Chapter 22 #2
One tiny girl with fiery red braids stood on her toes, her chin barely reaching over the table. After her mother and father had moved back into the crowds, the child slyly slid a broken blade across the table.
The knife was dull, not sharp enough to break skin, but the hilt was lovely. Rune etched, with painted vines around the end, and horridly cracked.
“Mam says…she says you stick the bones,” she said through a gap in her teeth. The girl kept glancing over her shoulder, like she did not want her parents to return. “Can you stick ’em back together, sùlka?”
Roark sat straighter, intrigued.
I leaned forward. “You want me to fix your blade?”
The girl flashed a wide smile. “Will you? My grandpap made it for me.”
She wanted me to meld. Here. In front of everyone. Roark’s mouth tightened, but he did not signal me to stop.
I pressed my fingertips to the crack across the bone hilt. The roar of craft thudded between my ears, pulsed in my blood. Each use summoned the magic more swiftly and firmly, like another instinct I could reach in and access as simply as I could smell a bloom.
Along the shards of the crack, glimmers of threads emerged from the bone. Filaments that waved as though underwater. It would not take much time, but the girl ogled my fingers with such awe, I wanted it to last.
The child couldn’t see the gilded strings of craft, but she watched the movement of my fingers stitching along her blade. Little by little, the crack sealed until only a faint scar remained where the fissure had split.
She squealed with glee when she inspected the blade.
Dozens of heads turned our way.
“Oh, many thanks, sùlka.” The child waved her dull blade and hopped off the dais. “Mam! You was right! She stuck it back together!”
I sent a prayer to the gods to swallow me into the molten hell when a few murmurs followed the girl and looks of stun found me again.
Beneath the table Roark squeezed my thigh, but his expression was shadowed, pinned on the great hall, as though daring anyone to confront me for using my horrid craft.
Elisabet sat back in her chair, sipping her dark wine, a gleam in her eye. One I hoped was more from amusement that my vicious craft had done the unthinkable—fixed a child’s toy.
“Well.” Emi approached once attention was pulled away from us again, one hand on the high table. “I suppose that was one way to reveal your craft.”
“I couldn’t say no. She has been the only one unafraid of me.”
Emi lowered her voice. “Perhaps our clan can take a lesson from a babe and grow some damn balls around you.”
I choked on a gulp of my drink and had to shield the dribble and laughter behind my hand.
When Elisabet stood and pounded the end of her horn on the table, I was glad for it. The attention of the hall shifted to the queen.
“It is no secret why we are here.” The queen hesitated. “The Norns often twist paths of fate in unseen ways. We are here to acknowledge and accept that our prince has sealed his soul bond with Lyra of House Bien. The melder.”
Silence brought heady disquiet that came from behind and throttled me until it felt as though I could not draw in a deep enough breath.
Then, slowly, fists pounded over chests. A few calls of approval echoed across the hall. Rowdy cheers grew, and stacked on one another, until the room rumbled in celebratory shouts.
My face heated. I leaned nearer to Roark, slipping my fingers through his still digging into my thigh.
Elisabet held up a palm. “For seasons, Jorvans have used melders, forcing them toward corruption. It would be ungrateful of our people to disregard a blessing of the gods that brings the melder to our lands now. Instead of a pawn in their hands, she is now numbered among us.”
More cheers.
Gods. There was an unspoken need I had not realized lived inside me. The yearning to be accepted, to have a place in this wretched world. In Skalfirth, I had a home with Thorian, Selena, and Kael. To others, I was nothing.
In Stonegate, I was to be used, corrupted. I could not be Lyra.
Not until the Sentry stood at my side.
Not until the Jorvan prince told me I could be free with them behind the doors.
Only then did I begin to feel like I mattered more than my craft.
To hear the call of acceptance from folk who rather despised my craft meant something. It meant a great deal.
“It is time to make her new house official.”
My pulse quickened when Elisabet led a burly man forward. He had endless black ink decorating his skin, a beard to his navel, and half a dozen piercings in each ear.
