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

Chapter 16

16

Lyra

The bedchamber was cavernous compared to my room in Jakobson’s longhouse. Walls stretched with great corner beams etched in runes and symbols of the gods. Ravens and knives and runes.

The inglenook was empty, the fire long dead, and it gave way for cold—crisp and biting—to claw into the room.

I rubbed heat into my arms and went to the window. Below my chamber was a long stable and stacks of straw and feed. The room, for all its grandeur, was simple and dull. Smoky furs and heavy quilts made a bed. Two round, blue shields decorated the wall, and a simple russet woven rug covered the floorboards. There was a sitting chair made of pine boughs and a heavy yarn quilt tossed over the back.

Beyond the bedchamber was a washroom with a clay basin deep enough I could sit inside and stretch my legs. Tepid water filled it nearly to the brim, like I’d been expected.

A thrill quickened my pulse and I dragged my fingers over the smooth edges of the tub. We used wooden pails in the garden back home to wash our skin. Only Jarl Jakobson had basins in his chamber.

Dried petals of lavender and honey blossoms were kept in a jar. Pink and black salts from the seas took others. I popped a cork from a jar filled with powders to cleanse the hair. Selena made something similar but it had a savory scent that made my hair smell like rosemary and cloves. This was like rain on the sea, clean and cool.

A groan broke between my teeth when I sank into the water and took liberties with the different petals and scrubs. The powder lathered into a soapy layer over my long hair. I held my breath and dunked beneath the surface, escaping reality for a moment. Only the sounds of the pulse in my skull, the swirl of water, filled my thoughts.

For a moment I could pretend to be swimming in the Green Fjord with Kael; I could imagine the lap of water was the beat of the sea against Thorian’s boat when he let us go fishing with him.

When I surfaced, I took my time washing off the journey until a chill chased away the warmth and my skin was wrinkled like rotting pomes.

I slipped into a thin night shift folded in the tall wardrobe, then returned to the truth—I was locked in a fine cell.

Shelves along one wall were stacked with parchment scrolls, vellum, and a few tomes bound in smooth leather. Near the bed was a new plate of boiled pears atop two books I’d not noticed before and a folded note on rosewood parchment. I popped one pear into my mouth, toes curling from the sweet juices.

My gaze scanned the books beneath the plate. One was a copy of Tales of the Wanderer .

The other brought a reluctant thrill to my pulse—a stack of rice paper with notes about gestures, signals, and commands. With hurried fingers, I unfolded the note.

Didn’t want to disturb you in the washroom. Thought you might want to read up on craft. The second ledger is a gift from the Sentry. Ashwood told me he caught your unbreakable fascination with his hands, so he thought it would save you time and less staring to simply read through some of them…

I huffed. “Bastard.”

Even in writing, I could see his arrogant smirk, and had few doubts he’d said the exact words to Emi.

I think it is wise since you will likely see a great deal of him in coming days. Who knows, perhaps some understanding might alter your opinions of him.

Stav Nightlark

A slow grin cut over my mouth when I finished reading. Thoughtful of Emi, but I doubted it would do much to change my thoughts on the Sentry.

I plucked another slice of fruit and opened Tales of the Wanderer . The binding smelled of old leather and ink and dust.

Memories of Gammal’s smoke-haggard voice telling the tale filtered through my head with each page. “Why did the Wanderer divide the magic of the gods?”

“Why should I care about your myths and legends, girl?”

It was her response every time, but always said with a glint of mischief in her eyes. I’d beg no more than three times before the old Unfettered woman would recite the history of my lands, all to make a young girl beam with intrigue.

“This Wanderer chose his fate through tricks and betrayal.” Gammal would lower her voice to lift the hair on my arms. “The Wanderer’s wife realized her husband—already powerful—craved more. He wanted immortality like the gods.

“The god-queen feared the power-lust in her husband’s eyes. So, while the Wanderer slept, she stole three drops of his blood, then marked the brows of their three children, blessing them with the craft of their father, and taking it from her king.

“The first son was given craft of bone—to heal, manipulate, or rot. The second son, the craft of souls—to protect, control, or destroy. The third, to the Wanderer’s only daughter, the craft of blood—to heal, disease, or summon.”

One day, when I was bold enough, I asked the question I’d kept buried since I arrived at the young house. “Where does the silver curse fit, Gammal?”

The woman had paused for half a breath before kneading her seed bread with more fervor. “What I have read is the Wanderer was furious at his queen’s betrayal. It is said one night, he stole into the chambers of his children and poisoned his own heirs. When his bride discovered her young ones thrashing and near death, the Wanderer vowed the antidote if she would tell him how to become a master of all the crafts, just like a god.”

