I anticipated endless rows of courtiers. There were few in the room. A select few Stav Guard, a lady or two in pale gowns.
Roark led us down a woven runner, hardly glancing at the others.
Despite the small numbers, the great table was topped with hocks of meat and roasted roots and nuts, and seated at the head was King Damir. Chairs down the sides were reserved for his consorts, jarls, and Stav officers. Baldur was already fiddling with a curled lock of hair on a young courtier at his side.
My steps were stiff, but I dared lift my gaze to the king.
King Damir shared the same storm gray eyes as his son, although his hair was paler and speckled in silver strands. His beard reached his chest, braided in two, and three bone shards pierced his ears on each side.
Rugged and handsome like his heir, but there was an emptiness in his gaze, like he’d long ago lost the light his son still kept in his own.
The king rose, a tall drinking horn in his grip, and watched our approach.
Roark dipped his chin in a bow of respect. He did not gesture to the king, did not sign a word, merely nudged the small of my back until I stepped forward. Damir’s gaze was cold, but the warmth of his smile fought to find a balance.
I mimicked the Sentry and dipped my chin. “Highness.”
“Tell me your name.”
“Lyra.”
“What is your house sigil? Full name, girl. Or shall I look to the runes you have marked on your neck?”
My palm covered the altered symbols behind my ear. Air grew hot; walls were too near, too confined.
Roark came to my side, the storm in his eyes flashed like a summer squall.
Against the slope of my spine, his fingers moved. Slowly. It took half a breath to realize he was speaking. Small movements I’d studied on the ship, in the stack of parchment he’d sent, in the memory of his bones in my mind.
Don’t fall, was all he said, again and again, ensuring I got his message.
My insides cinched.Don’t let me fall.
Kael had always admired him, and it only made Roark’s actions in Skalfirth more of a betrayal. Then in moments like this, I considered there was more to the Sentry than I knew.
“When the king speaks, it is customary to honor him with a response.” Baldur’s rough grumble drew me back.
My heart rate slowed, and my breaths grew even again. I metRoark’s stare. The look he gave me wasn’t one of irritation that I’d gotten lost in a bit of fear. He gave me a subtle nod as if to tell me I could speak, I coulddothis moment.
“My sigil was changed, sire,” I said, voice soft. There was no purpose to hide the truth, not anymore. “But it once said House Bien.”
Damir clucked his disapproval. “Strange how the Norns of fate play their games. The same house name of the lost melder. How convinced I was you had died all those seasons ago. Who took you from your house, girl? Where were you hidden?”
I swallowed. “I don’t recall, sire. Those early seasons are difficult to remember.”
“Try.”
I shifted on my feet, then took a small step closer to the dais. “I mostly remember living in a young house, then being given to House Jakobson on my twelfth summer. But…sometimes, I can remember someone…running with me.”
My eyes fluttered closed. A voice, a rough shadow of a young man’s beard. The race of a heartbeat beneath a leather jerkin.
See that she’s forgotten.
I shook my head and blinked my eyes open. “I don’t recall much more than that, sire.”
King Damir’s grin was like a wolf about to strike. “To have you here now, what a gift it is from the gods.”
A side door opened and Prince Thane materialized, a woman with ink black hair toppled in curls on her head clung to his arm. Queen Ingir had pale skin like morning cream and wide, deep-set eyes that seemed to swallow everyone in the room in one sweeping glance. The queen was haunting, but lovely, and moved like her feet never truly touched the ground.
