Chapter 12
Roark
I could recall every moment in the shadows where my darker soul resided, a thing I’d never been able to do well before. Now every word spoken between my soul and the queen’s was in my mind, as though I’d been in two places at once.
Strange, a little unsettling, but there was a power that came from knowing my own brutality was now mine to control.
I glanced at Lyra. I would need to tell her everything.
The trouble with recalling the words spoken with the queen was that I knew what she’d insinuated as a solution to keep Lyra safe while we plotted how to hunt the bones.
Somewhere low in my gut was a tangle of barbs.
After all that had happened between us, no mistake, Lyra Bien would not be pleased with the proposition.
Then again, she trusted me in the ravines, and she’d gone toward my darkness when the archers attacked.
Her hand was nestled tightly in my palm, her body close, as we strode to the east wing of the royal house. Tapestries of fara wolves and black willows lined the corridor. A divot in one wall drew a reluctant grin at the memory.
I’d thrown a pigskin ball at Gunter, and the sod had been distracted by movement in the courtyard and missed the throw. Instead, our ball struck a favored clay basin of my mother’s. It shattered against the wall and left a small divot in the wood from the force.
I turned away from the mark. Haunts lived in these corridors. Memories of a life long gone, a time when all I feared was whether playmates would make a fool of me on the sparring field.
We rounded the corner, and I came to a halt, my breath trapped in my chest.
“What is it?” Lyra squeezed my palm, on instinct or with purpose, I didn’t know.
I didn’t respond for a few heartbeats, lost to the onslaught of pain.
The door was carved in the shape of a kvistr tree, a towering, rare oak with lavender leaves that only grew along the ridges of Dravenmoor. Lore of the land insisted the shade of the branches would deepen to satin black in the presence of royal blood. A signal the gods approved of the royal house.
As a boy, my mother would whisper tales of the days she and my father took Nivek and me as babes to the tallest kvistr.
Doubtless she took liberties with how rich the shade of leaves appeared, but she’d insisted that the purple had deepened to a pure pitch, that there was never a doubt her sons were the pride of the gods.
A thick board locked the door from the corridor. How long had it gone unopened? Since that night? No mistake, to enter was too painful, too raw.
“Roark?”
I tore my attention from the door and moved down the corridor, one hand giving a simple response. My brother’s chamber.
Lyra looked over her shoulder but remained silent until we reached another door. It was arched much the same, but carved along the edges were blades and round shields with runes in the center.
The second prince was always the hope of the Dark Watch. Nivek was to claim the throne, and I was to one day lead our armies.
How cruelly the Norns of fate had twisted our tales.
Walking into the second chamber felt a great deal like stepping through a door to the past. Against the wall was a large bed that I’d always felt swallowed me whole with its size. Shelves held small daggers, runes on wooden pieces, and strange colorful stones I’d loved to collect near the river.
Wooden drawers were covered in a layer of dust, untouched. A few larger axes and swords were stacked in the corner, along with folded trousers, boots, and tunics meant for a man.
For the days my clan anticipated my return from Stonegate. No doubt they’d hoped I would return with the melder’s head, not my heart in her hands.
Dark shades were drawn, and I made quick work of lighting several tallow candles along a table. To let in the natural light by opening the shades would offer anyone who wanted Lyra dead a chance to retaliate, much like the bastards in the courtyard.
“What is this?” Lyra’s tone held a laugh. Near a small stool tucked under a narrow desk topped in quills and charcoal sticks, she touched a few rice parchment sheets.
Skin prickled on the back of my neck.
Lyra lifted one piece of parchment, revealing a childish drawing of a black willow, a warrior with a too-large battle-ax, and a fara wolf with fangs coated in blood.
The grass beneath the oblong boots appeared like spikes more than anything, and the sun was horridly twisted in the corner of the sheet. I’d drawn a bleeding face in the golden sphere, attempting to show the gods’ pleasure.
Lyra’s eyes gleamed, the candlelight catching the silver scars through each center. “Is this meant to be you?”
I leaned against the wall, intent on concealing the disquiet of having her in this space, a place so familiar and so disconcerting all at once. Do you not see the resemblance?
“I see you were always inclined to swing a blade. Did you have a fara?”
Her finger tapped the sticklike wolf.
I shook my head. Fara wolves are often bonded to a Draven in their fifteenth season.
