Chapter 21
Harper
The Hollowborn don’t lead us into the heart of a fortress, or a cavern full of skulls, or the dark, whispery tunnels I half expect.
They lead us up to the top of the hill by the sacred pools, then down a slope where there’s just…
a town perched at the edge of the ocean, black-stoned and smudged with salt.
The buildings are low and squat, made from the same glassy stone as the cliffs, but their roofs are patched with sea-grass, their doors painted a weird array of bright colors.
It’s so normal it throws me off my stride.
The Hollowborn who met us at the lava pools surround us, all in their skull face paint, but no one here seems frightened by us as much as they seem curious about who we are, while still being busy with their own lives.
There’s just too much going on… nets full of glistening, translucent fish being hauled up by grumbling men with arms like tree trunks, women in wraps and loose pants shoving baskets of seaweed into buckets, kids running wild, hair wind-whipped, feet blackened by dust and sand.
The older kids are clambering on the rocks by the tide pools, daring each other to jump in.
The littler ones chase something that looks like a featherless chicken, screaming with laughter as it outmaneuvers them with comical ease.
I slow down, mouth open, and Lucien almost collides with me. “Is this—” he starts, then stops, because for once, he doesn’t know what to say.
Alaric gives a low whistle. “I thought they’d live in caves.”
Gareth grins. “I thought they’d eat children.” He points at the pack of kids. “Guess not.”
Sevrin laughs. “We’re not the Dravari…”
I shove him, and he grins at me.
The air smells like smoke and brine and like something being pickled.
I’m so busy staring at the unexpected normalcy—there’s even a laundry line strung between poles, a pub with a crooked sign, and a guy hawking shell necklaces on the corner—that I almost miss the shifting emotions around us.
The deeper we get in the village, the more people stare.
Not angry. Not scared. Just… wary. Measuring.
None of them wear the bone-white paint, and only some of them have weapons.
They look, for all intents and purposes, like the neighbors I grew up with, if all the male neighbors had shaved heads and wore nothing but black and silver.
But while the men are mostly bald, the women’s hair has been shaved at the sides but left long on top, twisted into braids or ponytails.
Every single one of them is tanned, their eyes yellow, gold, or copper.
Kids slowly begin to swarm us, curious and fearless. The smallest, a girl with missing front teeth, tugs at my sleeve and asks, “How is your hair so golden?”
“I was blessed by the gods,” I tell her, grinning.
She beams and runs off, probably to spread a rumor that will last for years to come.
Sevrin leans in, voice low. “They’ve never seen real Dravari before. Only stories. And the stories are… not flattering. I think most of these kids think you’re something else. Something they’ve never heard about before.”
“I guess that might be better than them knowing we’re Dravari,” I joke.
He smiles.
We walk on, trailing a mixed parade of warriors, princes, and kids.
We come across the black sand beach. Dozens of boats, each a different shape, some long and sharp as needles, some squat and round, bob on the water.
The harbor’s a patchwork of wharves and docks, planks warped by centuries of salt and tide.
Fishermen argue, hands waving like birds.
I glance at Alaric. He’s squinting at the boats, probably calculating exactly how they’re different from our boats. “These are impressive. I feel like these would be both faster and more durable than our boats.”
Lucien elbows him. “Too bad the sea monsters won’t let anything cross to our lands, or we could see how our boats would compete.”
Gareth shakes his head. “It might be a good thing that that’s not possible.”
Sevrin gives them a serious look and says, “We could definitely destroy you.”
I don’t know what to say. This isn’t what I imagined. I thought Sevrin’s home would be a wasteland, full of ghosts and sorrow. Instead, it’s alive, loud, and beautiful.
We pass a garden, a literal garden, boxed in with sea rock, full of fat-leafed succulents and stunted tomato plants, and I stop dead. There’s an old woman on her knees, tending the tiny patch, singing under her breath.
There are plants here. Actual plants.
“Keep going, up this way,” Sevrin says. “My mother and sisters are at our house just up ahead.”
His mother and sisters? Of course they’d be here. Why hadn’t I thought of that?
Nervous, I dust off my clothes and try to fix my hair. This is the first time I’m meeting his family, and maybe the last time. I want to make a good impression. I want them to know that when he leaves here with me, he’ll be safe and loved.
“They’ll love you.”
I jerk and see Sevrin watching me.
“I’m fine.”
He grins. “Are you?”
Not really.
“Okay, I’m a little nervous,” I admit.
“I’ll be here with you. Just remember that.”
