Chapter 36
36
Lyra
There was a great deal wrong with me. Remorse and heaps of guilt should’ve plagued my thoughts, but my mind could not keep focused on Tomas Grisen. Instead, whenever the panic rose, I drifted to warm hands on my skin, lips against mine, the hardness of his body.
One finger absently twirled a lock of my hair while I sipped a bit of rose tea. Across the morning meal, Edvin taunted Kael over his drunken, reckless desire last night to confront Baldur’s disrespect of his half sister during the revel.
Astra was young and likely hoped to find a warrior lover during her visit to Stonegate.
I chuckled through the exaggerated tale and took another drink. Baldur the Fox likely didn’t even understand how to kiss a woman. No mistake, he would not understand the delicate balance of softness and passion, how to torment a body with only his hands, no words spoken.
I was not convinced Astra would ever find such qualities in a man, for they were owned by Roark Ashwood.
The hint of a grin played over my lips. I slipped back into the clean scent of his skin, the scrape of the stubble on his chin.
Until the peace was shattered by a missive delivered by a palace steward when he took away our plates.
“What’s that, Ly?” Kael tossed the belt holding his seax over one shoulder.
I read the missive under the table. It was a summons from the king to join him in his wing once all the other guests took their noon meals amid the games and entertainment in the courtyards.
My heart fell to my feet. I blew out a long breath and forced a smile. “Nothing. I merely need to perform for the Myrdans while you lot get to enjoy besting the Stav in ax throwing. Kael, if you do not win, I’ll never speak to you again.”
He scoffed. “I was practically born with an ax in hand.”
Edvin chuckled and clapped a hand on Kael’s shoulder, challenging him to a friendly competition before the actual games began. I feigned a grin, tickled one of Edvin’s daughters beneath the chin, and slipped his middle girl an extra sweet bun beneath the table.
I was well practiced in burying my disquiet behind false grins and laughter.
If I did not, those I loved would see the cracks in the facade; they’d see the fear I carried that day after day, the deeper I was rooted here in Stonegate, the sooner the king would discover I was not his ally.
Now I feared what I stood to lose if Roark discovered the same.
A bulky Stav Guard escorted me to the king’s wing of the palace. From open windows, laughter and chatter filtered through the somber corridor.
The guard had a rounded chest and protrusions on his skull that appeared almost horn-like. Soul bones. He was a melded Berserkir, but there was an emptiness about him I hadn’t seen in the younger guards I’d first melded.
The paleness of his eyes was cold and distant, and his mouth seemed permanently set in a stern frown.
He did not bid me farewell when the door to the first sitting room was opened, did not address me in the least. In truth, he seemed wholly aggravated with the air I breathed, and every time his gaze looked my way, his grip tightened around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white.
Glad to be rid of him, I hurried into the open room.
There, the queen, King Damir, Prince Thane, Princess Yrsa, and her parents were all standing near the open hearth. Another man, dressed in a rich emerald tunic, with silver hair shorn close to his scalp, glared at me down the hook of his nose.
My stomach twisted at the sight of Tomas. Nursed by a few palace healers with numbing pastes and oils to soothe toothaches, he moaned more furiously than he had last night.
No doubt, he made the whole of his agony worse than it seemed.
Fingertips brushed across the curve of my back. I startled, then nearly crumpled in a fit of relief. Like a phantom, Roark stepped from the far edge of the room—a position I hadn’t seen—and stood at my side.
I wanted to take his hand, squeeze the rough skin of his palm until his fingertips went numb.
“Melder Bien.” Damir’s words were as cold as a north wind. “King Hundur, along with myself, would delight in hearing your reasons for attacking not only a guest of Stonegate, but a nobleman of Myrda.”
“Choose your words carefully, woman,” Hundur grumbled. “They very well could seal your fate.”
Roark stiffened. His hand went to my back, a touch of possessiveness and protection in one motion.
“Sire, I did not attack Ser Grisen. He spoke threateningly to me, insisting he would…force himself upon me, so you would give me to him as a wife.”
King Damir’s eyes flashed.
“A story, no doubt.” Hundur grunted. “One carefully crafted when a man cannot even speak for himself.”
Roark stepped nearer to the dais, hands speaking in direct, harsh swipes. He did not need to make a sound. I could sense his rage in every gesture.
“The Sentry was there, King Hundur,” Prince Thane translated. “He saw your seneschal’s son with his hands on the melder.” The prince paused, watching Roark. “She made her refusals clear, and he ignored them. He planned to harm her.”
