Chapter 10 Thane
Thane
Stonegate Royal Keep, Jorvandal
The Stav Guard had only just returned to Stonegate and already the keep felt too crowded. Too filled with so many boastful asses who spoke like they’d defeated the whole of every kingdom.
Truth be told, they failed. Father was furious and had been holed away with Melder Fadey for the better part of two nights, likely plotting how they’d keep searching for the lost melder. Fadey’s obsession for another crafter with his same ability was only growing, and I didn’t understand it.
I leaned onto my elbows over the top of the stone wall.
Why did everyone care so fiercely if the melder was found?
We already had one who lived here. Fadey was a sod, but he served the Stav Guard well enough.
I understood there were treaties in place that gave Jorvans the right to melding craft, but it wasn’t like Dravens could craft soul bones the way we did in Jorvandal.
Still, the hunt for this damn melder had consumed each kingdom and it was growing rather dull.
Already, I’d written to Yrsa to complain. She’d likely feel the same. Her own father and the Myrdan Shield Riders had joined the raids. All that had come of it was the death of a Draven prince and more dangerous tension between kingdoms for the two of us to inherit someday.
My mood was sour and I was inclined to blame the whole of the Stav for causing me to be in such a state.
I propped my chin on my curled fist and glanced down. Breath caught in my chest. There, huddled beside the iron gates was a boy. By the molten hell.
I sprinted along the top of the wall. “A boy!” I shouted to two watchtower Stav Guard before descending the stone steps to the front courtyard.
“My Prince, wait.” One guard jolted into action and made a pathetic attempt to stop me.
“Open the gates,” I demanded. At the start of next season I would be fifteen, the age where my orders would be as valued as the king’s in many ways. Best to start practicing now.
“Prince Thane,” the second guard shouted. “We cannot open the gates when threats—”
I reeled around on the steps. “Open the damn gates. One of our own is trapped out there. Will you be the one to look him in the eyes in Salur and tell him you sacrificed him to the Dravens?”
It was a common thought in Jorvandal that in the hall of the gods one day we’d face any folk we betrayed, wounded, or mistreated. Truth be told, the notion of it stirred within me a sincere desire to be an honorable prince, a future king who fought alongside the Stav, who served his folk.
I wasn’t certain if the thought aided anyone else in doing right by the folk of Jorvandal, but when the Stav flinched, I suspected it might.
“One quick retrieval,” I said, voice low. “I’ll tell the king of your honor.”
The two men glanced at each other. Finally, one spoke. “Only if you have an escort.”
“Fine. Send a dozen to watch my royal ass, I care little, just open the gates.”
From the top of the wall, the watchmen summoned four Stav Guard below to escort me through.
Thick, wooden doors cast in long beams of iron and a jagged portcullis made up the front gate of the royal keep.
When the cranks pulled, rope snapped and hinges bellowed throughout the courtyard like a haunt in the night.
By my sides, I flicked my fingers in anticipation and hardly waited before darting out onto the road.
“This way,” I called over my shoulder.
The Stav Guard kept pace, blades out, strategically watching the distant trees.
I fought the urge to roll my eyes. The purpose of Stonegate was to be impenetrable.
The keep was raised on a knoll, surrounded by tall gates, with open roads where no one could truly hide for a hundred paces in every direction.
If some piece of the Draven army decided to attack, we’d have time aplenty to hide behind the walls.
I took the rocks with care, maneuvering along the edge of the wall just above the patrol pathways used by the guard during night watch. At the first curve, I found him.
By the molten hell, blood was everywhere.
Clearly a boy, smaller than me. He wore a simple tattered tunic and his feet were bare and bruised. I could not make out his face beneath the dark, matted strands of his hair spilled over his brow.
I swallowed bile, ignoring the way my insides curled. Doubtful the boy was still alive, and it spurred a taut disgust toward the Draven clan. What creatures would attack an innocent in such a way?
“Prince Thane,” one of the guards reached out a hand like he might stop me from approaching.
I waved him off and knelt beside the boy. By the hells, he was breathing. Barely, but he was alive.
I reeled around. “Get bone crafters! We’ll need tonics and healers. Hurry.”
