyes and lips, but her wool robes were replaced with blue satin.

The jarl was lost in his cups earlier than was typical.

I counted over a dozen Stav seated beside other Skalfirth lawmakers. The Sentry was placed next to Baldur. Without the cloak over his shoulders, Roark’s formidable form was easy to make out.

Before the Sentry could spot me again, I twisted away toward a table stacked in roasted meats, cheeses, and herbs. Through the feast, I kept busy, serving, cleaning, avoiding bawdy offers of Stav who promised to cause me to cry out in pleasure, and for a time worries over plums and deadly scavengers were nearly forgotten.

Selena chattered on with Hilda, a young wife of the local carpenter. Hilda; her brother, Edvin; and Kael were the only known bone crafters in the small village, but the siblings earned a proper living by using bone manipulation to craft whale and boar ribs into some of the sturdiest Stav breastplates and longbows.

Kael, if he did not find a place with the Stav, had already been offered a place in their shop should he desire it.

Again, I had to wonder if Kael would ever allow himself to live a better life knowing I remained here.

Vella rose from her seat, mead lifted. “We are honored with the Stav Guard, and as tradition demands for royal vows, we send with you boons for our prince and his new household.”

Two men approached, arms heavy with furs. Vella gingerly unraveled the fur trappings on bone daggers that would break only if struck with a rare steel, swords made from the ribs of the same whale that would not draw blood should an enemy take it, silver rings, armbands, and crops from the harvest. By the end, Baldur wore an easy grin as he studied the fletching of one arrow. They were pleased, and soon the Stav Guard—and Ashwood—would be gone from our shores.

Baldur leaned into Roark for a breath, watching the Sentry’s fingers move over the tabletop. The captain faced Vella with a sneer. “We accept your offerings. I am certain our king will be most pleased. Of course, it may take more than a few bone blades to keep his wrath from you after your betrayal.”

Jarl Jakobson closed his eyes and took another long drink from his horn.

I halted the ewer, tipped halfway over a drinking horn of the pelt merchant, and felt heat prickle over my skin.

Vella’s smile faded. “Betrayal?”

Baldur rose from his chair. “I am certain you all have heard the king’s melder is dead, murdered by traitors to the crown who despise the gift of the gods.”

“Fadey’s death was troubling,” Vella said, gently. “But I serve King Damir loyally. Ask Jarl Jakobson: I have not left Skalfirth in ages, not since the Norns told our king to place me within these borders.”

“The Norns?” The captain’s teeth flashed in the candlelight. “You want to give those tricksters the credit? The king sent you here because of your blood craft.”

A few gasps filtered through the hall. Vella was a…seer. It was what we’d all been told. A blood crafter used runes and totems and spells to track weakness in blood.

Or…to find other craft in the blood for the king to recruit.

My insides overturned. No.

Baldur leaned onto his fingertips over the tabletop. “You, like all the other blood crafters the king placed in his townships, were here for one purpose—to find the lost bloodline. And you did, didn’t you?”

Vella’s painted lips tightened until the black edges cracked. “I do not understand what you mean, Captain Baldur.”

The Fox drummed his fingers against the knotted wood, then slammed the silver wolf ring on his center knuckle over the boards. “You are nothing but a traitorous bitch. You found the craft in her blood, but instead of turning to your king, you turned to our enemies!”

More gasps. By now, Kael’s pale eyes locked with mine across the hall. He jerked his head, a silent signal for me to duck into the back rooms.

I took another step, but my heart bottomed out. Every damn doorway was all at once filled with a Stav Guard, blades out.

My fingers trembled, and a storm, sharp and dangerous, filled Kael’s eyes. He knew as well as I—we were trapped.

Baldur rounded the corner of the table, stalking Vella like the sly creature of his name. “But it goes deeper, doesn’t it, woman? You were the one who sent word to Fadey that melder blood was sensed at the Red Ravines. Your word lured him out of the gates, and nearly over Draven borders. Tell me, did you stand by as the Dark Watch tore him apart?”

The inked runes on Vella’s fingers distorted when she flexed and clenched her fists, once, twice. “Captain, I do not know—”

“Clever of you to wait some time before turning over the next melder to Dravenmoor,” Baldur interjected, taking a step closer to the woman. “It would’ve been foolish to act too swiftly, but you’ve known for some time, haven’t you? That the melder was in your gates.”