“Did she tell him?”

“In desperation, the god-queen told the Wanderer how to mark bones of those who’d gone to the gods’ hall and summon a lingering piece of the soul left behind. Then the bone of the dead would be fastened to the Wanderer’s living body, feeding new strength from the dead into his own soul. Since the fallen soul had already touched the magic of the gods’ hall, the sagas say the Wanderer could then take slivers of wisdom from the soul he’d absorbed; he could borrow from the dead’s former strength. With the additional soul, old scars healed, youth filled the Wanderer’s bones, and like many of the gods, his skill with the blade grew tenfold. But it was a curse. With its strengths, the Wanderer also took on the cruelty and the vices of the dead bones. Each time made the Wanderer dangerously greedy for battle, blood, power.

“Disgusted by his corruption, the gods took back their daughter and her young ones, and marked the Wanderer with the scar of silver, leaving him to suffer alone until he met Salur. That is the legend of the silver scars. Who knows if it is true, but we both know when a melder uses their craft recklessly, they do not stay the same, don’t we, girl? Be wary of those scars, child. Never use the curse in your blood.”

As a child, I vowed to Gammal I would never be reckless. To save Kael was the first I’d used my craft.

Still, I could not deny the sense of power that hummed in my blood as I drew him back from death.

Was it truly possible to fall prey to the desire for more? Is that what King Damir wanted? A melder with insatiable desire to feed their own craft?

But how would such a thing grow the king’s influence?

I thumbed through a few pages of the old poems and tales, stopping on the warning from the god of wisdom when he gifted the Wanderer his magic.

To harm the living, craft mirrors the pain.

To split the soul, craft sacrifices the blood.

To curse the body, craft devours the mind.

To bind dead and living, craft corrupts the heart.

Kael had used his craft only to shape blades, never to cause pain. The same could be said for Hilda and Edvin. Did Emi Nightlark feel pain when she harmed the living bone?

Soul craft, as little as I knew of it, was the magic that wallowed in blood somehow.

Blood craft was tangled in curses and spell casts. Used too wretchedly, it spun a mind with madness.

The last was the warning ignored by Stonegate. It was the risk of melding.

If the tales of the Wanderer were to be believed, to use meld craft in excess, the magic of it would feast upon a melder’s heart until they were a husk of what they once had been.

Like a disease feeding from the inside out.

King Damir coveted melders. He would use my craft in excess, and if the tales were true, I would wither to nothing soon enough.

I slapped the pages closed and hugged my knees to my chest. On the morrow, I would be inspected by the king. No doubt, he would require me to prove my craft and I would be tossed back into that strange, mirrored world of mists and shadows.

My palms trembled when I lifted them in front of my face.

Gods, I wished Melder Fadey still lived. The questions I would ask. What was that place? Why did the connection to bone thrust it upon me?

Who or what lived in such a world?

I shook the thought away and took up the parchment of symbols and gestures. Craft and kings could wait for now. I held to the brittle trust in Emi’s words that Kael, Hilda, and Edvin were safe. I held to the notion that Damir coveted craft and he would not want to execute three crafters.

They had to be alive, they had to be safe.

I kept reciting the words as I studied gesture after gesture of the finger speak until my eyes fluttered closed, and I drifted into murky black.

The crow of an aggravating cock blared his morning welcome well before the mists of dawn had faded.

Today was my meeting with the king. I’d been given a refuge for the night—more than I expected—but what became of me after I left this chamber?

I made certain to summon some warm pots of water for the basin and soaked in dried petals and fresh salts until my toes wrinkled.

The wardrobes were stocked in simple clothes, a few shifts and frocks, some tunics and trousers and hose. I took a simple blue dress, a size too large, thin ankle boots, and braided my damp hair down my neck, tying it off with a pale ribbon hung on a hook in the wardrobe.

I’d only fastened the knot when a knock came at the door. I was met with a man’s backside. Two Stav were pressed against the wall, and when my escort turned, my heart shot to my throat.

“Highness.” I dipped my chin, avoiding the sharp, glazed-honey eyes of Prince Thane.

“Is my face so well-known?” he said with a bit of delight. “I’d no idea. I’m rarely afforded the chance to leave Stonegate save for the Wild Hunt each harvest. I might break my precious neck, after all.”

I blinked. “My…Ser Darkwin described you, and I saw you at a recruitment once, several winters ago.”

“Darkwin. Got himself into a bit of trouble with all this, didn’t he?”

