Chapter 7
Roark
When the doors snapped shut, separating me from Lyra, I spun on the queen.
Elisabet would not understand my gestures, but when I pinned her with a sharp glare and a finger pointed at her face, the queen sniffed.
“The melder will not be harmed. I gave my word I would hear her, speak with her, before any fate is decided.”
I took out the same knife I’d used to slice Fillip’s neck and twirled it in my fingers, never breaking my watch on my mother.
A bit of a flush coated her cheeks before she shoved aside my blade.
“You are the prince of Dravenmoor, the heir, whether you revel in the title or not. There are explanations you must proffer your folk, and actions for which you must answer. I make my moves with precision, son. When I say the melder will still be breathing, I speak true. Now, finish this meet and cease wasting time.”
I did not trust a soul within these walls, but there was a ferociousness about the queen, a tremble in her words that struck me to the bone. A sort of unspoken vow that gave up the truth behind her words.
Perhaps the queen did not send Lyra to her death, but there remained an urgency in her command. Like it was only a matter of time before it all changed.
I opened my hand, a curl still on my lip, and waited for the queen to stride into the room first.
Archways made from shaved antlers and boar skulls topped every doorway, and every rafter was carved with runes and prayers to the gods. Heavy chairs with armrests that ended in claws or fangs surrounded a black oak table, oblong and large enough to seat twenty men shoulder to shoulder.
The instant my lungs filled with the scent of pine smoke in the inglenook and parchment from stacks of old sagas and histories, memories of days running among the seats, hiding from playmates in mock battles and sieges pummeled my mind.
But the joyful remembrances soured with the unmanaged rage boiling in my blood.
The need to lash out, to unfurl into the split creature I’d become, scorched beneath my skin like hot iron.
Before, when control over my rent soul was not mine, it felt like a mere prickle would flutter across my flesh. Like drawing too near a flame. Now, with the darkness unified with my own rage, I felt as though I were in a constant state of violence.
I crossed the council room in long strides until I reached the parchment. With no thought to the others filtering in behind me, I took hold of a raven feather quill and a stoppered inkwell. Without looking up, I slid into one of the seats, furiously penning my every damn thought.
I did not need to look to know my mother took a place beside me. The instant she settled in her chair, I shoved the parchment in front of her.
Elisabet held the name of Foxglen. Once, she’d explained that my grandfather said she was born with the most cunning of smiles, much like a fox in the glen.
Innocent and lovely at first glance, but shrewd and sly in the next instant.
The way her eyes gleamed like a storm on the sea, the way her dark rouged lips curled in one corner, I could see the foundation for her name. “What little you know.”
She slid back the parchment. I scanned my words, trying to make sense of her reply.
You may think I hold love for this place, but I assure you, I will slit every throat I once knew if you sent Lyra to Brynn and Auki for vengeance. It is no less than you did to me.
Brynn had been my betrothed from infancy. Only a proven soul bond would disrupt an arranged vow in Dravenmoor.
Like Gunter, Brynn and her twin brother, Auki, had been my playmates. We’d always known Brynn and I would wed one day, much the same as Thane and Yrsa. I did not recall her being hateful or the jealous sort.
Then again, we’d been children. Brynn was hardly in her eleventh season when I was tossed away. I saw the delight in my uncle’s eyes when she appeared, so my written threat was sound, I thought. Simple. Direct. A promise.
I crumpled the parchment in my grip, mouth tight, and waited until more seats were filled.
Virki, naturally, took the seat across from my mother. Truth be told, with what Emi reported that her father had done to her after I’d been exiled, I wasn’t certain I cared if the creature beneath my skin destroyed my uncle’s soul.
I recognized most faces, aged as they were. Sampson, a loyal warrior who’d been my father’s second when the brother-in-law of King Hundur of Myrda challenged my father over rumors the Draven king had bedded his wife.
My father was once a king loved by his clan and feared by others.
But if Myrdans had any understanding to the depth of soul bonds, Hundur’s dead brother-in-law would never have challenged my father, for he would’ve known it was impossible for King Vishon to betray my mother by taking a mistress. Their bond wouldn’t allow it.
Then again, it was the destruction of my parents’ soul bond that left me with little trust for the queen.
Sampson removed the pelt of a white wolf from his head and looked across the table at me, a bit of sadness in his auburn eyes.
