Chapter 2
A n incredulous scoff escaped her, eyes almost rolling out of habit, but the movement halted at the seriousness of his expression. Gone was the arrogance she saw earlier, replaced by cold boredom—making her call into question who exactly she had just stabbed.
She could feel the atmosphere around her shift as he drew closer—just like it does immediately before a lightning strike. He would be her keeper, but with fire thrumming in her eyes, she made it clear she would not be easily kept. Like daring to catch the aforementioned lightning with nothing but a bottle.
“Shall we?” he asked her with a sarcastic bow.
Her shoulders shifted in agitation, fighting against the truth that she was coming to accept. She was left with no choice but to follow him. Within a few steps, she realized she had been wrong before, the situation could get far worse. The gravestones that came into view were the proof. Her eyes darted across the markers that emerged from the ground like mournful wildflowers.
He stepped in close at her side, tilting his head to better view her horror at realizing she had washed up to a graveyard. “The Elders must have deemed this a convenient place to discard you,” he mocked, and whether he realized it or not, his words met their mark.
They had abandoned her in her short-lived quest, and she wondered if they decided to before she even left the shore. She wrapped her arms around herself, pulling tightly in hopes it would keep the tears that threatened to fall at bay. The confidence she had forged began to crack and was at risk of shattering entirely.
From behind, a heavy fur cloak came to rest around her shoulders.
“While I wouldn’t normally keep my charges warm, it hardly seems appropriate when they are, in fact, a helpless maiden. Besides, I’ve found myself… indisposed,” he said, glancing down at the tear in his tunic.
“Yes, because this thing has never seen blood,” she groaned under her breath with a grimace.
“Not mine,” he said with a sharp smile before turning around and heading into the field of granite in front of them.
If the significant disparity between their sizes was not apparent before, it became painfully evident as the cloak swallowed Emer whole. She had deemed him tall earlier, but suddenly, she felt so small—something he no doubt intended. When he looked over his shoulder to watch her trailing behind him, it banished any warmth she found under the cloak. The weight of it pressing on her shoulders became claustrophobic; the soft fur that lined it became too sharp against her cold skin. The earthy scent of it hung in the cold air around her, a mockery of warmer memories. Of oak barrels of whiskey and salt water.
Emer contemplatively strode behind him. If she attempted to run, it would be gambling with his patience. If she continued to follow him, it would be a gamble with his humanity. She never had the constitution for games of chance. Given the suspicions he clearly held and the fact that she had already raised a sword against him, she could hardly believe there was an outcome that didn’t end in a cell. She reminded herself again that a captive was better than a corpse.
The wind blew hard at their backs, pressing the knight’s thin tunic to his frame and revealing muscles sculpted from years of wielding a weapon. If they were not evidence enough of his battle-hardened nature, the fact that he was entirely unfazed by the wound she inflicted was. She continued to read his body like a book. His hair was as black as a raven’s feathers, his eyes were a piercing blue, and his accent left no doubt that she had arrived on Isle Basalt. Though what shore, in particular, eluded her. Regardless, she would not be welcomed.
The war between their two isles may have long been over, but the spilled blood that seeped into the soil cultivated deep roots of bitterness and hate.
The cause of the strife and lingering tension was always unclear to Emer. She often wondered if perhaps the Elder of War sought entertainment or the Elder of Endings company. The reason seemed to vary depending on who she asked and how much they'd had to drink.
Lachlan, only ten years Emer’s senior, was too young to have fought in the war himself but once told her that those who had returned no longer found comfort in the quiet meadows of their land. It was in the silence that their ghosts were the loudest.
Although minor forms of violence had never particularly bothered Emer, the thought of the lives lost in battle or the act of sending a soul across the Array was something she could not stomach. It was not an affliction her brother had, and when raids and disappearances began to plague their quiet corner of the realm shortly before their father’s health began to decline, he took up his sword like the warrior he was at heart—possessing a fearlessness she had always admired.
