Page 32

“What is this?” Lyra’s tone held a laugh. Near a small stool tucked under a narrow desk topped in quills and charcoal sticks, she touched a few rice parchment sheets.

Skin prickled on the back of my neck.

Lyra lifted one piece of parchment, revealing a childish drawing of a black willow, a warrior with a too-large battle-ax, and a fara wolf with fangs coated in blood.

The grass beneath the oblong boots appeared like spikes more than anything, and the sun was horridly twisted in the corner of the sheet. I’d drawn a bleeding face in the golden sphere, attempting to show the gods’ pleasure.

Lyra’s eyes gleamed, the candlelight catching the silver scars through each center. “Is this meant to be you?”

I leaned against the wall, intent on concealing the disquiet of having her in this space, a place so familiar and so disconcerting all at once. Do you not see the resemblance?

“I see you were always inclined to swing a blade. Did you have a fara?”

Her finger tapped the sticklike wolf.

I shook my head. Fara wolves are often bonded to a Draven in their fifteenth season.

Her face fell in a touch of sadness, but she nodded. “Perhaps you can bond with one now.”

I cared only for one bond.

When Lyra turned, I crossed the room, my chest to her back. A shudder rolled through her shoulders. Her breaths quickened. She didn’t move away.

My fingers pinched the end of her braid, stroking the long waves, damp and dirty from the journey. Gods, I wanted to breathe her in. But there was more to discuss, more plans to make.

And my clothes, my skin, nearly every surface of me was coated in gore and sweat and the reek of days without a bit of soap.

I spoke by lifting one of her palms and tracing my fingers over her skin. Do you wish to wash?

“If that is some subtle way of telling me I smell, Roark Ashwood, I do hope you take a moment to look at yourself.”

I grinned, went to the heavy door at the back of the room, and opened an arm to usher her inside. One thing Draven folk do well is their washrooms.

Lyra hesitated. “I might cry if I could wash, but…alone.”

I hid the jolt of disappointment through a nod. No mistake, I desired to be anywhere she was, and if fewer clothes were between us, all the better. But I would not touch her again until every secret, every truth was brought to light.

If what I intended to happen was to be successful, trust would be needed.

There is more than one chamber, I replied.

Lyra slid past me into a narrow corridor made of marble stones. We strode in silence until we reached another doorway. She released a long sigh when a wall of damp, steamy air struck our faces.

The bath chambers were concealed well from the main house. Certain rooms would be left empty for the royals, others for the úlfur and high-ranking Dark Watch.

Incense and heat dug into my skin, my lungs, and for a moment, it felt peaceful.

Near an opening at the end of the royal bathing rooms, I paused, resting a hand on the small of Lyra’s back before leading her inside. Damp stones arched overhead, and fragrant oils and herbs burned through the humid air.

Lyra’s lips parted with a delighted sort of smile when she took in the room. It was small and round; every wall was covered in stone shelves with folded linens. In the center was a blue pool, clear as crystal.

“How is it heated?” Lyra knelt and touched the surface of the water.

The royal house is built beside natural hot springs, I explained. Long ago, folk figured how to channel some of the springs to use as bathhouses. I moved toward one wall, where a spigot with a latch over the mouth stuck out from the wall. With a simple twist, I opened the spout, allowing in more steam. You can heat the room as you please.

Lyra’s shoulders slouched in a bit of relief. “By the gods, I think I will choose to remain, even if the whole of the palace wishes to slit my throat, if it means I have a washroom like this every day.”

I stepped out of the room, pausing until she looked to my hands. I will use the next chamber over. Then we will talk?