“The house sigil is different across the lands, but no less important.”
My fingers touched the raised brand behind my ear. Gammal had reshaped the sigil of House Bien long ago. Dravens marked their skin similarly, but more with blessings of their house, runes and symbols for the life their folk hoped they might live.
The choice is yours. Roark gestured low so only I could read the movements of his hands.
I swallowed, then stroked the back of his neck where the faded runes of his house marks remained. “Am I part of your house, Roark Ashwood?”
His eyes flickered like hot coals. You are part of everything.
I pressed a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth and rose from my seat. Roark followed, as did Brynn, Emi, and Auki. Gunter scrambled to follow, nearly tossing the voluptuous woman on his lap to the floor.
I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Not only did my husband and his depraved soul prowl around me, now it seemed so, too, did my personal band of Dravens.
“Well, where are we puttin’ it, Melder?” The man held a narrow iron stake he would pound into my flesh. His cheeks filled with a bit of red when he looked at Roark.
By the frosted hell. Darkness cloaked Roark’s shoulders. The man could hardly hold in his chaos. Did he not recall the risk of constantly dividing his soul?
“Roark.” I touched his arm. “Stop.”
He speaks down to you.
I scoffed and whispered against his ear. “It’s possible some folk don’t even know my name. You can’t devour their souls for something they don’t know.”
So you think. His eyes narrowed at the man, but his shoulders lost a bit of the tension.
The inkist had his back turned away and likely missed the moment his prince considered tearing his soul to shreds for not speaking my given name.
I cleared my throat and approached him when his tools were laid out. “I am Lyra.”
One of his thick brows rose. “Ikard Willowvane.” He sniffed, brisk and wholly unaware of his temperament. “Well, where’ll you have it? Aches on the ribs, throat, and belly. I suggest for a lady like you, shoulders, breast—”
Roark grunted, one fist clenched.
I grinned at Ikard. “What about between the shoulders?”
“Suits me. Sit and tug down the dress a bit.”
Eyes tight, Roark stepped between Ikard and me, waiting for the man to stand back before he unlaced the back of my gown, just enough so the top of my spine was exposed.
“Your jealousy is going to get folk killed,” I murmured.
Not jealous. The corner of his mouth curved when he spoke with one hand. Protective of what’s mine.
The final tap was soft against my cheek before Roark took his place in front of me.
I would not whimper in front of the entire hall of Dravenmoor.
I. Would. Not. Whimper.
With every notch of the iron and ink against my skin, I repeated the words. Ikard was skilled at his trade, but no amount of gentility with the spike and mallet would ever make new ink comfortable.
It took another bell toll before Ikard stepped back and asked for the prince to inspect his work. Roark’s callused fingertips traced the edges of my sore flesh, and he gave a nod of approval.
“Fits you, Ly,” Emi said, beaming.
“I would’ve gone with mischief or something there on the final mark,” Gunter offered. “But perhaps your house doesn’t have the stomach for any more trouble.”
“What are the runes?” I asked.
Honor, wisdom, bravery, and cunning. Roark pressed a kiss to my shoulder, then took hold of my hand, drawing us toward the front of the dais.
Those who observed cheered while others lost themselves in their cups or returned to feasting.
For a moment, this hall, these people, it felt a bit like a…home.
The doors banged open. A formidable hush fell across the feast. Two Dark Watch warriors, windblown and weary, shoved into the hall. Heavy steps and long strides had both men to the dais in moments.
“My queen.” One man dipped his chin. “Scouts have brought news from the borders.”
My heart leapt to my throat.
Elisabet clasped her hands in front of her body. “What’s happened?”
The second guard cast a hesitant look toward me and Roark as his companion hurried on.
“The Jorvan king is dead.” Gasps echoed against the rafters. The guard swallowed and went on. “Our folk tell us the Jorvandal Stav Guard search for the melder along the ravines, not for use of craft, but because she is the king’s killer.”