Chapter 27
27
Roark
Keep down.
I kicked a pebble from the forest path, frowning. I didn’t need to keep down, but that’s all anyone ever told me to do.
I was old enough to fight with the damn clan, and tonight I’d prove it.
From a small leather scabbard on my waist, I removed my father’s old whittling knife, etched with runes and a double-headed raven on the blade, and slashed at the low-hanging branches.
My foot caught on a gnarled root, and I toppled—head over foot—down a lumpy slope, landing in a heap with a cough and groan.
“What’s a boy doin’ out in the trees? Don’t you know the drums sounded? They’re barring the gates to town.”
A hand touched my shoulder and I scrambled backward, sloppily holding the knife out in front of me. This was not my fate. No damn enemy clan would slit my throat without me drawing a bit of blood first.
“What’s the matter with you?” she snickered.
A…girl? Oh, by the gods, no. I was not—in any of two hells—dying because of some girl .
“You look thirsty.” A hand touched my shoulder. “Have you been lost in the wood?”
I spun back toward the hill, knife outstretched, and met her eyes. Dark and bright all at once. There was a shock of silver through the centers. The color we needed. The color that meant an end to war.
But it was more. The first look at her stole my breath, the same that happened when stupid Gunter rammed his fist in my belly last week in the sparring circle.
This time it didn’t hurt. This was warmer, like waking after the dawn to the full sun. The knife in my hand lowered.
Until the screams began…
I snapped awake, sweat on my brow, pulse rapid in my skull. I blinked against the gray light of my chamber, screams and smoke and blood in my ears and on my tongue.
With a silent curse, I kicked off the furs and sat on the edge of my bed, threading my fingers through my sweaty hair.
A damn nightmare was what brought down the Stonegate Sentry. Pathetic.
Silver scars. I dreamed of Lyra, but…as a girl. Through the mind of a boy.
I dropped my palms and let my head fall back, face pointed at the thick rafters overhead.
The rank ceremony had to be the cause. Soul bones left me in disquiet for days, waiting for blood to follow.
I slumped forward, leaning onto my elbows over my knees, and caught sight of something pale beneath the crack of my door. A missive.
The wax seal was Thane’s symbols—stag antlers behind the white wolf. I scanned the prince’s steady writing, my blood heating with each word.
Damn you, Thane. The coward of a prince must’ve delivered this several bell tolls ago. He’d slipped out of the gates, bound for a ride in the wood with half a dozen Stav Guard. Bastard had the audacity to tell me not to feel a drop of frustration or anger at his recklessness of leaving the fortress.
There was nothing else to feel.
I crumpled the parchment and threw it at the wall.
Thane oftentimes forgot I was duty-bound to keep his precious royal head atop his shoulders. But to leave the walls without warning, this was a deliberate attempt to give me no choice but to wander, fret, and curse his name until he returned.
He thought it was a kindness, a way to give me some respite, but waking to the missive left a darkness in my chest, a dread that prickled over my scalp. Wretched things happened after a melder used craft. Thane knew my beliefs on this, but did not feel the same.
I felt out of control and I could not rid myself of the tension of why and what might come of it.
Sleep evaded me and my temper heated the longer I paced my chamber.
Soon enough, I bit into a strap of leather, securing it around one wrist, and trudged toward the training field off the east wing of the palace.
Long lines of racks with silver-bearded axes, longswords, seax blades, bows, arrows, and throwing knives were there for the taking. Wooden round shields all bore the white wolf of Stonegate and the clank of dull steel over the boards echoed across the morning mists.
Morning, the moments when dawn was pale and weary, seemed to be the only time I could train.
After last night’s feast, I’d not been able to sleep long. Unrest at the sight of Lyra locked in the strange craft-induced trance kept sleep from ever settling fully. The way she’d sobbed against me, more broken than before, cut through me to the marrow of my damn bones.
Fadey never stayed under the control of his craft so long. For a moment, I was not convinced Lyra would wake. More unsettling than her stupor was the jolt of concern for her if she did not pull away.
I finished wrapping my wrists and selected a practice seax from one of the racks, then rolled the blade, testing the give and weight.
Frustration over my misplaced interest in the melder was like a slow bleed, yet I couldn’t find the wound.
In the weeks since she arrived, I’d followed her every step under the king’s order. Whether it be from a corner during the queen’s many luncheons, or in silence while she studied books on craft, I kept aloof, agitated.
But my resolve was failing.
