Chapter 28
Rykr
We found the Bellwether Inn within minutes—a three-story building that reminded me of Volker’s. Wooden beams traversed the plaster and stone facade. Window boxes with flowers decorated the large amber glass windows by the doorway.
Lamps smoldered in the windows, their candles burning steady and bright—yet the wax never melted. Enchanted light.
Ciaran stood abruptly as we entered and Amahle gave us a withered, weak smile, sagging into a bench in the dark foyer below the main stairway.
Seren gave Ciaran a deep frown. “Why are you here?”
“Because I didn’t have anything to do with what you accused me of. Ask yourself if I’d be here right now if I were lying.”
Seren crossed her arms then frowned at Amahle. “I had to watch,” Amahle said, closing her eyes.
Seren scowled back at Ciaran. “Why did you let her—”
“I didn’t,” Ciaran snapped, running his hand through his red hair, the seam of his mouth making a flat line.
Let her what? Amahle wore her exhaustion like she’d been fighting in dueling pits.
“I only watched until you left the keep,” Amahle argued, leaning her head back against a stained-glass window behind her.
“Watched?” I raised a brow.
“She can spirit glide into other places,” Seren explained tersely. “But it drains her, and leaves her completely vulnerable to being attacked while she’s in that state.”
“Ciaran was here to protect me,” Amahle said, trying and failing to sit straighter. “And I was worried. It’s not every day my best friend gets dragged to Emberstone in a prison wagon.”
I peered closer at the dark-skinned beauty. Spirit glide? That seemed like an incredibly useful craft. “So, you can glide your mind to any place, whenever you want?”
Amahle shook her head. “Not anywhere. I can only go where someone I know is.”
Ciaran bent beside Amahle and helped her stand. “You need rest.”
“Food will help. Besides, we should celebrate.” Amahle mustered a half-hearted smile as we moved toward the tavern beside the inn. “Seren and Rykr are free to wander Emberstone. I was worried they’d end up in the dungeons.”
“That’s not really cause for celebration, though, is it?” Ciaran cast a look back at me as we went inside. “They still have to face the Skorn.”
Seren dropped into a chair at a table, across from Amahle and Ciaran. “Yes, but Haldron gave us complete freedom for a couple of days. We need to use that time to our advantage.”
Ciaran lifted his grey eyes to mine. “And if he’s just trying to test whether Rykr’s a Lirien lackey?”
Seren frowned. “Ciaran—”
But Ciaran continued looking at me. “We’ve never heard him deny it, or explain why he’s here. Who’s to say he’s not?”
Fair enough. I’d irritated him before, and now he wanted to take his shot.
I sank into the chair beside Seren, stretching my arm out along the back of hers with deliberate ease. “Have you bothered to ask me yourself?” I gave Ciaran an unaffected smirk.
His nostrils flared, a few beats of silence between us. “Skinwraiths attacked our encampment. That’s never happened before you came along. And you convinced Seren not to tell anyone that Giulia was turned into a skinwraith, too.”
“Is that true?” Amahle’s jaw dropped open.
“Neither Rykr nor I had anything to do with Giulia. She attacked me,” Seren told Amahle. “And yes. Rykr and Tara thought it was better not to say anything. For good reason, apparently. Look what happened.”
Ciaran still wasn’t convinced. “If you had said something, then we might have stopped the attack.”
Amahle bit her lip, uncertainty in her eyes.
“You knew, didn’t you? Why didn’t you say anything either?” I tilted my head. “We don’t always make the right decisions when trying to protect those we love, do we, Ciaran?”
The shame in his face made it clear I’d won.
A barmaid approached with steins of ale, setting them between us. “Food?” she asked, barely glancing at any of us. Either she didn’t notice the thickness of the tension at the table, or she didn’t care.
I lifted my stein and took a slow sip of warm ale.
“Yes, for everyone,” Amahle said. As the barmaid left, Amahle gave Ciaran and me a stern look.
“Boys, this isn’t the place for this conversation.
If you want to have it out later, be my guest. But if you insist on spoiling one of the last meals I might get to enjoy in peace with Seren, I’ll send you to bed and make certain neither of you gets any spankings for the evening. ”
Choking mid-sip, I cleared my throat, then set my stein down with a laugh. “No spankings? You really know how to ruin a night, Amahle.”
I sat back in my chair, boots sliding over the sawdust-strewn floor.
Everything in here felt sticky with ale, the scent permeating the dimly lit space.
A roaring fire in a hearth along the back wall kept the tavern warm, though.
