Blood had long ago drained from her cheeks. The woman could hardly sit still as the king droned on. Beneath the table her knee bounced, and she’d wrenched the linen cloth in her hand so fiercely it looked like she was twisting the head off a pigeon.
The desire to touch her had not left since the moment we’d stepped close on the bridge, since I’d pressed her skin to my lips in Thane’s chambers. No good came from a Draven and a melder. Certainly not a match.
But when King Damir drew gazes our way once again, Lyra’sbreath stuttered, and I placed a grounding palm on her thigh beneath the table. She stiffened at once.
I was a fool, thinking she’d want my touch. After a moment, I began to pull my palm away until Lyra’s grip took hold of my fingers.
She squeezed once, then lifted her chin. “Stay,” she whispered. “Please.”
I swallowed, then slowly maneuvered my hand so her fingers laced through mine, and kept hold of her until Damir ceased his speech and demanded the feast truly begin.
Rawhide drums boomed and tagelharpa strings plucked. Folk danced, drank sweet ale and dewberry wine. Partners kissed and rocked against walls and posts. The king and queen sat on the dais with Hundur and his frail wife, like scavengers in the treetops looking at the weak below.
Baldur had long since moved to seduce one of Hundur’s servant girls. The daughter of the Skalfirth jarl tried to draw the same attention Baldur had given her in Skalfirth, but the captain shoved her away, forcing her hips to strike the table’s edge.
From across the hall, Darkwin stood, a rage in his eyes. Edvin had to tug on Kael’s arm, murmuring what I hoped was a call to stay his temper.
If he could not, I would need to pull him away.
Baldur was an ass, but he was Kael’s superior.
I signaled to Emi to keep watch on the servant woman should the captain try to take her from the hall.
When plates were cleared and more wine and ale served, I was called to intervene more than once with drunken Stav, leaving Lyra to endure King Hundur. The Myrdan king was brisk and foul with his words when he took too much ale.
From my position across the great hall, I could make out thesteady, practiced expressions she kept in place. Polite nods of her head, the occasional taunting smile, she kept the king engaged, while never needing to speak in return.
“She’s always been unique.” The bone crafter woman—Hilda, I thought—stepped to my side. She followed my gaze, grinning. “Lyra, I mean. I can’t tell if you are about to attack her, or the Myrdan king for looking at her.”
I frowned, but didn’t attempt to reply. No doubt, the woman had not learned many of my gestures.
“But I think you know that,” Hilda went on. “She was a quiet girl. A simple servant, but even as girls I told my mother it felt like Lyra was stronger than she let on, like she was bound for something more than the shores of Skalfirth. I always thought Lyra was a hidden princess, running from her enemies. I suppose, in a way, I was right.”
I heaved a sigh, hoping the woman could hear my question of what she wanted to truly say rather than attempting to finger speak and storming away in frustration when she couldn’t understand.
Hilda chuckled. “I think you’ve fallen into the pull of Lyra Bien.”
I looked away with what I hoped was a fierce expression of annoyance. Hilda was undeterred.
“I can’t blame you. But let me say this—I wouldn’t care if you were the king,” she said through a dainty sip of ale. “Should you choose to hurt her, I will manipulate that spine of yours until it snaps.”
She was…threateningme?
I spun into her. Most might cower, maybe back against the wall, but not Hilda. She took another sip, pinning me in her gaze over the rim of her horn.
“I wouldn’t be alone,” she whispered. “Kael admires you and all the Stav, but Lyra is his sister in every way that matters. She is like a beloved niece to Edvin. We are watching you closely, Sentry Ashwood. Do not hurt her heart, or yours will stop beating.”
For speaking in such a way, I could have the woman’s flesh flayed from her bones, her naked body strung up in the square for townsfolk to mock and bruise with rotted pomes.
Hilda was no fool; she knew the risks and spoke her words anyway.
I should’ve penned a response—I always carried charcoal sticks and parchment for such an occasion—I ought to remind her of her place, of my interest in the melder being nothing more than obligation.
I did none of it, merely lowered my chin in a subtle nod.
Hilda grinned and patted my arm. “Good. Enjoy the revel. It is in your honor, after all. Threats aside, I have no words to convey my gratitude for your part in restoring our family.”
My lips parted in a bit of stun when she sauntered away. A heartfelt thanks and soul-deep vow of death and gore in one conversation.