Lyra was skilled at masking, I’d give her that. The woman was well practiced in smiling and nodding, while slowly dimming the light in her eyes. She knew how to become faceless in a crowd, never drawing the eyes of too many.
She kept drawing mine.
I thought I might hate her for it. Never had I been so unraveled. Now I was having damn nightmares with her face.
Since building my life in Stonegate, I kept my focus on my duties, my strength, and keeping our people safe. Mere weeks after bringing a stubborn woman into these halls, I slept less, thought of the way her lips twitched as she read, and I’d grown a bit of smug pride with how she took to heart learning the language of my hands.
I thought too damn much about the way her skin, when it touched me, no matter how briefly, lingered like venom I wanted to drink again and again.
A festering energy to beat a sword against anything had me storming the practice fields before my new charge woke for the day.
“Lord Ashwood.” Darkwin cut through the mists, shield and blade in hand, eyes alight after I’d battled in solitude for a full bell toll. “Care for a partner?”
I arched a brow. You’re early to rise .
Kael studied my hands. Stav learned most of my crucial gestures—the ones I used for commands—within the first weeks of training. Most never tried to learn more. Only Thane and Emi knew every word I spoke—well, Lyra was catching up quickly.
Kael was a curious sort, and he’d learned enough to hold a decent conversation.
“After last night, I couldn’t sleep.” Darkwin paused. “Thank you, by the way, for helping Lyra.”
A muscle flinched in my jaw. Is she awake?
“No.” He hesitated. “I’m sure it was exhausting. That was the longest she’s pushed her craft.”
I didn’t want to speak on Lyra Bien any longer. Have you settled here?
“I have. My unit is honorable and I’m pleased to see Edvin and Hilda have started smiling again.”
A bite of something like guilt gnawed at my chest. Worthless to feel guilt over something beyond my control. We were ordered to take the crafters, so we did.
“They’re a bit like Ly, reading up on craft a great deal,” Kael went on. “Edvin enjoys sparring ever since the ravagers attacked the wall. But I think Hilda might find more joy with the herb healers. She was often at the bedsides of the sick back home.”
The brother and sister did not leave anywhere without each other. Darkwin might’ve been trying to find the good of their new existence, but I was inclined to see the darker pieces of folk—they were in pain.
True love of family was lost on me. Thane was the closest I had to a brother, and I tried to imagine being torn from him like the man had been torn from his family and the woman from her husband. Difficult, to be sure.
Nothing I could do. I was not king here.
Kael’s smile widened and he tossed his blade to the other hand. “So? What do you say? Up for a round?”
Already sweat beaded my brow from slicing straw-stuffed canvas sacks, but I rolled my sword in my hand and bent at the knees.
When the sun was high overhead, the sparring fields were filled with Stav not assigned to watchposts, and Darkwin was about to be defeated for the fifth time.
Kael let out a curse through a grunt when I slammed his back to the grass, breaths heavy, blade at his throat. Teeth bared, he tried to break free, but the shield strapped to my arm kept him locked in defeat.
I grinned, sweat and dirt spilling into my eyes.
Another curse and Kael let his arms fall to the side in surrender. “Gods, I concede.”
One palm clasped with his, and I tugged him to his feet. We’d long since stripped off our tunics. Smudges of dirt and streaks from the green grass painted our skin across shoulders, spines, and chests.
A small half circle had formed to watch. More than one hand clapped a few florin coins into palms. Seemed some guards had placed bets against me. Fools.
Buckets of water for drinking or washing were dotted across the fields. I splashed my face once, then tilted water into my mouth, soothing the burn in my throat. Kael slumped back on the grass, catching his breath.
“Have you been rank melded, Lord Ashwood? Is that why you’re so damn impossible to defeat?”
I stiffened for a breath, then shook my head.
Kael lifted his brows. “Truly? Not even as the Sentry? I spoke to some of the men in my unit last night about it. Those who Lyra advanced, they say, will be brutes with the blade.”
If they were bonded to a cruel soul, soon they would not know how to leave the brute on the field.
“I know rank melding is not required,” Kael went on, “but what are your thoughts on it?”
What were my thoughts on the practice of melding dead Stav bone to living Stav? Despicable.
I took another drink, then waved one hand in reply. Merit of a warrior ought to be earned through skill .
Kael considered it for a moment. “But if it gives a Stav an advantage over an enemy in battle, is it not worth it?”