Her face fell in a touch of sadness, but she nodded. “Perhaps you can bond with one now.”
I cared only for one bond.
When Lyra turned, I crossed the room, my chest to her back. A shudder rolled through her shoulders. Her breaths quickened. She didn’t move away.
My fingers pinched the end of her braid, stroking the long waves, damp and dirty from the journey. Gods, I wanted to breathe her in. But there was more to discuss, more plans to make.
And my clothes, my skin, nearly every surface of me was coated in gore and sweat and the reek of days without a bit of soap.
I spoke by lifting one of her palms and tracing my fingers over her skin. Do you wish to wash?
“If that is some subtle way of telling me I smell, Roark Ashwood, I do hope you take a moment to look at yourself.”
I grinned, went to the heavy door at the back of the room, and opened an arm to usher her inside. One thing Draven folk do well is their washrooms.
Lyra hesitated. “I might cry if I could wash, but…alone.”
I hid the jolt of disappointment through a nod. No mistake, I desired to be anywhere she was, and if fewer clothes were between us, all the better. But I would not touch her again until every secret, every truth was brought to light.
If what I intended to happen was to be successful, trust would be needed.
There is more than one chamber, I replied.
Lyra slid past me into a narrow corridor made of marble stones. We strode in silence until we reached another doorway. She released a long sigh when a wall of damp, steamy air struck our faces.
The bath chambers were concealed well from the main house. Certain rooms would be left empty for the royals, others for the úlfur and high-ranking Dark Watch.
Incense and heat dug into my skin, my lungs, and for a moment, it felt peaceful.
Near an opening at the end of the royal bathing rooms, I paused, resting a hand on the small of Lyra’s back before leading her inside. Damp stones arched overhead, and fragrant oils and herbs burned through the humid air.
Lyra’s lips parted with a delighted sort of smile when she took in the room. It was small and round; every wall was covered in stone shelves with folded linens. In the center was a blue pool, clear as crystal.
“How is it heated?” Lyra knelt and touched the surface of the water.
The royal house is built beside natural hot springs, I explained.
Long ago, folk figured how to channel some of the springs to use as bathhouses.
I moved toward one wall, where a spigot with a latch over the mouth stuck out from the wall.
With a simple twist, I opened the spout, allowing in more steam. You can heat the room as you please.
Lyra’s shoulders slouched in a bit of relief. “By the gods, I think I will choose to remain, even if the whole of the palace wishes to slit my throat, if it means I have a washroom like this every day.”
I stepped out of the room, pausing until she looked to my hands. I will use the next chamber over. Then we will talk?
“I only wish to speak if there are no more lies, no secrets.”
I will tell you everything I know.
Her eyes were wet when she looked at me again. “You stole my heart, then you broke it. Perhaps it is not fair of me to blame you when I know much was out of your control, but whatever had grown between us now feels cracked. We will talk, but I do not know what happens next.”
Give me a blade to the belly, an arrow to the chest. Give it all over, knowing I hurt Lyra Bien.
With a dip to my chin, I left her in the wash chamber and went to my own. Salts, oils, and soap chips were aligned in baskets for use. I sank into the pool and scrubbed Fillip’s blood off my body until my skin burned.
Once finished, I found Lyra back in my old bedchamber, hugging one of the bed pillows.
The woman was here to torture me, no doubt.
She was dressed in one of my tunics. The hem struck just above her knees, and one sleeve slipped off her shoulder.
Her damp hair was loose and long down her back, and I had to clench my damn fist to keep from curling my fingers around the locks.
I made a sound in my throat, drawing her attention. Cheeks flushed, she tugged at the hem of the tunic. “I did not have anything else to wear, and after the journey, I think that dress ought to be burned.”
I smiled and stepped against her, a curl to my lip. It suits you.
Lyra nudged her palm against my chest, pushing me back. “I said we’d speak plainly. Can you do so without all your honeyed words muddling my thoughts?”
I do not have a voice.
With a scoff, she shook her head. “You have voice aplenty. And you are trying to seduce or soften me toward you. Stop it.”
I refuse. And I’m a prince, so you cannot command me.
For a moment, I thought she might get angry, or at the least, agitated. Instead, Lyra’s lips parted in feigned stun and…she laughed. “Oh, forgive me”—Lyra bent at the waist in a mock bow—“Prince Ashwood.”