Chapter 22
Lyra
A feast was the last event I desired to attend. There was something dangerous brewing, not only here where the living walked, but also in the mirror. Fadey was growing stronger. How? I didn’t know, but we could not stop him, dining at Draven tables.
With a bit of nervous reluctance, I’d dressed in a finely woven wool gown, the hem lined in fur, with a bodice stitched in vibrant threads.
Roark looked the part of a prince. He’d secured his hair off his face with tight braids and beads made of polished bone. His tunic was so black the gleam of the torches did not even catch in the threads, and over his shoulders was a fur cloak, pinned with the double-headed raven.
I’d nearly broken his hand the nearer we got to the great hall. Moments before we entered, Roark paused, insisting one of my plaits had come undone.
There was nothing loose about my braids, but no doubt, he could see the touch of green rising on my cheeks, feel the sweat on my palms, or perhaps our bond gave up the torment and fear of my soul.
Didn’t matter. He gave me a reprieve, and I was grateful for it. The pause gave us time to further discuss the strange tether Fadey had fastened around me during the last visit to the mirror.
“Connections between souls are always burning through craft. They bind us to others,” Gunter whispered from his place leaning against the wall opposite us.
“We already went over this. Nothing about Fadey could form a soul connection to me.”
Gunter seemed unappeased, like something troubled him but he did not know how to speak it.
“I just don’t understand it. The moment I knew I was a soul weaver, I studied bonds.
How to form them, how to destroy them, how they can be manipulated.
All manner of wicked things, mind you. I wish I could’ve seen it to know how he’s managed to keep this tether to you. ”
“Yes, well, I feel much the same.”
Gunter glanced over his shoulder, watching for anyone beyond our small circle. Brynn, Auki, and Emi formed a subtle ring around us, always on guard.
In truth, it was endearing.
Roark had loyal friends before he was exiled. They remained so now, and it warmed my heart knowing that perhaps a touch of the agony he felt over losing Thane might be filled with Gunter, Brynn, and Auki.
When he was satisfied no one was listening in, Gunter faced me. “There are several ways to connect to a soul. A mother’s or father’s soul will have a connection to their child’s. Different than a soul bond, but a connection all the same.”
It is how the queen and I are still able to speak soul to soul, Roark gestured.
I nodded, silently urging Gunter to go on.
“Auki and Brynn have a connection as brother and sister. Each tether between them smells similar, so I know they share blood. That is part of my craft, I can find bonds between kin. Wedded souls would have different scents, especially if it is not a true soul bond that unites them as mates into Salur.” Gunter sniffed Emi with a touch of dramatics.
“Yes, you have several connections, Nightlark. One is almost as gamey as this sod’s”—Gunter tilted his chin at Roark—“so I know you share a small bit of blood as cousins. Your other bond is much sweeter.”
Emi’s mouth tightened and she looked away. Did Gunter speak of a connection to Princess Yrsa, the love Emi left behind in Stonegate?
“If there is no other connection between you, all I can assume is Fadey has a great deal of your blood for the queen to continually use in her spell casts,” Gunter said, but it was with reluctance.
Like he wasn’t certain he believed his own suggestion.
“It isn’t necessarily bad since the blood is finite. But don’t allow them to get more.”
Roark ran his knuckles down my arm, a signal we would need to enter, and took hold of my hand.
“Don’t let me fall,” I whispered.
He grinned and leaned down, pressing a kiss behind my ear.
Inside, the hall was decked in ribbons and fragrant vines. Rafters were wrapped in black satin, and a banner of the Dravenmoor sigil was draped behind the royal dais. Elisabet sat on a high-backed seat with thick pelts and furs over the arms.
Atop her head was a jagged circlet made of onyx steel, and every finger bore a ring of silver or jade. Her eyes were thickly lined in kohl, and her long fingernails had been painted the shade of purple midnight.
A formidable queen.
Voices hushed when we entered, but not as intensely as during our first entrance upon our arrival.
Roark’s shoulders were stiff and straight, and he strode forward with a sneer on his lip. I despised how he could not be free, not even among his own clan. Here meant bitterness, torture, and mistrust for my husband.
I did not know if the wounds carved into a young boy’s soul would ever truly heal.
Instinct urged me to drop my chin, to look at my feet and avoid every stare, but Emi nudged my ribs gently.
“You are Draven,” she whispered. “Royal, a powerful crafter, the wife of the future king. You look down for no one.”