Mead in the ewer sloshed when my grip trembled. No one, not even Vella, knew of me.

I was…I was certain of it.

Blood drained from my face when Ashwood, in all his dark silence, lifted his gaze to me. My pulse pounded in my skull, loud enough I was certain he could hear it.

“Your own jarl sold you out when he found one of your correspondences.” Baldur canted his head, sneering down at Vella. “Anything to say?”

The woman didn’t look away. “I did nothing but protect our people from tyrants. You misuse the craft of the gods, and the melder was your way to do it. I will not let it happen again.”

“We’ll see.” Baldur snapped his fingers.

From the shadowed corners, Stav Guard shot into the hall.

Hilda screamed when a guard tore her away from Gisli, her new husband. A blade leveled at the man’s throat when he tried to reach his wife. Edvin was tossed into the center of the hall next, his three young ones clinging to his wife’s skirt, sobbing as they watched their father forced onto his knees.

The moment Kael was approached, it was clear the Stav Guard was claiming the bone crafters. In another breath, I was yanked away from the table, forcefully enough the ewer clattered on the floorboards, spilling mead across the boots of startled folk.

With the other crafters, I was shoved onto my knees. Kael’s shoulder knocked against mine. When I met his gaze, his eyes were black with fear. He shook his head in a gentle warning to keep quiet, keep my head down.

“The gifted of this rotted little town.” Baldur chuckled and slowly clapped his hands, mocking the lot of us.

“We only have three crafters,” Lady Jakobson said from her place beside her husband.

“Or so you thought.”

A feverish heat rippled up my neck when the captain’s scuffed leather boots paused in front of me. Baldur said nothing, merely stood there for five, ten, a dozen heartbeats. I refused to look, refused to show my eyes lest terror reveal the truth beneath the dye.

“I offered you the traitor and melder if it is true,” Jarl Jakobson shouted. “In return you were to leave our other crafters in peace.”

I almost thought the jarl sounded uneasy, perhaps worried for his son placed at my side.

Baldur ignored the jarl and reached inside a pocket on his jerkin, removing a handful of shavings like crimson bark. He glanced briefly at Sentry Ashwood, then turned toward Vella.

“The king corrupts and destroys with his melder,” Vella gritted out, now held between two Stav Guard. “It would be better for the craft to fall into extinction than be given to Stonegate.”

“Yet you saw no trouble handing the craft to our enemies.” Baldur’s lip curled.

“At least the Draven folk understand where such a curse belongs.” She whirled her head with enough force her pale braids whipped her chin, and narrowed her gaze on me. “In the darkest pits of the frosted hell to rot.”

My lips parted. The woman knew and despised my very existence. Her indifference and coldness had not been from my station, it was all from the curse in my blood.

Tears and pleas for mercy rose from the people scattered throughout the hall. Run, elskan! Run! A faint memory of different pleas scraped against my thoughts. Like I’d been in a moment such as this before.

My pulse quickened with the urge to flee, to battle my way from these walls until I was free or dead.

Dark, scuffed boots shifted into my sights. Roark, silent and fierce, drew closer. His very presence radiated like a threat, one absorbed until it infected every heartbeat, every sharp draw of air.

Roark stood near me, but never looked away from Vella. The Sentry simply rested a hand on the hilt of a short blade with a crescent pommel. A symbol of inner court ranks. The sort of symbol that meant this man was present in the most important circles in Stonegate.

My skin felt too hot, too tight. Every pulse of my heart seemed to pump molten ore in my veins.

“What a waste,” Baldur murmured. In the next breath, the captain shoved the red flakes into Vella’s mouth.

One, maybe two heartbeats, and her breaths turned to ragged pants.

A scream rattled the hall when Vella dropped. Blood bubbled over her lips in foamy pink. She shuddered and convulsed, desperately reaching for the captain’s leg.

The Sentry glanced over his shoulder, scrutinizing my every move.

If I was to die, he would know of my disdain. Eyes narrow and sharp, I held his gaze.

Ashwood had the gall to smirk, as though utterly pleased with the pain in this hall.

Another breath slid from Vella, but once it was spent, there was not another.

Tears blurred my sight. I didn’t want to see the truth, but like a rope tugged against my face, I looked.

Foamy blood painted her lips. Vella was flat on her back.

Dead. She was dead.