The woman let me draw my own designs on her wrinkled skin whenever we finished chores, and she taught me how to hide the silver scars.
“Take the sting or take death, elskan,” Gammal always whispered when I whimpered about the ache of the dyes. “Folk here kill for those scars.”
Three veins of magical craft lived in the soil of the realms, all brutal and lovely on their own. But silver in the eyes was proof the Wanderer King’s curse burned in the blood with the power of all. Power coveted enough it stirred wars.
Twice I’d witnessed the king’s melder when the royalcaravans entered the village, almost as though searching for something, yet never finding it. Folk always said he was so well guarded because he was also the king’s consort, not only a crafter.
No one really understood why melding craft was coveted so fiercely, only that melders were never truly free.
Gammal led me to thick tomes where I could read the histories of wars in which our small seaside kingdom of Jorvandal allied with the lands of Myrda for nearly a century, before rising victorious over Dravenmoor.
For Jorvandal’s aid, through treaties and sanctions, not only did Myrdan daughters always wed Jorvan kings, but melder craft would always belong to Stonegate, the royal keep.
I didn’t remember the last raid hunting a new melder, only that it was during my tenth summer, and House Bien was the heart of the bloodshed. I wasn’t a fool. I had the manipulated sigil runes, scars in my eyes, and nightmares aplenty of dark words, flames, and screams.
Always screams in the dark.
I dabbed at a few drops of the dye that slithered down my cheeks. Stav Guard would arrive soon, and their presence always set my nerves on jagged edges.
I shook out my hands. In the past, the Stav never noticed the simple woman with dirty fingernails and messy braids.
This time would be no different.
I set off for the final tree. The stout trunks of star plum trees made them the simplest fruit to reach in the orchard, but each thin whip of a branch tangled with the others like a spider’s web, making it a battle to pluck the pome without a few bloody scrapes.
Cold fog sliced through the towering aspens like a misty river.It was difficult to see much of anything beyond the towering wooden gates of the village, but I could taste the storm brewing—brine and smoke collided with a bit of fearful sweat.
The Fernwood held the water of the sea too tightly, thick and heavy, so a constant damp hung in the air no matter the season.
Prince Thane the Bold was preparing to wed the princess and heir of Myrda. Stav Guard had traipsed the petty kingdoms and villages for weeks to secure borders for the ceremony.
Skalfirth was their final stop.
The idea of it put Selena, the head cook in the jarl’s household, into a fit of chants and blessings. Before dawn, she tossed a whittled talisman etched in runes of protection around my neck, convinced with the guard on the roads, Draven Dark Watch warriors would be hiding in the wood.
I plucked another plum, inspecting the skin for wormholes or bird bites. A twig snapped in the trees, lifting the hair on my arms. The sound of canvas rustling shifted to the scrape of reed baskets over the wood laths of my cart.
There, rummaging through all the baskets in my once-goat-pulled cart was a man, hooded in a thick, wool cloak.
My jaw set until my teeth ached. He was no ravager, of the clan who followed the feared Skul Drek, a Draven assassin.
Some suspected Skul Drek was behind the death of Melder Fadey.
But this sod didn’t move with the shadows, or perch in the trees to spear his victim like a ravager. He wore a frayed hood, scuffed boots, and loud, feckless rummaging gave him up as a common thief.
Forced to hide the secret in my eyes since childhood, I’d learned how to handle a blade well enough.
From a loop on my belt, I yanked free a small paring knife and let it fly. A heavythunkstartled the thief when the blade dug into the side of the cart. Even Pukki lifted his greedy head to investigate.
In haste, I plucked a discarded plum from the ground and threw it. “Think you can thieve from us?”
A raspy grunt broke from beneath the cowl when the plum struck the side of his hood.
In a delirious sort of frenzy, I picked plum after soggy plum from the grass, and flung them one after the other, drawing closer to the cart with each step. Bruised pomes struck his shoulders, his hips, his legs, leaving cloying streaks of juices and thin flesh across his cloak.
The thief shielded his head with his arms. When he turned, readying to bolt back into the trees, one final plum collided with his brow. A low hiss slid through his teeth.
I yanked on the hilt of my knife, ripping it from the side of the cart, and prepared to slash against the bastard. By the time I whirled around, he’d rushed into the trees.