Fear was Emer’s constant companion, although she had not understood that was what it was at first. When she was young, she thought it was butterflies that stirred in her chest. As she grew older, the butterflies grew more restless and became a hum beneath her skin. A hum that occasionally felt so intense, she thought she might burst. Eventually, her fear became a part of her. A thick black thread woven through her spine that when pulled without warning, would draw her taught like a bowstring. When that happened, she found herself shuddering and tugging against the imaginary thread and the wrongness it stitched into every part of her.
The ever-watchful big brother, Finn, was all too aware of her twitchiness—a descriptor he used to describe the state that she seemed to be able to hide from everyone but him. It was one of the reasons why he taught her to fight all those years earlier. He knew it would be rather difficult for her to be lost in her mind if she was busy dodging his fists.
It became their routine. If Emer began to spiral, she and Finn would escape to the meadow and spar. Given the frequency of the episodes, the ritual resulted in her becoming quite proficient in hand-to-hand combat. She also learned how to wield a knife—something only her brother and a handful of overly touchy men knew.
As running away to the meadow with Finn was not always possible, she also became talented at painting her nervousness as something else… something acceptable.
Lies. Emer painted pretty lies.
It was remarkable how often her manner of coping with her internal turmoil was praised.
How mature she was.
How driven she was.
How accomplished she was.
But the reality was, she was scared, tired, and a little broken. Everyone saw the pearl, not the layers of toil and crushing weight that formed it. So, she continued to craft her nervous energy into more attractive things, doing everything she could to keep her nervousness at bay .
She was not brave like her brother, but she had pretended to be many things, and if she could deceive an entire village into thinking she was something she was not, surely she could trick one knight.
As if he managed to stalk her through the thoughts she wandered to, the knight turned to glare at her over his shoulder. Given that she was currently in a land famed for its abundant magic, it was within the realm of possibilities. She waited for the knight to turn his back once more, then she thought every foul thing her imagination could muster and married them with the types of curses that could make the Elders blush.
Nothing.
She released a breath.
The incline of the hill continued to increase, and soon, they were deep within the landscape’s lush green trees. The scene around them was a far cry from the land of fierce warriors and brutality from the stories. It almost reminded her of home. The sun cascaded through the leaves, creating a light show as the wind danced through the branches. A performance that had her thoroughly distracted. She could hardly reconcile how a place so pure and peaceful could exist in a land known only for its cruelty.
Her attention was snatched back by the sharp cry of a bird above. Shaking her head, she focused on the much more important task at hand. She needed to concoct a convincing story before they arrived to wherever it was that she was being led. There had been no signs of a port, merchants, or homes from the shore, and she hoped that the distance would work in her favor. A plausible explanation to satisfy the knight’s questions would need time. As would her plan to escape if her story failed. Almost as if the Elders caught on to her glimmer of hope, the trees began to clear, revealing the turrets and battlements of a keep.
High atop the rocky hill, the keep was an intimidating sight. What little sun there was bathed the pale stones of the otherwise cold structure, softening its harsh edges with a warm haze. Emer imagined its location offered a breathtaking view of the sea. A view that she was growing less confident she would ever see with each step.
Lost in thought, she had not seen the knight unsheathe the small throwing knife that was secured at his chest. The cold metal of that knife now twirled across his long fingers—a display blocked from view by his broad shoulders. His eyes ahead, but his attention on her.
Her feet halted, and she turned back to the woods. Before she even took a step, a strong hand gripped her wrist. Whirling her back to face him, she saw the blade of his knife tapping against his lips.
“I think not,” his voice rumbled.
The corner of his mouth tipped up only enough to reveal a sharp canine behind the blade. Turning the knife in his palm, he brought his hands to her shoulders. The movement caused her to startle back, but he held the cloak firmly in his hands, anchoring her in place. Glaring, he pulled the hood up and secured her hair from view.
He had been searching for answers that had been lost on the Isle of Rest for too long to let her slip through his grasp, but he could not simply walk her into the keep. Her copper hair was too red, and her eyes too bright. It took one look to know where she was from, and the men at the keep who had lived to see the war with her people would be far too eager to send her back home in pieces. Getting his answers meant keeping her to himself, which also meant keeping her hidden.