Three pulses squeezed my palm. Roark did not look at me, but he was there, steady and sure. Not letting me fall.
I would do the same.
Elisabet rose from her seat and stepped to the edge of the dais. Roark pressed a palm to his chest and lowered his head.
We will greet the queen first, he’d told me earlier as we dressed. It is symbolic for her to invite us to sit with her. It shows that the queen accepts her heirs.
I dipped my head in a small bow the same as Roark, waiting. For too many breaths, Elisabet said nothing, she did not move.
I knew of her vow to Roark, but nowhere in the promise to keep me alive had she agreed not to humiliate me by not allowing me a seat at her side. Did I even desire a seat?
If the Norns had not been so vicious in their schemes, I would prefer if Roark and I had slipped away somewhere no one knew us. A simple life, perhaps a small cottage by the sea. Peaceful. Safe.
“Join me.” After a dozen heartbeats, the soft, low hum of Elisabet’s voice came. “Sit beside me, my son and heir. And…my daughter.”
A slow build of cheers echoed in the hall. Some horns clanked on the tables. Boots stomped over floorboards.
My heart dropped back into place when I stood. The word daughter had been said without emotion, flat and dull, but it was absent the bite of hatred.
Roark studied my face for a breath, a calm smile there to reassure me, but the hunter he was burned behind the ease. A man always on watch, always ready to strike, to slaughter should those he love be threatened.
Emi was seated protectively between Auki and Gunter at the smaller table nearest to the dais. Brynn stroked òlmr’s head, her watch on Virki, who had not bothered to look at the dais. His hooded stare was locked on his daughter.
I bit down on the inside of my cheek to stifle the smirk when Emi tilted her head, never lowering her eyes from her father, and took a methodical, slow drink from a horn.
She didn’t blink as she wiped her chin with the back of her hand, and there was a bit of delight in my chest when Virki was the one to relent first.
He turned away with a furrowed scowl and offered his scrutiny to one of the men who’d sat at the úlfur council table.
“Melder.”
I jolted when Elisabet touched my arm.
Roark frowned, and his hands moved swiftly and furiously. Address her properly.
Elisabet studied his ire, then faced me. “It breaks a mother’s heart not to hear her son. Would you mind?”
I swallowed, flashing a quick glare at my short-tempered husband. “He does not like me being addressed as Melder, my lady.”
Elisabet’s lip twitched. “Ah. Forgive me. Habit, you see. Lyra, you are to take Roark’s far side. I will take the other. The center is the symbol for the future crown. And you are to become king.” The queen spoke to Roark with a sharpness, almost scolding him.
We will see was all Roark gestured, but his hand was low to his side, meant for no one to see save me.
He handed me toward my seat and waited for me to settle, then his mother, before taking his place. Almost at once, Roark had a drinking horn in hand and slumped low. With a single glance one could guess that the prince desired to be anywhere but here.
I chuckled and leaned in to whisper. “This reminds me of when we were honored at Stonegate.”
I left out the reminder that the honor came from saving Prince Thane after he was attacked by Skul Drek. I did not think Roark had forgiven himself just yet.
He rolled his head to the side, speaking against my cheek boldly. When we both wanted to fall through the cracks of the floorboards to escape.
I chuckled, a bit of the tension leaving my chest. “We survived then, Ashwood. We will survive again.”
And we did survive, for a time.
Dravens feasted with more vigor than even Jorvans in Skalfirth. In Jarl Jakobson’s longhouse, I’d been knocked and shoved from the debauchery. Here, in the royal hall, Skalds sang tales to spritely lyres and drums.
Folk laughed and clapped the tables, stomping their feet to the tunes. More than one drunken fool shouted and tried to throw hands with another for some offense no one else knew until in the end both laughed, pouring more ale.
Gunter had a lovely woman with a heavy chest feeding him on his lap. Auki stood near the table with Emi, speaking and laughing with a few Dravens I guessed were members of the Dark Watch after I noted their blades and cowls.
Brynn had her chin propped on her knuckles, tipping back her horn with the other hand, watching a young couple kiss at the table across from her.
Folk would come to the dais. Mothers, fathers, children. They greeted their queen and their prince, offering gladness for his return and praising the gods he survived so many seasons behind Jorvan borders.
Roark returned stern nods, watching with a dark suspicion when his people engaged with me. More apprehension lived in their words when they offered a few “My lady”s or even “Lady Melder.”