“Forgive me, Highness, but he was only trying to protect me.”

The prince held up one hand. “No need to convince me, my lady. He did what a loyal man would do for his family. I’m certain that will be taken into account when his actions are judged.”

Prince Thane had the same pale eyes as the boy skipping stones on the shore. His hair had darkened to a dirty gold, and was shaved on the sides, revealing inked runes and symbols on his scalp. The prince kept a trimmed beard, customary for leaders of the land, and had two bones speared through the lobes of his ears.

Undeniably handsome, but Thane’s smile did not reach his eyes.

“I wanted to meet you myself,” he said. “A new melder. I’m certain you’re filled with utter rage at being here.”

“You mock me, Highness?”

“No.” A bit of light left Thane’s eyes. “Forgive me, Lyra. I’ve been told more than once my jests are spoken at the most inappropriate times.” The prince held out one arm. “Still, if you can stomach me, I would be honored to escort you to the great hall. I’ve a great many questions.”

When Emi said she would not return for me, I did not expect the prince himself would be my guide.

Anger had made me snap at the Sentry, but with the prince, I bit down any glimmer of resistance. In truth, if I wanted to survive Stonegate long enough to find a way to escape it, I’d be wise to bite down even my snarls at Ashwood.

We glided down the corridor. The Stav remained five paces behind, and occasionally Prince Thane would mention a tapestry or two, describing its origins from one of the many provinces until we made our way down another hallway with more arched beams.

“I am glad for a moment alone,” Thane murmured from the corner of his mouth. His voice soft enough, I nearly missed it. “I wanted to meet you after what you did on the journey here.”

“What I did?” Gods, would he punish me for my attempt to flee the camp?

“To the Sentry, of course.”

I wasn’t certain what he meant, but replied with a soft, “I did not intend to put your Sentry at risk in the wood—”

“I don’t think we’re speaking of the same thing,” the prince interrupted, his grin widening. “I’m talking about how you’ve utterly discomposed the tightly stitched Roark Ashwood. If you keep at it, I think you might be absolutely perfect.”

“Perfect for what, Highness?”

Thane paused our conversation to nod and greet a few courtiers passing by in the hall, then he drew us to a halt and leaned closer, voice low. “I think you will be perfect for a bit of entertainment in this dull fortress. In all our acquaintance, I’ve never seen my dear friend so undeniably frustrated. It’s completely made my morning, Lyra. I thank you for that.”

“I don’t understand.”

Thane placed both hands on my shoulders and spun me toward a wide set of doors. Emi was there, free of her Stav uniform, and clad now in a green dress edged in silver, her long hair free over her shoulders.

The prince leaned close to whisper into my ear. “You’ve done something to dig under his skin, and I must know what it was, for he is the most infallible, unruffled ass I’ve ever met.”

Breath stuttered in my chest when Emi’s companion turned around and I met the sharp golden glass of Roark’s eyes. Soft for a moment, then his stare hardened at the sight of me.

Thane’s deep chuckle pulsed against my back. The prince whispered as he readjusted to stand at my side again, “See what I mean? Perfect.”

The Sentry was dressed in a new tunic, all black from the coat over his shoulders to the boots on his feet. Where had he gone after arriving? Did he have another room? Perhaps one shared with Emi? If they were lovers, and Thane believed me to aggravate the Sentry simply for existing, it would not be long until her calming demeanor wore thin.

The lack of contrast in Roark’s attire only emphasized how lithe and tall he was, how beautifully vicious he might be.

His gaze roved over me, unashamed, as though he were soaking up every surface of my body. To be viewed in such a way was strangely intimate, and even more strange, I didn’t despise it.

A thought I would never admit out loud.

Men in Skalfirth spared a look or two until Kael threatened them at the game halls. He thought I didn’t know, but it was a small village. Folk whispered a great deal in the markets.

Now, to tremble under the watch of the man who’d upended my existence was shamefully laughable.

The prince bowed at the waist. “By the gods, Emi, once more your beauty lights the room.”

Emi dipped her chin, but a smile teased the corners of her lips. “Always the charmer, my prince.”

“And you.” Thane’s features hardened when he faced Roark. “I am told you tortured our guest the whole of the journey. It won’t go unpunished, Roark. I swear to you.”

My eyes widened. I reeled on the prince. What was he doing? I’d not spoken a word about Ashwood.

Roark’s nose wrinkled, like he might snarl. In a frenzy he spoke with his hands to the prince, who observed each gesture as readily as if the Sentry were spitting his retorts vocally. Too fast for me to keep up.

