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“The king didn’t know how to prove she was remarkably blessed with her gift, so he added ravens throughout the palace grounds.” Wraith turned the raven knob. The latch split down the middle, leaving one wing on the post of the gate, the other on the door as it swung open to a sprawling garden.
Trimmed hedges and shrubs, sprawling vines and willows, endless rows of blossoms and flowers lined a shallow, blue-glass creek. There were cobbled pathways, stone benches, wooden benches, and a handful of bowers made from ivy climbing archways.
“I don’t understand why anyone would be leery of a raven shifter,” I said. “Hardly the most threatening creature. Don’t mistake me, before I knew the truth, the sight of a raven following my every move was wholly unsettling, but if folk knew who was shifting, why the unease?”
“Tyr was from a long line of court spies, of the wisdom keepers of the gods. They were sly, cunning, and nervous folk love to create grand tales of their tricks. That legacy fell to Tyr’s heir.”
I snorted. Superstitions abounded in the isles, but there were those even in Etta, in Klockglas, that feared tales and tricks from the Otherworld.
“Lord Tyr’s greater legacy,” Wraith went on, “was one of a respected warrior. The Rave army of the fate kings was named after his raven blood. The Heart Singer king knew his sister had a fated path, as much as I know you do. You are part of her path.”
My jaw pulsed. Habit, perhaps, urged my tongue to argue the point that I had upset her destiny. She ought to be on the throne now, I ought to be beaming with a bit of pride, boasting in the Otherworld, that my wife was a damn raven queen.
Instead, she was somewhere searching for a way to help me. No doubt Davorin had poisoned half the isles by now and Saga was in the thick of it.
“This way, Ari.” My phantom’s voice drew me back to the moment.
We weren’t in a garden any longer. The hallway was arched with thick beams overhead, carved in symbols of the gods. Underfoot, a woven runner made of soft dyed cotton and wool padded the stone floor.
“Where . . .” I spun around. “How did we get inside?”
“I want you to see something.”
Elegant wooden doors swung open to a great hall. Finer than the one at Castle Ravenspire and the Black Palace. Posts carved in gold runes held up the impressive arched ceiling. Wooden slats made the rooftop, and hanging from a sturdy beam down the center were iron hoop chandeliers with dozens of candles.
My gaze turned to a fur lined platform with twin thrones, and my heart stalled.
“Saga.” Her name slid over my tongue, almost like a plea, a desperate need for her to hear me.
Dressed in a gown made of midnight blue velvet, Saga rocked on her heels. She was different, younger, with a bright giddiness alight in the steely blue of her eyes. A hint that life had yet to take its toll.
Her dark hair was pulled half up on her head and tied ina ribbon.
I pressed a hand against my heart when the burn of longing became too much. A ribbon in my warrior wife’s hair. So girlish, so . . . innocent.
My fists curled when I accepted the man at her side was not me.
His face was burned in my brain, and it would remain there until I took his head off his shoulders, but even Davorin was different. Before me wasn’t the same man who’d slaughtered Bracken.
He donned dark clothing, but his hair was trimmed, his eyes not as hollow, and his smile was almost genuine as he covered Saga’s hand with his beringed fingers.
On the edges of the court, guards in dark tunics with crimson filagree on the hems stood at attention but for one—a man with a cloak pinned in a raven wing broach, and a fox head fur over his shoulders. The guard bore two crossed blades sheathed over his back, and another gilded sword hung from his hip. Between his teeth was a lit herb roll, and a skinny child beside him kept fumbling with a knife and a holster on his thin belt.
“Hush, boy,” the guard grumbled. “Be still.”
The boy gave up on the knife and merely held it against his belt. He obeyed the guard and lifted his chin when, from one of the thrones, a man rose. His hair was a roasted brown to his shoulders, shorn on the sides, and like Wraith, tattooed runes were on his scalp.
Riot Ode. The fate king.
“What is this?” I whispered. “Can Saga see me?”
“No. Listen and watch. You have reason to see everything I will show you.” Wraith jutted his chin, a gesture for me to watch and be silent.
“It would seem this day brings a great deal of celebration,” Riot said. His voice was like thunder: rich, powerful, demanding. But a grin played on his lips, one riddled in affection for his sister when he placed his palms on her shoulders.
“We have your blessing, then?” Saga’s voice squeaked.
My Saga didn’t squeak. She was soft-spoken, but powerful.