Darkwin was a good man, but na?ve. He would see the strength and ferocity of the Berserkir Stav, not the downfall. It was a form of glory in Stonegate, but like so many others, he’d never see—or choose not to see—the lust for destruction and battle that followed if a cruel bone was chosen.
It was the risk of soul bones. If the fallen was horrid in life, they poisoned the bonded soon enough.
Find those answers on your own, Darkwin . I rammed the point of the practice sword into the grass and continued. Don’t take from the opinions of others. It is your life, not theirs.
Kael studied a few pairings as they sparred across the field. “Captain Baldur insists more ravagers have been moving closer to Stonegate with the upcoming arrival of Princess Yrsa. Sometimes I think it might be nice to have more than a wooden shield to protect against their blades.”
I faced him. Ravagers are not warriors. If they overpower you, perhaps you are not a good Stav .
With an unfamiliar grin, I slashed at him with my sword.
Kael rolled out of range. “Bastard.”
He hurried to his feet, clashing his own blade against mine. Where he jabbed, I parried. When I aimed at his spine, he blocked, kicking at my legs. My muscles throbbed with the frenzy of a fight, my chest ached with each breath, but if I could belt a laugh the way Darkwin did, I likely would.
Somehow we’d managed to lose our blades, and there was no skill in our steps, simply sheer desire to best the other. With a shout, Kael rammed his shoulder into my side, encircling my waist in his arms and dragging us to the ground.
My elbow caught his lip, his knee my ribs.
We both rolled onto our backs, faces to the sun. Gasps followed, a few breathless chuckles. I could not recall the last time I’d fought for the sheer enjoyment of it.
“Ly,” Kael shouted through a ragged pant. “I defeated the Sentry.”
I snapped up. Lyra stood on the edge of the sparring field, alone. The gown she’d chosen was red as blood, and drew out the dark shade of her eyes and pink of her lips.
Gods, what was the matter with me? Her lips?
I spat my frustration and shoved Kael back to the ground when he tried to stand.
Where you belong , I gestured quickly.
He let his head fall back, smiling through deep draws of breath.
I’d never admit how much I enjoyed the spar. Most Stav were fearful around me and would never rise to the challenge. I gave them reason to be wary. I was brisk, brutal, and Draven.
Most of all Draven.
Lyra wrapped her arms around the curves of her waist. When I came closer, she lifted her chin the way she did when she planned to be defiant.
“Sentry Ashwood.” She tried to sound annoyed by the sight of me, but there was a tremble in her tone.
I unsettled her as much as she unsettled me.
I didn’t miss the way her eyes ticked to my bare chest for a moment too long. With one knuckle, I tilted her chin to look at me, then brought one hand up for her to read.
You are not to leave your chamber unaccompanied .
She scoffed. “My escort was nowhere to be found.”
Then you wait .
“I should not be held prisoner because you wish to puff out your chest on the sparring field.”
One half of my mouth quirked. You were looking at my chest?
“Gods.” Lyra’s cheeks reddened. “You’re insufferable. More so than most men. My tower is right there”—she flung an arm behind her—“I hardly think I was at risk of being assassinated on the short walk here.”
Lyra’s breath stuttered when I shifted and pinched her chin between my thumb and finger, and gestured my retort near her cheek. That is for me to decide. Not you .
“Is this my fate, then, Sentry Ashwood?” Her words were warm against my bare skin. “Never being free to go where I like, or do what I like, without you?”
I understood her meaning, but despised the cinch it brought to my own chest at the thought of days not filled with the sight of Lyra Bien. I was a wretch, a fool, and an embarrassment to my position.
This draw to the woman was a hindrance.
But I wasn’t so certain I was alone in it. Lyra spoke like I was a nuisance, but she had not pulled away either.
A ram’s horn sounded from the tower and my stomach bottomed out. No.
“What is it?” Lyra looked about when Stav shot into action.
One possessive hand held on to Lyra’s waist. Fear lanced through me like a molten blade. The prince had not returned from his feckless trip outside Stonegate, and a warning was rising from the gates.
I whistled, drawing the attention of a few Stav, and ordered pairs to form a line at the gates.
“Roark.” Lyra looked at me with wide eyes.
I waited to speak until she was carefully focused on both my hands. This is that moment when you go straight to your tower. Lock the door. Do not leave unless you hear three knocks, a pause, then two short knocks .
“What is it?” She dug her fingers into my forearm when I turned to go.
She would find out soon enough. Dravens. Go .