Page 115 of The Ashborn

“Yes.” Ash nodded, his tone cautious, barely more than a breath. He glanced once toward the door, as if testing the air for unwelcome ears. “I think you all have your work cut out for you, walking a knife’s edge, leading a rebellion from within the ranks meant to crush it.”

Tristian’s jaw twitched. He was suddenly aware of every shadow around him. His pulse quickened, and he straightened too fast, nearly stumbling on a loose piece of cedar. “I think you’re mistaken. We’re not…” He coughed to cover the crack in his voice. He forced his tone to flatten. “That’s not what this is.”

“Sure,” Ash chuckled. “You’re only here protecting a woman who was trained by my son, and she managed to find me by happenstance.”

Tristian moved from the rubble, facing Ash. His jaw remained tight. Shoulders squared. Every muscle in his frame tensed, bracing for confrontation that hadn’t yet come. His fingers twitched near the hilt of his belt, a subconscious instinct. He was on the edge now, heart pounding in his throat.

Ash flicked a splinter off his pants, like brushing away an idle thought. The woodcarver didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He held Kienna like she was no heavier than a carving block. He revealed no interest in the threat Tristian thought he might be presenting. Kienna’s breath shifted, growing quicker and less steady. It was a subtle shift, a soft rasp of air, but Tristian heard it, tethering him back to the moment.

“Relax. Your secret isn’t going anywhere outside of these walls.” Ash brushed his hand over Kienna’s hair, grimacing at the dried remnants of war. “Your horses are here.”

Tristian turned to see Connak approaching with two large steeds in tow. Ruva stretched her massive frame across the cedar floorboards, arching her back in a long, satisfying pull that made Tristian pause. He envied the wolf, how simple it might be to exist as a creature of instinct, free from politics and secrets. Even he had his own secrets, and he grew weary of holding onto them. If he were to share his secrets with the world, things would accelerate. The last thing he wanted was King Vaerin directly on his trail, looking for ways of unleashing Sinmara.

“I imagine you’ll see her again,” Tristian said quietly. He knelt beside Ash and gathered Kienna into his arms. She groaned, her eyes fluttering open as he lifted her. He handed her up to Connak. “She’ll make sure of it. You have her heart now, woodcarver.”

Chapter 46

—Broan—

Broan sat in his father’s council room with more people than he cared to count. Jarl Harlik sat at his large table, chair towering over his body like a bear. To his left, Thane Freydis stood. He was the man who had been there upon Broan’s first arrival nearly two weeks ago. He was the Warlord Councilor, supreme to everyone but the Jarl.

To his right stood Yrsa. Ingrid leaned against the wall, picking at her nails with disinterest. She was ready to start the conversation, but the moment Thane entered the room, she rolled her eyes and leaned back. Lief stood tall—as tall as the poor bastard could amongst the other skyscraping Vikings.

Kaelthar and Ithril sat off to the side near the fire, watching stoically while Broan approached the Jarl. “Why would I lie about the Lorekeeper?” he asked after spending nearly an hour explaining his encounter with Skald in the Meadhouse.

“For yer fuckin’ alliance,” Thane said, arms crossing over his chest. Inked into his skin, the sweeping lines of his family crest coiled across his shoulders and collarbone, framing eyes the color of burnished gold. The sides of his head were shaved, the top braided and knotted, adorned with polished antler tips. His beard, long and pale as straw, hung in three thick braids to the center of his chest, each bound with iron clasps that caught the firelight.

Thick fur pauldrons draped over his shoulder, while a battle skirt of quilted leather and pelts hung over armored boots strapped tight with rawhide. His belts were layered with iron buckles, the standard attire for a soldier—one the Jarl matched in his own way.

“I have no use in lying,” Broan said, placing his thumbs into his belt to puff out his chest. “You can ask that bastard himself if you can find him.”

Jarl Harlik stood and snapped his fingers. “Lief. Retrieve the Lorekeeper.”

Lief dropped his shoulders and left. When he returned, Skald was in tow, hunched over and weak. His milky eye remained fixed on Broan as his other eye scanned the room. His presence haunted Broan, the amount of knowledge and stories that might have been trapped in the old man’s head.

“Mighty Jarl,” his voice rasped. He sat in a seat across the table, facing the Jarl, and waited in silence.

“I take it you’re not blind to the reason for your presence, then?” the jarl rumbled.

Broan stifled a laugh. For a brutal man, he appreciated the play on the old man’s vision. He was only pissed he didn’t come up with it himself. He fought the smile tugging on his lips, then glanced at Ithril. Her face was still as she stared into the fire.

“Aye,” Skald said. “The Ashborn stirs.”

Thane crossed his arms. “And you’re certain the Ashborn is amongst the Elvish?”

The Lorekeeper nodded, his smoky eye now moving to scan the room while his good eye remained still. “I am certain.”

“Mind telling me what the Ashborn is?” Broan asked, still searching Ithril for answers.

Ingrid rolled her eyes. “Twenty-six years ago, dirty magic stirred. It’s when Skald began to lose his vision, but he became a reader instead. The first thing he saw was an Ashborn child.”

“And it means?” Broan waved his hands in the air for more.

“This person is part of our prophecies to save the land from death,” Lief answered.

Yrsa sat, contemplating this. “Do you have any way to find this fire person? I hear they have a whole island of mages with fire.”

“Aye, her name is Kienna.”