He maneuvered around the inner guards and courtiers, barely snatching the attention of others, yet my gaze found him in the crowds as if he were dressed all in red, waving his arms to steal my notice.
Annoyed as I wanted to be at the king for demanding the Sentry stand as my personal guard, I could not deny an unsettling sort of relief knowing Roark Ashwood kept watch on my back.
Melder Fadey was slaughtered just beyond these walls. Roark was swift and dangerous with a blade, a sight I’d witnessed firsthand, and he had what appeared to be unwavering loyalty to the royal house. Perhaps the Sentry despised me, but I was of value to the house of Oleg.
I’d few doubts that Roark would take countless heads in order to keep me safe.
When his sharp eyes found mine from his place in the shadows, breath caught in my throat. In haste, I turned away and blended into the back edges of the touring crowd.
“Keep close,” Stonehands called out. “Makin’ our way to the inner market, roads get a touch narrow.”
I felt a great deal like a hog being squeezed into the slaughterhouse the way folk pushed through the arched gates into the lower township.
Stonegate palace sat on the top of a rocky hillside and belowwere homes and the market square that bustled with hawkers trading their hogs and goats and hens. Fish and smoked meats passed hands as swiftly as florin coin, and beneath it all was the scent of damp grass, soil, and salt.
“Wars were fought over these knolls for centuries.” Stonehands led us up a sloped cobbled pathway, pointing out stones and foundations that belonged to ruins of an original palace. “It is believed the Wanderer once ruled here, making it the most coveted land across the realms of Stìgandr.”
“The Wanderer lived on Jorvan lands?” a woman asked. She was joined with two young boys and a bearded man whose belly sank low over his belt.
Stonehands gave a stiff nod. “So the sagas say. Here, his warriors bled, his children played. There is power in these lands, and lust for more of it breeds hate. It was much of the cause of the Divisive Wars that split the kingdoms in the modern three of Myrda, Dravenmoor, and Jorvandal. Now, follow me. I will show you the painted windows.”
My fingers trailed over the moss-soaked stones of the old fortress. “Stav Nightlark.”
Emi wove backward between a few other visitors. “What?”
“Is it true?” I tilted my head back, squinting through the sunlight toward the upper towers. “Did the Wanderer live here?”
The Wanderer King was no mere king. He was the father of our lands, the legendary genesis of craft across the kingdoms.
“It’s a common belief back home.”
“So, Dravenmoor accepts it.”
“Some do.” Emi placed her open palm on one of the walls. “Others believe the old Jorvan king who won his treaties was simply lucky in battle and selected the richest lands, then called them gods-blessed to become more important than was true.”
She followed the flow of the crowd. I held back a moment, looking around the towers, the roads, and onto the distant hills beyond the inner walls. Could these be the knolls where myths were born?
“Who can tell me what this signifies?” Stonehands paused beside a stone juncture where three paths convened into one.
Over the archway that covered the single lane was a bind rune made of gold, bronze, and crimson iron. Silver filigree made the edges, like the rune was nestled in a night bloom.
When no one spoke, Stonehands let out an irritated growl and pointed to each shade of the rune. “Crimson in the rune of a warrior signifies the blood of those lost in the Divisive Wars. Bronze in the rune of loyalty stands for the treaties of craft between Jorvandal and Myrda. Gold in the rune of protection, a vow from these walls to always protect those who remain loyal and steadfast against our enemies.”
Stonehands barreled on about the grandness of King Damir’s distant grandfather in battles that divided the folk and kingdoms. Divisive Wars made Dravenmoor the enemy and signed treaties that demanded Myrda deliver the craft of melding to the service of Stonegate if ever it was found in their borders.
While he rambled with pride over the feats of Jorvandal and the depravity of Dravens, I rolled the end of my braid around one finger, casting a glance at Emi. She was focused ahead, her face unreadable.
I looked back at Ashwood.
He kept a steady distance, back to the wall, his attention wholly placed on a knife he spun in his hands.
Could he hear Stonehands and the mutters of hatred toward his people? Did Roark even consider Dravens his people anymore?
My fists curled at my sides. My pulse quickened; unbiddenwords to remind Bjorn Stonehands to watch his words in front of two prominent Draven Stav danced over my tongue.
“Moving on.” Stonehands frowned at the lot of us and ushered the crowd forward.
I blew out a breath as the moment to be bold faded, the way it always did.