I faced the boy again and gingerly pulled back some of the bloody hair off his face. He couldn’t be much younger than me. Across his throat was a gnarled gash. One that stretched from the side of his jaw, across his neck, then down to the opposite side of his chest.
Gods, how was he still living? Clearly, he’d been wounded and staggered to the gates seeking refuge.
My jaw tightened. And we’d left him out here, alone.
A small, garbled groan slipped from the boy’s lips.
“You’re safe now,” I whispered, one palm on his shoulder. “If you can hear me, you’re safe.”
Ice filled my veins when the boy cracked his swollen eyes, just enough to give up the shade—vibrant gold like liquid fire. Only one clan had such eyes.
He was Draven.
Thoughts swirled about, a little frenzied. An enemy was at our gates. Should I kill him? But why would a Draven boy come to Stonegate? How had he been injured? Blood drained from my face. Gods, had a Stav Guard attacked him? Were we the monsters who’d try to slaughter the innocent?
Motion at my back signaled healers and bone crafters were approaching with new Stav Guard. I used my fingertips to gently close his eyes, then leaned forward to whisper, “We’ll get you cleaned up, Draven.” When he slumped back, lost to sleep again, I finished with a soft, “You’re safe with me.”
Strange. I always thought if I faced a Draven I’d not hesitate to slaughter one. But a boy, injured in the raids, no doubt, brought me to pause at once.
For a moment an enemy did not seem so different from me.
The wound on the Draven’s throat was bandaged. His flesh had been scrubbed and his hair cleansed. Bone tonics had been forced down his throat, healers guiding the swallow while he slept, and it already seemed like the boy had a bit more color to his features.
Trouble was, he’d jolted awake during the healing once or twice. Word of his origins spread immediately. Only under my direct command did the bone crafters and Stonegate healers keep working on the Draven boy.
I sat beside the cot we’d arranged in a small chamber near the warmth of the cooking rooms.
“So, it is true. You’ve allowed filth into the keep.”
I spun around. My father filled the doorway. We shared the same pale hair, but my father had a russet beard braided down his chin and three piercings in each ear.
Damir was a king of strength and cunning. I would not call him a loving father, but I knew he did care for my wellbeing and ensured I would rise to be a proper heir. He and my mother were hardly able to stomach each other, but I cared for them both in their own ways.
My father was stern and hard to please, but he did not disregard my ideas merely because of my youth.
I stood and dipped my chin in respect. “Father. When I first went to the boy, I did not realize he was Draven.”
“But you did at one point.” The king stepped into the chamber, hands clasped behind his back. “So, tell me why he is here, Thane.”
How was I to explain reasons that made little sense? Because I felt like I ought to save him. Because for some reason it seemed the right thing to do. Because I see myself in a boy who did not ask for these damn battles.
I cleared my throat. “You’ve always taught me that we are a benevolent clan, unlike the clan of our enemies. I merely thought if a boy from Dravenmoor came to us as he was dying, we ought to prove our benevolence in action, not just words.”
I wasn’t certain the king believed my rapid explanation, but after a pause he stepped next to the cot, peering down at the boy. “Has he said how he was wounded?”
“He’s hardly been awake and said nothing each time. Do you think it was Stav Guard, Father?”
Damir’s jaw flicked. “In battle it is not always simple to distinguish where our strikes land. It is possible.”
“Then we owe it to him to heal him.”
“Hear this—I owe Dravens nothing.” My father’s voice had a bite to every word.
“Of course,” I said. “But he’s a boy.”
“And a Draven.”
“Father—”
“Don’t mince words, son.” Damir faced me abruptly. “Ask what you wish to ask and cease mollycoddling me. It’s beneath you. A king speaks the words he means and does not hide his intentions.”
I straightened my shoulders. “I don’t want to send him back out there. It’s unsafe, and he came for a reason. A hope that he might survive, even at the gates of his enemies. I want to know what happened to him.”
The king considered my words for a long moment. “Agreed. I wish to know what brought him to Stonegate. I want to know his House. I want to know his importance to Dravens.”
“And if he is of no consequence?” I understood what the king wanted. He wanted a pawn to use against the Draven folk.