Next to him was Yanson, Gunter’s father. The day I was torn apart, Yanson held down my shoulders on the slab of cold stone and murmured assurances into my ear when the blinding pain took hold and my screams faded to silence.
Yanson held a warning in his eyes, much the same as he’d always done when Gunter and I schemed our next trick inside the royal house.
“There is no sense delaying the purpose of this meet.” The queen rose, leaning over her fingertips on the table.
“Our prince has returned from his duty beyond enemy gates.” Virki scoffed but did not interject.
My mother did not pause to indulge him and kept her voice steady.
“Fate has not gone as we thought, but the Norns rarely appease our desires. We are here to discuss the connection to the lost melder.”
“And Fillip’s death,” a man five seats down the table said in a sort of growl. “He slaughtered a man without cause.”
I leaned back in my chair, grinning. A wordless reply of how little guilt I harbored over Fillip’s death.
The queen frowned. “Without cause, Ubbe? Fillip went against my word. As deep as his loss will be felt, there was cause.”
Ubbe clenched a fist over the table but did not retort.
Virki slumped in his chair. “The more pressing matter is why our prince returns to us while the Jorvan prince he was commanded to slaughter still lives. Why does he step through the gates with a living melder, no less protective of her than before?”
My father’s brother held none of the gentleness of Vishon Thornwood. Where my father was playful, Virki was brutal. Where Vishon spoke with diplomacy, Virki demanded blood.
I did not know if he played a hand in Nivek’s death beyond his duty to report that the prince had smuggled the melder away, but I would not be held back if he’d been part of the slaughter.
“Roark.” My mother drew my attention. “How do you answer?”
Her expression was unreadable save for the glimmer of something like pain behind her eyes.
I hesitated for a breath, a little petulant with a desire to be wholly uncooperative to the people in the room. The longer I delayed, the longer Lyra was left with unknowns.
I smoothed the wrinkled parchment and penned the reply.
You expect me to despise the prince who saved my life when you all left me for dead. I do not. You expect me to forget a bond for which my brother died. For a time, your curse worked and I had no memory. But it was restored. What more do you wish me to say?
The council would want to know of Fadey and of Damir’s death. But if they knew Fadey desired Lyra for her power, if they knew what she could do with her craft, no mistake they would kill her and bring war to the gates of Jorvandal to finish Fadey.
The latter I did not mind, but Lyra’s life was not a game to be played.
My mother read my words out loud to the úlfur. Upon the final line, she closed her eyes, as though anticipating the shouts that followed.
“You should not have had the choice to even care for the melder,” Virki said, his voice harsh and sharp. “I want to know why the bond was restored.”
I popped one shoulder in a disinterested shrug, then laced my fingers over my middle, feigning indifference.
“Kaysar?” Virki faced a tall man with long features and a shorn head inked in runes. “You have nothing to say? It is your daughter who he forsakes for this so-called bond.”
Kaysar Fernclaw was a stoic man, thoughtful, quiet. The opposite of Brynn and Auki’s mother, who was warm and boisterous. At least what I recalled of her.
Brynn’s father studied me for a breath, like he could break beneath my skin and see every scornful thought. “If the soul bond is true, why would I submit my girl to a marriage where she is the interloper? She would be wed to the prince, but in truth be the mistress.”
Guilt was there. A mere bite of it. I would not betray Lyra for anything, but the image Kaysar created was true. Should Brynn and I be forced to wed, my heart, my soul, would never be hers. I would always belong to another.
No one deserved such a life.
“Good gods, have you all lost your damn minds?” Virki sneered. “Or perhaps I should place blame at the feet of the soul render, our very own queen.”
It was not often anyone spoke of the Draven queen’s ability to split souls. Like her craft was something sacred…or feared.
But Virki did not hold his tongue as he barreled on. “Was this connection restored because commands were not properly issued as agreed by the council?”
The queen snapped her attention to my uncle. “Speak clearly, Virki. If you wish to accuse me of treason, say it loudly and stand by it.”
“I merely wish to understand why our weapon”—he glared at me—“for that is what your soul was meant to be, boy. Why did it not scorch the Stonegate fortress from the inside out? I do not speak for myself alone when I say the thought of the melder remaining within our gates disgusts me.”