Despite the relative, unexpected freedom here, my tension didn’t dissipate—as though I expected Haldron to step from the shadows and attack.
Ciaran’s face darkened angrily as he slung back a swallow of ale. “I have a right to be wary, Amahle. His life threatens someone we both care about.” He shook his head bitterly. “Those skinwraiths mean something. Something abnormal is happening.”
Seren, who had been unusually quiet, leaned forward, her eyes hard. “Did you know that Haldron is heir to the throne of Lirien?”
“W-what?” Ciaran gave her a baffled look.
Amahle’s brows drew together. “What do you mean?”
Seren tilted her head toward me. “Tell them.”
Dammit, this isn’t the time or place.
But Seren trusted them. Given the shift in our circumstances, we might need all the help we could get. I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to sleep tonight, knowing how close we were to Haldron.
With a slow sigh, I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the table. “Haldron is Magnus’s younger brother. If King Magnus and all his sons are dead, Haldron is next in line. Magnus’s grandsons are all too young to rule—none are above age fifteen.”
My words settled between us like lead.
Amahle and Ciaran seemed to absorb the information differently than Seren had. Maybe they were older, more cynical. Or just more realistic.
Amahle exhaled through puffed cheeks. “Well, fuck.”
Ciaran held my gaze, clearly assailed by multiple thoughts at once. “We can’t be the only people in the territory that know this.”
“I don’t think so,” Seren said, her mouth twisting. “But those who do are probably his allies. And even fewer know about the full line of succession in Lirien.”
“You think he wants the throne,” Ciaran to me.
“You think it’s a coincidence that the king and all his sons—every legitimate heir—were murdered by your Vangar? Haldron commands your soldiers, doesn’t he?”
Amahle bit her lip. “That is a good point.”
Seren’s face was still pale, as though the reality of what I’d suggested was still difficult for her to digest. “He’s going to lead us all to war.” Her voice was barely audible in the din of the tavern. A few beats passed, the heaviness of her words descending between us.
No one argued, because there was nothing to argue. War wasn’t a possibility anymore—it was a certainty. One we were racing toward whether we liked it or not.
Ciaran shook his head with disgust. “People from Emberstone wouldn’t care even if they did find out. They are not the Vangar. They won’t be the ones out there fighting Lirien soldiers, either. They’ll hide here in the mountain, letting the rest of us take the brunt of the fucking war.”
Seren reached across the table, resting her hand on his. “It’s how it’s always been,” she said softly. They exchanged a familiar look of sympathy and understanding, one that made my stomach clench.
The ferocity of my reaction caught me off guard. Much as I understood their closeness, the way I disliked it was unsettling.
Ciaran’s tirade also surprised me.
“I take it Viori society is more stratified here?”
Seren nodded, withdrawing her hand from Ciaran’s.
“The tribes are the outermost rung of Viori society,” she explained, her tone carefully neutral.
“We’re the bulk of the Vangar because we came here later—newer arrivals to the Dreadwood.
The ones who first fled here centuries ago settled near Emberstone, tired of wandering.
Over time, they built lives for themselves. ”
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Ciaran said, “Now they leave us to fight their war with Lirien.”
His bitterness was unexpected. “Didn’t they offer your tribe refuge here?”
“Temporarily. They won’t let us stay here forever.”
Amahle set her arm around him. “We all need to keep our voices down. There are spies everywhere in Emberstone, and they’ll drag us away and question us for treason.”
Ciaran lifted his red face defiantly. “Let them try. They won’t get within a foot of me.”
“No, they won’t,” Seren said as the barmaid approached with plates of steaming food. “But if we get kicked out before I have time to eat, then I may fight with you myself.”
A giant, torn hunk of crusty bread had been placed in the broth on the plate. It felt like months since I’d eaten food so rich and full. The last meal I’d shared with Thorne and Dalric had been like this. Gods, I missed them both.
I still couldn’t get the images of Dalric’s slaughter out of my mind. It only fueled my deep anger. Especially now that I knew my own flesh and blood had been behind the attack. Life had seemed simpler then … before the Dreadwood.
Seren’s friends intrigued me. Ciaran’s family clearly had money and position within Seren’s tribe—they owned horses, and Seren had mentioned his father was one of the council members I’d seen that first day.
His irritation with the upper echelons of Viori society probably stemmed, in part, from that.
Amahle was more enigmatic. Friendly, but impersonal. She revealed little about herself, a guardedness in her interactions that reminded me of Thorne.
“Did your family come with the rest of the tribe?” I asked Amahle abruptly, testing my theory.
Seren’s eyes widened. “Rykr—”