“Will you be here for me too, big boy?” Lucien asks, fluttering his lashes.
I groan and punch him in the arm, but at least I’m smiling now.
The path climbs a tall hill, and there it is, a long, low house, black as oil, with a roofline like the blade of a knife.
The walls are decorated with bones, not human, but small ones from fish, birds, and something with too many legs.
There are runes painted over the doorway, looping and sharp, and a large flag.
Sevrin squares his shoulders and marches up, taking the steps rapidly. I get the feeling he’s preparing himself for something, but I’m not entirely sure what. Which brings a nervous flutter to my stomach. At the top, the door opens before he can knock.
A woman stands in the doorway. She’s maybe thirty, maybe twenty; it’s hard to tell, because she’s carved out of muscle and fury and something else that I can’t quite name.
Her hair is black, tied back in a brutal braid, and the sides of her head are closely shaved.
Her skin is the same shade as Sevrin’s, her eyes the exact same gold.
She’s wearing leather armor that’s battered, patched, and streaked with old blood. There’s a wicked knife at her belt, and a string of beads and teeth around her neck. She looks Sevrin up and down, then says, “Finally.”
He grins. “Oh, sister, did you miss me that much?”
She lunges forward and hugs him, so hard that it looks like it knocks the wind out of both of them. “Asshole,” she mutters. “Glad you’re not dead.”
He hugs her back. “Me too.”
She pulls away and fixes her gaze on us, on me, on the princes, on the kids that followed us up here. “Who are they?” she asks, voice clipped.
“The men are part of our bond. My bride’s other husbands.” Sevrin points to the princes, one by one. “Prince Alaric. Prince Lucien. Prince Gareth.”
Each gets a look, a glare, a grunt, followed by, “I’m Princess Aeralyn.”
“And this,” he says, turning to me, “is my wife, Queen Harper.”
You could hit a tree with a thunderbolt, and it wouldn’t be as loud as the silence that follows.
The woman stares at me, eyes narrowing to knife slits. She says nothing. For a second, I think maybe she didn’t hear. Then she nods, once, sharply. “You picked a good one,” she says. “Strong nose. A fighter’s stance.”
I smile. “Thank you?”
She grins. “Welcome to Volcaris, sister.”
Before I can process that, there are footsteps behind her and two more women spill out onto the porch.
One is shorter, bright-eyed, her long hair brushed lovingly over her shoulders; the other is older, at least in her fifties or sixties, with a mane of curls and a curious expression. Both have Sevrin’s eyes.
The younger one, a woman in her thirties, I think, shrieks, “Sevrin!” and throws her arms around Sevrin, nearly taking him off his feet.
The older one shakes her head, but her lips twitch. “He’s not just back, Isaris. He’s brought company.”
Isaris looks me up and down, then sniffs. “Is she… your wife?”
Sevrin looks at me, then at her, and says, “She is. She’s a dragon rider. And a warrior.”
Isaris’s jaw drops. “No way.”
“Yes way,” I say, and she laughs, delighted.
The other woman, who I’m guessing is Sevrin’s mother, walks over and takes my hands in hers. Her palms are rough, scarred, but her grip is gentle. “Queen Mariswen,” she says. “Thank you for not letting my son get himself killed.”
I blush. “He did most of the work himself.”
She gives me a look I recognize, maternal, bone-deep, endlessly patient. “No one does anything alone.”
I’m still clutching her hands when Princess Aeralyn, the first woman, says, “You’re not afraid of us.”
It’s not a question, but I treat it as one anyway.
I shake my head. “No.”
She bares her teeth. “Good.” Then she turns to Sevrin and punches his shoulder roughly. “You said if you returned with a wife, with Dravari and dragons, you were successful in your goal. I guess you were successful.”
He shrugs, as if this is the most reasonable thing in the world. “I was successful with the treaty, but also successful in making this family.”
Princess Aeralyn makes a face, but then her eyes land on Lucien, and she tips her head. “You look like what I’d expect of a Dravari prince.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” he asks.
His sister looks away without answering. “Well, welcome, all of you. Won’t you please come in and accept our hospitality?”
They usher us inside, into a main hall that’s both intimidating and weirdly cozy.
The walls are hung with nets and spears, skulls of fish and birds, and a few odd bits of what might be dragon scale.
The floor is clean, swept, covered in faded rugs.
There’s a long table down the middle, crowded with dried fish and something that looks like pickled eggs. The smell is sharp, but not unpleasant.