“They’ll be safe and fed.” The young Stav adjusted a leather strap over his shoulder that was lined in bronze throwing knives. “Until we reach the fortress, of course. After that, I think the Norns will have to decide their fate.”
My stomach twisted. The risk of entering the gates of the royal keep was Kael might lose his life. I had one night to decide if it was a risk we took, or if we ran. With him gone down the shore, I did not know how I’d reach him.
Before he disappeared around a bend in the shoreline, Kael flashed his wide grin, no mistake, attempting to ease my troubles.
Roark’s men maneuvered satchels, fur bedding rolls, and crates of water skins and dried meats in a tangle of lines for the journey.
“Melder.” Emi approached with a touch of caution. “You’d be wise to keep close, the wood is dangerous. These trees house bears and fara wolves.”
“Draven wolves?” The Draven folk were known to hunt their enemies not only with steel, but with beasts they bonded with from birth.
“Aye.” Emi looked to the trees. “But more than all that, blood casts have been set in the groves to disorient and confuse wanderers away from reaching the fortress.”
Gods. I knew Queen Ingir was born of Myrda and chosen to wed King Damir for her blood craft, but I studied so little of the three magical crafts, due to fear of my own, I did not realize she could cast such spells.
Perhaps there were many blood crafters in Stonegate.
Roark took a brisk step forward, shrouding his head in the dark hood, as though telling me he was to keep watch, but did not need to look at me.
The Sentry’s contempt for melding craft was clear, and I hated the subtle bite of curiosity to learn why. Had he been harmed by a melder? Was it to do with the raids so long ago?
As a Draven in the royal court of Jorvandal, doubtless Roark Ashwood had learned to keep secrets the way I’d kept them all this time.
I could not see his eyes beneath his cowl, but glared at the strong line of his mouth until we stood chest to chest again. Roark removed his ax from the sheath on his back and handed it to me.
One brow curved. “What—”
I was unaccustomed to being interrupted by a man who did not speak, but Roark used his hands to command an interaction as fiercely as Baldur used shouts to overpower.
He spoke one word, a gesture Emi had taught us on the ship—knowledge.
“Do I know how to use it? I’m not as skilled as a Stav, but I can throw one. Might even know how to slit a throat if you’d like to test it.”
Roark made a breathy sound.
Strange how his reputation painted him as a man of violence, yet he swallowed my sharp words with a hint of amusement. He never lifted a hand to strike any of us; he did not shove and prod like many of the Stav under his watch.
None of this eased the distrust. In a way, it left me wondering if Roark’s demeanor was like the lure of a hunter’s call. A ruse to get us to find a bit of composure around him, before he struck when we least expected.
Roark swept an arm, ushering me to take a step before him. My grip tightened around the ax, and I complied.
Through a narrow barrier of trees, a clearing gave way to a meager campsite. White wolf emblems marked the canvas sides of tents and bowers.
“There are several Stav camps in these woods,” Emi said, her shoulder knocking mine as she strode past. “These are also the finest, with a few moss mattresses. You’ll sleep better than on the longship.”
One brow arched. “Should I be glad for it?”
“You might try.” Emi flashed a tight grin and strode ahead of me.
I kept my pace aligned with Roark’s. Murmurs and a few simple gestures from the Stav and Sentry gave up we would camp until the first mists of dawn.
“Keep your eyes peeled for Dark Watchers,” a burly Stav passed down the line. “Those Draven sods know the wilds, they know how to blend, and are damn hard to see at night.”
“They could attack the camp.” The words slipped out in a whisper, and when Ashwood paused to glance at me, I wished I could snatch them back. I shook my head. “Never mind.”
The Sentry faced me, tossed back his hood, and made slow, even gestures at an angle that caught the cold moonlight.The blood crafter’s betrayal has already alerted Dravenmoor to believe the child melder is alive.
“But the missives were intercepted and—”