“Then you may keep him. A servant. It will be a bright spot knowing a Draven bows to Jorvans. Might spur a bit of motivation for the Stav to see what we ultimately strive to do one day when the lost melder is found.”
“Thank you, Father.” I didn’t particularly revel in the notion of some servant boy being mocked, but I would deal with such things and adjust negotiations if he survived.
I wasn’t certain how long the king had been gone, or how many bone crafters had shuffled in and out of the chamber by the time the boy’s eyes opened, but my spine ached and my neck felt like a rod was jammed in one side.
The Draven shifted on the cot until his eyes went wide. In a frenzy, he clawed at the linen bindings we’d placed around his wrists to keep him from scratching at the bandages in his sleep.
“Don’t.” I jolted upright and pressed a hand to his arm. “It’s just to keep you from messing with your wound.”
His eyes narrowed at me and his lips moved, a silent formation of what seemed like the word Jorvan.
I gestured at myself. “I am Thane of House Oleg.”
The recognition was instant. The boy shifted away from me like I might strike him.
“You seem to already know I am the heir of Jorvandal. Not certain if I should be flattered you Dravens talk about me, or insulted you look like I might spread a disease your way.”
The boy arched a brow, as though confused.
I chuckled. “I’m the one who found you. I have the vow of the king that you won’t be harmed if you tell us why you came here. If you offer a good enough reason why we ought not to kill you.”
The boy glared at me with a touch of hatred, but part of me wondered if it was more because he was supposed to despise Jorvans. The same as I was supposed to despise Dravens.
His lips parted to speak, but no sound came out. The boy winced and tried again, then again. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back, fists tight at his sides.
“Can you not speak?”
The boy didn’t respond, merely faced away from me.
“I’ll ask a healer to come,” I said.
A bone crafter arrived shortly after and inspected the boy’s healing gash over his neck. I kept to the back of the chamber, fist pressed to my mouth, observing how the crafter used gentility even with a Draven.
After a thorough inspection, she offered the boy a small smile, then stepped next to me. “Your prediction seems correct, My Prince. Whatever injured him, well, I do not know if any tonic will restore his voice.”
A silent Draven.
I dismissed her with thanks and returned to the boy’s bed. He stared blankly at the ceiling. Doubtless, it was trying to learn his voice was lost. I did not understand the need to ease the burden. I did not know the boy, but something about him kept me at his side. Kept me caring.
“Listen, I know it seems challenging not to speak, but, look, we can find ways. Can you write any Jorvan words?” Languages were similar enough across the kingdoms there were few barriers with communication.
A few different terms here and there, but not enough councils were never had between royal houses.
The Draven looked at me and nodded.
“Good. See, we can communicate just fine for now.” I left the room for a breath and returned with a charcoal stick and parchment. “Why don’t we start with your name, then I must be honest—the king wants to know how you were injured and why you came here.”
Again, the boy nodded.
I released his hands and offered the parchment. His fingers trembled as he penned his responses.
When he turned over the parchment, I read the shaky symbols.
Roark Ashwood.
My folk.
Didn’t want Salur.
My stomach overturned. “Your own folk did this to you?” Did Dravens sacrifice their own to the gods?
The boy nodded and gestured for the parchment again.
Got in the way. Can’t remember more.
I understood some injuries left scars on the body, others were so painful, so horrid, they left scars on the brain, like a shield against the past. Perhaps they’d beaten him until his mind forgot.
“Do you recall your House, your folk? Do they have significance in Dravenmoor?”
Roark studied me for a breath, then shook his head. He wrote a single term. Farmers.
A farm boy who got in the way and nearly paid for it with his life.
Dravens were heathens.
I leaned over my knees, a grin on my face. “My father says you can stay here. I admit it might be in a service capacity, but we don’t mistreat servants, Roark. I swear it.”
He narrowed his eyes, then pointed at me.
“You want to serve me?”
He nodded.
“I don’t know why my father would mind. But we’ll figure all that out later.” I returned to the wooden chair and slumped down. “Focus on healing for now. I’ll keep watch. You’re going to have a brutal scar, you know. But I’ll tell you a secret, Jorvan girls love scars.”
I laughed, and it only deepened when little by little, Roark Ashwood, the enemy boy dying at the gates, grinned.