“That is not the story she told,” Thane said. Ashwood responded briskly, eyes like fire. Thane sighed. “Well, forgive me, but why would she lie?”

“Highness,” I interjected. The last thing I wanted today was to earn more of Ashwood’s blades and ire.

Then, Emi laughed. She clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound and shoved—truly shoved—Roark’s arm like he was nothing but a boon companion. “You fool. How long has it been since you’ve fallen for his games? What’s gotten into you?”

Thane pressed his lips into a tight line, the sort of look when one was desperate to keep from grinning.

Roark’s gaze bounced from the prince, to me, then back to the prince. He made a jerky signal with one hand.

Thane drew in a feigned gasp of scandal. “You cannot call me such names, I’ll take your head. Ah, I will, don’t press me. I never should’ve made that one up.”

By the gods, this was…unsettling.

The prince gripped Roark’s shoulder, a friendly sort of greeting, then returned to me. “Apologies again, Lyra. I had to poke him. He never smiles, you see.”

“I’ve noticed.” I turned my indifference toward the Sentry.

His jaw set and fists tightened in return.

“This is where I leave you. I am told I must also escort my mother. Seems no one can stroll the halls on their own these days.” Thane bowed slightly and pressed a kiss to the top of my hand. His next words were heady with sincerity. “All will be well, I promise.”

The prince asked for Emi to accompany him and give a recount of the journey. The two Stav Guards remained at my back, the only other presence crowding the silence between me and Roark.

Behind those doors the king would claim me as his new pet. Kind as the prince tried to be, this moment felt a great deal like facing the darkness of my end.

The air grew hot, like falling sparks bit into my skin. Walls were too near, too tight, too confined. All at once the corridor became my haven. The moment I went through those doors, I would be in chains. Perhaps not literally, but King Damir would have me in his sights. I would be a prize of a century-old treaty. Nothing more.

Sweat beaded over my brow. The space around my lungs tightened and I drew in sharp, jagged pulls of air.

Roark paused, eyes taking me in, a groove of concern—no, likely annoyance—on his brow.

Fog clouded my thoughts until all I knew was I could not breathe. I needed air, needed to be free of this suffocating hallway.

A hand took hold of my arm, pulling me from the doors. I met the sharp gaze of the Sentry. He braced my back to the wall, caging me—or shielding me—away from the open corridor.

With one finger he tapped on my cheek until I lifted my eyes. He didn’t use his hand speak, didn’t mouth a word, but kept his palm on the side of my throat, his thumb stroking the side of my neck.

Gentle strokes, almost soothing.

After a moment, I realized his other hand had taken mine and he did the same, only down the center of my palm, across my wrist. He added a bit of pressure and the weight of his touch drew my focus.

It pulled me from the thrashing fear, the tangle of thoughts. I drew in a long breath through my nose.

Roark stopped stroking the side of my neck and lifted his hand so I could follow his command. Breathe .

Where the Sentry could’ve mocked me, he calmed me instead.

I didn’t understand it. How could he sit back with such indifference, watching families torn apart, but in this moment be a haven in a storm?

The door to the side of the hall opened. Baldur, dressed in his full Stav uniform, emerged. “The king is waiting, Ashwood.” He noticed our position. “What’s the matter with her?”

Roark waved the captain away.

“Tell her whimpering does nothing but prove her weakness. Dry your tears, woman, and meet your king.” Baldur folded his arms.

The Sentry spun on him. I knew more of his words than I expected—like they had been burned in my mind after his banter with Thane—and from the flush in Baldur’s face, the insults he leveled at the captain were not taken in jest as they’d been for the prince.

“Just get her inside,” Baldur spat, then returned the way he came.

I buried my face in my palms. Wretched as Baldur could be, the captain wasn’t entirely wrong. For now, I had little choice but to face the king. To remain here, spinning in fears, would do nothing.

Another tap to my cheek and I opened my eyes.

Roark held up a strip of parchment I never saw him take out.

When you are ready .

It was a kindness I didn’t expect. True to his word, the Sentry leaned against the wall, like he might be settling in to wait the whole of the day.

I swallowed, cracked one knuckle, then another. Once my pulse had slowed to a tolerable pace, I cleared my throat. “No sense in waiting.”

Roark took his place at my side once more.

“Don’t let me fall in there,” I whispered before I could think better of it. I wasn’t certain I even meant the words for Roark, but he came closer all the same, until our chests nearly touched.

For a tense, drawn-out pause Ashwood studied me, then slowly took hold of my hand, guiding me through the doors.