Page 6 of White Raven

Brynden’s long white-blond hair was intricately braided and tied back, and his full smile and bright blue eyes captured my attention. Brynden was pleasantly handsome compared to the many others who had offered themselves in marriage. It wasn’t a terribly high bar, since most were older than my father. Though his constant smile and bewildered expression made him appear none too sharp—which was funny, since his family was the top fabricator of swords and arrow tips.

“Your Majesty.” Brynden bowed his head to the king and then to me. “White Raven. I offer this sacrifice to Huginn and Muninn in hopes they bless us with a happy union.” He smiled bigger as he took one of their specially designed knives to the animal’s throat with a proud glee. The pig’s squeal ripped at my chest, the pained sound wiping out any favor I held for him. Did Huginn and Muninn really want a pig to die in their name? Wasn’t it more blood spilling onto the soil? When did they say they needed swine or rabbit’s blood to keep them appeased?

I watched in horror as the pig struggled and whined, fighting the urge to leap off the dais, tackling the eldest son and preventing him from taking the poor animal’s life.

“My daughter appreciates your sacrifice.” The king’s voice was tight, his thumb digging into my skin.

“Yes.” I cleared my throat, forcing a smile onto my face. All eyes were on me, the king’s court watching the spectacle with fascination, a play put on in their honor instead of ours. Father and I sat on a platform like performers, the snowy castle and forest behind us like a backdrop. “I thank you.”

King Stallard snapped his fingers to the thralls standing at attention behind his fur-lined chair, ready at his beck and call.

Lost in my thoughts, my head jerked when two figures moved into the periphery of my vision, their dark features a scream of color in a pale world. My spine straightened when the two Northerners walked toward the dead animals.

The shorter one still had to be well over six feet tall, with a heavy limp in his gait. His dark hair was cut short to his head, revealing his round face, discolored cheek, and mutilation running down the back of his neck, disappearing under his tunic.

Yet it was the one in front my gaze was drawn to. Taller by several inches, his broad shoulders strained at the grey tunic, his thighs stretching his breeches. I recognized him as the thrall I had encountered in the hallway. Standing up, he was more massive than I’d thought, and his chiseled face and intense gaze made him seem more vicious than others. No doubt, if given the chance, he would slaughter every man, woman, and child here.

By the glare directed my way, he would start with me.

The Night Ravens were known to be barbaric and cruel. They captured Day Ravens to torture for fun. I grew up hearing horror stories, the brutality in how they hunted us near the border of our lands. My father declared it was only fair that we took them as obligatory thralls. At least we didn’t murder them for sport.

“They are here to kill us, Wren. They want to see our kind destroyed like the Leatherwings,” he would state. “After the divide they changed, became vicious ruffians. You can never trust a Night Raven. Ever. You hear me?”

“Yes, Father.”

“No, repeat what I said.”

“You can’t ever trust a Night Raven.”

“You ever encounter one coming for you . . .” He leaned in. “Do not hesitate. They are soulless fiends. You kill them before they kill you.”

The way my father talked about the Night Ravens and King Gavric, it seemed so preposterous we were ever allies with them. Being in constant darkness did that to them? Corroded their minds?

My fingers clenched into balls, watching the two Northerners pick up the carcasses, blood and entrails smearing down their tunics. The thrall from earlier tossed the large swine over his shoulder with little effort, his jet-black eyes lifting from the ground to me. Covered in guts, his feral stare pierced me like a dagger. As if he just stepped out from a bloody battle, and I was the last of his kill. The glower he sent was a wish that the carcass over his shoulder was me.

The same buzz hummed in my chest from earlier, the same unsteady feeling. With it came the same disgust and outrage at his boldness.

I do not back down to lowly thralls, and I certainly do not fear Night Ravens.

My scowl speared him back, my lips twisting with condescension.

“Thrall.” I flicked my chin high, the chilly wind blowing my long silvery strands. “Hurry and drain the blood. That meat better be tender and immaculate for me and my betrothed’s dinner tonight.”

His jaw rolled, intensity burning in his gaze, and he appeared ready to respond, but instead he slowly dipped his head, turning away from me.

“Tonight, we feast! The betrothal rite begins when the sun hits the northern horizon,” my father declared to the court, pointing at the cloudy sky. Cheering and excitement rose from the well-dressed spectators. Since the sun never went down here, we measured time from when it was lowest in the sky and moved across to the opposite horizon, sunrise to sunset.

The king continued to speak, but my attention wouldn’t break away from the thrall. Watching the pig slump against his back, blood soaking into the cotton shirt and dripping down into the snow, leaving a trail behind him.

Why did I feel oddly disappointed, like I wanted him to respond, to fight back?

“Wrennlyn.” Father’s voice cut through my thoughts, directing my gaze to see him standing up, his arm waiting for me to take it.

Rising, I laid my hand on his arm, tracing his measured, graceful footsteps off the dais, where once we were out of clear view of the court, he dropped my hand.

“I expect you to be much more attentive to your betrothed tonight. Their family is offering you a lot of safety and comfort.” Father faced me, his perfectly trimmed beard so smooth and soft-looking, it reminded me of when I used to run my tiny hand over it as a little girl. It was comforting, allowing me to feel closer to him. The rare moments he let me see a gentler, kinder side to him. A father, not a king.

“I promise, Your Majesty.” I curtsied.