Page 17

“The melder will not be harmed. I gave my word I would hear her, speak with her, before any fate is decided.”

I took out the same knife I’d used to slice Fillip’s neck and twirled it in my fingers, never breaking my watch on my mother.

A bit of a flush coated her cheeks before she shoved aside my blade. “You are the prince of Dravenmoor, the heir, whether you revel in the title or not. There are explanations you must proffer your folk, and actions for which you must answer. I make my moves with precision, son. When I say the melder will still be breathing, I speak true. Now, finish this meet and cease wasting time.”

I did not trust a soul within these walls, but there was a ferociousness about the queen, a tremble in her words that struck me to the bone. A sort of unspoken vow that gave up the truth behind her words.

Perhaps the queen did not send Lyra to her death, but there remained an urgency in her command. Like it was only a matter of time before it all changed.

I opened my hand, a curl still on my lip, and waited for the queen to stride into the room first.

Archways made from shaved antlers and boar skulls topped every doorway, and every rafter was carved with runes and prayers to the gods. Heavy chairs with armrests that ended in claws or fangs surrounded a black oak table, oblong and large enough to seat twenty men shoulder to shoulder.

The instant my lungs filled with the scent of pine smoke in the inglenook and parchment from stacks of old sagas and histories, memories of days running among the seats, hiding from playmates in mock battles and sieges pummeled my mind. But the joyful remembrances soured with the unmanaged rage boiling in my blood. The need to lash out, to unfurl into the split creature I’d become, scorched beneath my skin like hot iron.

Before, when control over my rent soul was not mine, it felt like a mere prickle would flutter across my flesh. Like drawing too near a flame. Now, with the darkness unified with my own rage, I felt as though I were in a constant state of violence.

I crossed the council room in long strides until I reached the parchment. With no thought to the others filtering in behind me, I took hold of a raven feather quill and a stoppered inkwell. Without looking up, I slid into one of the seats, furiously penning my every damn thought.

I did not need to look to know my mother took a place beside me. The instant she settled in her chair, I shoved the parchment in front of her.

Elisabet held the name of Foxglen. Once, she’d explained that my grandfather said she was born with the most cunning of smiles, much like a fox in the glen. Innocent and lovely at first glance, but shrewd and sly in the next instant. The way her eyes gleamed like a storm on the sea, the way her dark rouged lips curled in one corner, I could see the foundation for her name. “What little you know.”

She slid back the parchment. I scanned my words, trying to make sense of her reply.

You may think I hold love for this place, but I assure you, I will slit every throat I once knew if you sent Lyra to Brynn and Auki for vengeance. It is no less than you did to me.

Brynn had been my betrothed from infancy. Only a proven soul bond would disrupt an arranged vow in Dravenmoor.

Like Gunter, Brynn and her twin brother, Auki, had been my playmates. We’d always known Brynn and I would wed one day, much the same as Thane and Yrsa. I did not recall her being hateful or the jealous sort.

Then again, we’d been children. Brynn was hardly in her eleventh season when I was tossed away. I saw the delight in my uncle’s eyes when she appeared, so my written threat was sound, I thought. Simple. Direct. A promise.

I crumpled the parchment in my grip, mouth tight, and waited until more seats were filled.

Virki, naturally, took the seat across from my mother. Truth be told, with what Emi reported that her father had done to her after I’d been exiled, I wasn’t certain I cared if the creature beneath my skin destroyed my uncle’s soul.

I recognized most faces, aged as they were. Sampson, a loyal warrior who’d been my father’s second when the brother-in-law of King Hundur of Myrda challenged my father over rumors the Draven king had bedded his wife.

My father was once a king loved by his clan and feared by others. But if Myrdans had any understanding to the depth of soul bonds, Hundur’s dead brother-in-law would never have challenged my father, for he would’ve known it was impossible for King Vishon to betray my mother by taking a mistress. Their bond wouldn’t allow it.

Then again, it was the destruction of my parents’ soul bond that left me with little trust for the queen.

Sampson removed the pelt of a white wolf from his head and looked across the table at me, a bit of sadness in his auburn eyes.

Next to him was Yanson, Gunter’s father. The day I was torn apart, Yanson held down my shoulders on the slab of cold stone and murmured assurances into my ear when the blinding pain took hold and my screams faded to silence.

Yanson held a warning in his eyes, much the same as he’d always done when Gunter and I schemed our next trick inside the royal house.

“There is no sense delaying the purpose of this meet.” The queen rose, leaning over her fingertips on the table. “Our prince has returned from his duty beyond enemy gates.” Virki scoffed but did not interject. My mother did not pause to indulge him and kept her voice steady. “Fate has not gone as we thought, but the Norns rarely appease our desires. We are here to discuss the connection to the lost melder.”

“And Fillip’s death,” a man five seats down the table said in a sort of growl. “He slaughtered a man without cause.”

I leaned back in my chair, grinning. A wordless reply of how little guilt I harbored over Fillip’s death.

The queen frowned. “Without cause, Ubbe? Fillip went against my word. As deep as his loss will be felt, there was cause.”

Ubbe clenched a fist over the table but did not retort.