“Keep this up. Keep your eyes down. And, Elders above, do not decide to become chatty because I think you will find my company far more pleasant than theirs, ” he said, tipping his head towards the keep.
“Doubtful,” she hissed .
The knight rolled his head between his shoulders to assuage his frustration. He opened his eyes after a long blink, only to once again meet her defiant gaze. “You want to test me?” His stare intensified, and he bent his head low to meet hers. “Go ahead, Merrow… scream . But you alone will have to deal with what answers your call.” His words sent a chill across her skin that rivaled the waves she had emerged from.
While she was under no illusion that she was safe in his charge, he had not harmed her despite having ample opportunity. Discretion could work in her favor. No one could be bothered to hunt a ghost. She pressed her lips closed and stood in silent agreement.
“Come,” he commanded.
With her eyes turned to the ground, she followed. The stones of the keep’s courtyard were uneven beneath her already unsteady feet. The smell of smoke filled her lungs. It was not the scent she recognized from the hearth at home—this smoke was heavier and almost acidic. Soon, the smell was accompanied by the sharp sound of metal striking metal.
A forge .
Beyond the noise of the smith, she could hear the murmuring of conversations. Gruff and throaty voices grew louder with each step.
Fear gnawed at Emer who knew the men around her would likely not take kindly to her presence, let alone the fact that she was only there because her attempts at stealth had failed. A crime they would all gladly see her ashes scattered in the wind for.
She jumped at a sudden sharp hiss from nearby and it took her a moment to realize it was the sound of molten metal being plunged into cold water—not the terrible beast she had created in her mind.
The atmosphere felt charged by unstable energy and yet colder than it was outside. Despite the chilled air filling her lungs, her skin felt scorched and her palms damp. She could hardly focus her thoughts on anything but the unpleasant hum in her veins, ringing like the heated metal of the forge.
“Calder, it appears you have a shadow,” a deep voice sounded.
The knight stopped, and she slammed into his back. The impact was solid, but he did not stumble or acknowledge it apart from a breathy exhale before he greeted the man who spoke.
Calder… his name is Calder.
She silently formed the word, unable to decide if it suited him, and then quickly dismissing the thought as it hardly seemed relevant given the circumstances.
“Have we begun recruiting children?” the man asked.
Calder’s hands were crossed behind his back, and one of them twitched as if he felt she needed a reminder not to speak. As though the insult to her height were cause enough to correct the man and instead offer her candidacy for torture and imprisonment.
“An informant and potential witness that I have brought to the keep for questioning. I would like to avoid whispers of their contributions, given that they have valuable information regarding some of the recent raids,” he said in a hushed tone meant only for the man who had stopped them.
He lied.
“They experienced some hardship on their journey and will likely need to remain for a time,” Calder continued.
She couldn’t hear the man’s response over the beating of her own heart. His charming tone poured from his lips with unbelievable sincerity, but she knew them for what they were—wholly and beautifully fabricated. His own pretty lies. She suddenly took little comfort in being his secret, and the urge to run, to scream, to do something became overwhelming. However, the understanding that she was outnumbered and unwelcome had her paralyzed with indecision .
Calder seized a moment of his peers’ distraction to step closer to Emer. His hands, having been clasped behind his back, quickly found her wrist through the slit in the cloak.
“Don’t,” he growled over his shoulder.
His grip was firm with warning but not painful. Clearing his throat, he returned his attention to the other man but did not remove his hand.
Shortly after, they exchanged goodbyes. He tugged against her wrist, leading her toward a set of stairs at the end of a hall. Emer tried to remain focused, to orient herself on the layout of the keep, but her mind kept returning to the same question.
Why did he lie?
As was typical, the uncertainty led the way to a spiraling torrent of thoughts. Her mind betrayed her, for when she shook free from the fog of fear, she could no longer remember how many corners they rounded nor how many sets of stairs they climbed. She needed to focus. As far as everyone else was concerned, she was not a threat, and that meant she didn’t have to take down all the knights of the keep.
Just Calder.
They approached a door, which opened with a haunting creak.
“Go,” he demanded.