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So strange…
From a stool that stood beside the tub held a silver cup, a folded letter, and a basin—filled with herbs, soaps, and flasks of oils—and he grabbed a sea sponge. He dunked it into the water before us, kneading it until it soaked and softened. Then he gingerly pressed it against my throat, but that didn’t keep me from gasping at the pain that flared around the tendons lining it.
“You still feel me there,” Malyr rasped and squeezed the sponge, letting the warm water trickle down and soothe sore flesh. “A decent man would sink his head in shame.”
“But you’re n—augh!” A cough barreled from my lungs, punching swollen flesh on its way out.
Malyr noisily sucked an inhale through his mouth, dropping the sponge in the water in favor of reaching for the cup on the stool, which he held out before me. “Drink.”
I took the tooled cup and placed the metal rim by my lips, letting small droplets of sweet wine wet my rough, parched trachea. “You’re no decent man.”
“No, I am not,” he said. “I cannot help but feel a sense of pride, eagerly awaiting the blossoming of my marks and bruises.”
He fished the sponge from the water. Brought it back up. Squeezed. Malyr tended to an ache that he himself had inflicted with such tranquilizing gentleness, the pain itself faded under the soothing comfort of his touch. The ardor that radiated from it seemed incongruous against it, yet it was there, a shimmer of love beneath the shadows of pain.
I returned the cup to the stool. “I’ve had worse.”
“Mm-hmm.” The sponge glided down between my breasts, circling the skull in understanding before it went below water. “Soon, you will travel to Tidestone. Asker already chose the deathweavers and fates who will accompany your carriage to the village Elken, where I arranged for you to have a day’s rest.”
“Thank you.” My muscles softened under the constant swells of warm water he squeezed from the sponge, caring for a wound not yet seen, but very much felt whenever I spoke or swallowed. “Long travels by carriage are exhausting.”
“So I was told. Your father’s men will escort you from Elken the rest of the way since he will not allow Ravens anywhere near Tidestone.” He slowly trailed the tip of his finger down the side of my throat, letting the dull pain flare. Another squeeze sent liquid warmth over the area, soothing it away.It was an odd sensation, as if he was sayingI love hurting youandI hate that I hurt youall at once, his touch the most delicious contradiction.“You best not get caught, little dove. Your dowry didn’t make a dent in the expenses of the wedding preparations. Already, Ravens are arriving at Deepmarsh from all corners of the realm, eagerly awaiting three days of feasting, drinking, and merrymaking.”
“I still haven’t seen my wedding gown.”
“I have,” Malyr whispered with awe in his voice. “The gown is… magnificent. A neckline shaped of shadowy branches, decorated with chips ofaerymelforming a nest for your scar before they twine down along the corset. Seven thousand black feathers decorate the train, and more are added each day, one plucked from each Raven arriving at Deepmarsh. The shoulder piece is entirely made of shifting shadowcloth, forming the illusion of a moving set of black wings, the edges lined with my plumes. And, um… these arrived today.” He took the folded letter from the stool, letting the parchment darken between his damp fingers as a bright feather emerged from the crease. “I have yet to decide if it should be added to the dress or not, unity be damned.”
I took in the feather, not so much white but more of a creamy alabaster, though the hue could have come from the warm light of the nearby fire. Some of the vanes had come apart, and the downy patch toward the bottom of the shaft appeared rather sparse. Behind it, on the parchment, letters in Old Vhaer slithered across in black ink.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Lord Corvun’s feather, former ravenguard to my family, who deserted the battlefield during the siege on Valtaris to hide among humans,” he ground out. “Old age and sickness keep him from attending the wedding in person, or so his letter says. It might as well be the fact that I ought to see him hang.”
“A ravenguard? But…” I squinted as if it might return color to its vanes. “It’s creamy.”
“As is his hair. Used to be, anyway; although, it is safe to assume that age has now turned it white,” he said. “Corvin is a white raven, little dove.”
“I’ve never heard of that before.”
“They’re exceptionally rare, but animals with the same condition have been reported among other birds, foxes, even a wolf, if rumors can be trusted,” he said. “Corvin is a deathweaver, his shadows like the smoke of burning straw. Poor fliers. Weak feathers, their vanes easily damaged.” With a sigh, he put the letter and feather back on the stool. “Darien will insist on using it on the dress in lieu of the geese feathers he’s had servants pluck. A single white feather among an ocean of black.”
It sounded beyond beautiful…
For a second, I closed my eyes, picturing myself wearing the gown. Drop for colorful drop, the image expanded with rough outlines of blurry people and places, creating a backdrop for a possible future. A castle, a realm at peace, rich harvests. And there I sat, on a queen’s throne beside Malyr, while I held my husband’s hand, donning black feathers that perfectly matched the midnight hair of the little boy sitting on my lap. One who gleamed up at me from gray-brown eyes, causing such a twinge in my heart, longing filled my chest. Could we ever be that?
I slowly turned as not to send any water over the rim of the tub, and faced Malyr’s curious expression, his head slightly cocked the way his ravens sometimes did. My fingers lifted from the water, leaving droplets on his forehead that ran down his temples while I stroked my nails through his strands. They made quick work of opening the leather that tied up his knot, letting Malyr’s hair cascade down, returning that solemn, guarded look to his features.
When I partitioned four strands, he jerked away from my touch, head tilting just a little as he lifted an almost accusing brow. “What are you doing, little dove?”
Touching him for a purpose other than to ward him off, but to seek a connection with him that might lead to such a future. “Braiding your hair. It won’t be—”
His hands shot from the water, letting it splash before they gripped my wrists, but not painfully so, stalling my efforts. Yet he said nothing. Only stared at me, his pupils flitting about my face, his chest lifting faster at how his breathing had suddenly altered. Perhaps this was too intimate, too affectionate, too close to that shimmer he so rarely revealed?
But it was the shimmer beneath the shadows I was after, so I didn’t let his reaction deter me, and gathered the strands against the way he held my wrists. “If you turned around—”
“I will not.”
“Fine, have it your way,” I said, lifting the first strand over the other, which caused his grip to loosen. “It’ll be your head carrying a crooked braid, not mine.”
