For a breath, the thief paused by a moss-soaked aspen, watching me. I could not see his eyes beneath his full cowl, but his gaze sliced through my chest like a burning torch held too close until he retreated into the thick of the Fernwood.
With a narrowed glare at Pukki—who did nothing but gnaw on his cud of wildflowers—I made quick work of inspecting the baskets. The steward of House Jakobson was not a man who feared using the rod for mistakes.
There’d been wardens at the young house who thought similarly, but Gammal had always looked out for me, and I was spared a great many lashings by her warnings. Each jarl in differing townships was like a king of their own village. They could decidehow their servants were treated, and Jarl Jakobson often turned his gaze from the use of pain, thinking it made stronger folk.
With a few tugs on the twine to secure the baskets, I draped the leather harness over one shoulder and started to bring the cart to the aggravating creature myself until a wheel collided with something in the weeds.
“Damn this day to the hells.” The curse slipped over my tongue as I knelt to clear away the foliage around the wheel.
A smooth, round stone with a weathered notch cracked through the center trapped the cart. I gingerly traced the sigil of a burning ax carved into the rock. An old totem where someone prayed to the Wanderer King.
I feared my curse of craft, but had always reveled in the saga of the first king.
Once a wandering Skald, he stumbled upon a lost maiden. For giving her shelter and his last strip of roasted herring, she revealed herself to be one of the beloved daughters of the god of wisdom.
As gratitude, the wanderer was given the maiden to wed and offered one medium to hold a piece of the gods’ magic that he could use to build up his new kingdom.
The Wanderer King first chose bone, for bones were in no short supply, and soon held the grandest army with bone blades that could not break and armor that fitted like a dozen shields.
There was more to the tale, darker days that followed and brought different veins of magic.
With the violence and madness behind the final tales of the Wanderer, fewer folk still worshipped the first king, but here, in small sea towns or forest villages, totems were plentiful.
As though the soul of the Wanderer King even cared about any of the small, simple lives in the realms of Stìgandr.
I righted one of the baskets, catching sight of a symbol written in water that was fading swiftly.
A simple word the thief left behind, but the sharp sting of fear dug into my bones.
Liar.
3
Lyra
My hands wouldn’t cease shakingas I gathered what was left of the plums and began the battle of tethering Pukki to the cart. Already, the damp symbol faded into the threads of the basket, but blood pounded in my skull.
“Súlka Bien.” A man, a little breathless from the trek up the slope, swiped a woolen hood off his pale, untamed curls.
I chuckled with relief. “Such formal greetings,SerDarkwin.”
Kael grinned. “I’ve been sent to find you, and I’ll have you know, Sel is convinced you’ve been taken by Dravens or perhaps a wild hulda.”
I snorted and shook my head.
Kael was my brother in every way but blood, and had only returned mere days before from the mandatory training every son of Jorvandal completed with the Stav Guard.
As a bone crafter, there was no mistaking Kael would receive a missive soon enough, securing him an officer rank in the guard.He would be handed a bone blade with an onyx pommel and leave again.
If he chose to join, of course.
Why wouldn’t he? Kael deserved more than Skalfirth, and I held the wretched suspicion he remained here for my sake.
He paused a few paces away, brow furrowed. “Something’s worrying you.”
I cast a glance over my shoulder. “There was a scavenger here.”
“A scavenger?” Kael tilted my chin with one knuckle. “All right?”