King Hundur’s glare fastened on Roark. “We cannot know if they both are lying. Your so-called Draven thrall—”
“I would watch how you speak, Hundur,” Prince Thane cut back. “Of those whom I am loyal to in this room, Roark Ashwood nears the top. But your resistance to harken to your own daughter’s words, a melder, and a respected warrior of Stonegate have me curious as to why. Embarrassment that it was Myrda who stirred trouble? Is this retribution for the loss of your seneschal during the raids? What is it?”
King Hundur’s wide face deepened to a fierce shade of red, as though he held his breath far too long. “I seek the truth. Nothing more.”
“It would seem you have it.” King Damir drummed his fingers over the arm of his throne. “What would you have me do, Hundur? She is the only melder we have. Would you have me maim her, make her hideous so men do not wish to touch her?”
My heart dropped. Roark took a step back to me, steady as a predator. A fleeting thought left me curious if the Sentry might stand against his own king for this.
The notion of it stirred something inside, something darker. More and more, his actions in this room gave up that Roark would be willing to draw a blade for me.
More and more, I was convinced I might want to do the same.
“I propose a compromise, so we might get back to celebrating.” Damir clapped his hands together. “My melder will heal Ser Grisen. Fadey could unravel his craft at times. I’m certain Lyra will manage much the same.”
A harsh sound crackled from Roark’s chest, but I was not certain King Damir heard. There was darkness in the way the Sentry tracked the king. Heat pooled low in my stomach, and I had to curl my hands into fists to keep from reaching out to touch him.
This was madness. One heated moment, and I was allowing this man to consume me.
“In return,” the king went on, “I propose a gift for King Hundur, a show of good faith.”
The Myrdan king huffed. “What sort of gift?”
“You’ve always desired your own melding, my friend.” Damir’s mouth quirked on one side. “Whatever you desire, the melder will put in place.”
There was no choice given to me.
I did not want to meld. I did not care for the sly gleam in King Damir’s eyes. This was nothing more than another excuse to search for whatever power he desired in the mirrored world.
The king was cunning. With little hesitation, Hundur’s mouth split into a wide grin. He flexed his fingers, once, twice, then dipped his chin. “Agreed.”
A Stav took hold of my arm, only loosening his grip when he caught sight of Roark’s murderous glare, and guided me toward Tomas.
He scrambled to get free of me. I bared my teeth and leaned close, my words meant for him alone. “I’m to do this by the king’s command. I’ve never done it. For your sake, I hope it goes well.”
The fear in Tomas’s gaze brought a twisted bit of satisfaction. Perhaps I was a monster. I fell into his whimpers, his protests, and trapped his face between my palms.
A sick glide of molten bone shifted under my palms. Tomas cried his pain, still muffled behind his melded teeth.
Queen Ingir gasped when bone cracked. A new cleft formed, splitting Tomas’s mouth. He drew in a sharp gasp of air. More teeth were cracked and jagged from breaking apart, but the opening was wide enough he could drink and slip small bits of food inside.
The room spun and I pulled away my palms. Golden threads only I could see frayed and split, freeing the melded parts of his jaw. I swallowed bile when Tomas spit out the mangled piece of his fingertip onto the floor. At my back, I caught sight of Thane leaning into Roark.
The prince’s voice was low, as though he wanted only his Sentry to hear, but I caught the soft words. “I know the symbolism of the swallowed finger, Roark. That is a damn Draven punishment to those who harm a woman already claimed by another. Take heart no one else cares to study their rituals or you would be blamed entirely.”
By the gods. Roark punished Tomas in a way folk of his clan harmed those who hurt their lovers? I shook my head and split more of Tomas’s teeth.
It was not so taxing as I let on—forced breaths that heaved my chest, false dabs at my brow for sweat that was not there—when I faced the king. “My lord, I’ve done all I can do.”
“No.” Tomas’s words were muffled, slurred. A bit of spittle slid from the corner of his mouth. “I can…cannot speak as I…did.”
I raised trembling palms and swayed on my feet. “If King Hundur is to receive your reward, I cannot do more. I fear I might…stumble.”
I leaned forward. Arms surrounded me. Roark lifted me, holding me against his chest, with the slightest gleam in his eye. He knew the truth and played along in a new role, morbid concern furrowed on his brow.
Gods, the man was convincing, even Ingir murmured to the guards to fetch herbs for a spinning head.
It was cruel, a little vicious, but I refused to undo every stitch of melded bone on Tomas. He was a wretch and he would survive with a jaw that did not extend fully.
“Your decision, my friend.” Damir grinned at his fellow king, dark delight in his eyes, like this was all a game.
Hundur hesitated. “I suppose he looks fine enough, doesn’t he?”
Tomas began to protest, but his king waved him away, instructing his servants to see to it the man was kept comfortable through the rest of the festivities.
“Now.” Damir rose, one arm opened to a Stav holding a black box lined in velvet. “Select your pieces.”