“Like the violence?”
Ashwood nodded, a harshness to his eyes that wasn’t there before.Along with madness, brutality, and bloodlust.
Damn the gods. The risks were vicious and I was required to hunt these bones whenever I used my craft. How could I when each meld drew out the haunting spectral in the dreary mirror realm? The phantom never left me, and seemed to despise the use of soul bones. Doubtless he would not allow me to hunt them.
To my soul, I felt the phantom’s hatred of me. Like it had cut down to an unseen piece of me, deep within. A scar I could not heal.
For a moment, I considered admitting what I’d seen to Roark, then shook the thought away.
I slumped in my chair. “I see why Dravens despise theBerserkirs. With enough manipulated bone as armor, they can’t be defeated.”
Roark shrugged.Tensions have always been there between the kingdoms. This makes it worse.
“Being a melder is nothing but a slow death sentence.” I despised the tremble in my voice, the fear in my veins.
Roark’s molten eyes dug into me. He didn’t blink for a long pause, then slowly wrote his response.
Your craft is rare, so it is misunderstood and hated, especially by Dravenmoor. But it is my duty to keep you breathing, so I will not let you slip into Salur yet.
Roark did not mince words, he did not hide the troubles of the world, and still this was, perhaps, the gentlest the man had ever spoken to me.
“What do you think, Roark Ashwood?” I folded the paper over once, then twice. “About the use of soul bones, I mean? Have you been melded?”
He reached out for the parchment.
“Wait. Speak as you normally would. I’m proving to be a quick study, remember?” I tried to keep my voice light to hide the tremble of embarrassment.
It was pointless. Roark’s arrogant grin returned. He moved his fingers in smooth, graceful words, slower than was normal, for my benefit, no doubt.It is satisfying to know you’ve been reading the guides so dutifully.
I folded my arms over my chest. “Don’t preen. I’d rather know what you’re saying in case you decide to slit my throat after I agitate you.”
A smile, cautious and shadowed, found his mouth.Wise.It is bound to happen.
“I thought so. You never answered; have you been melded? Is that why you’re so skilled with the blade?”
He gave me a narrow look before slowly responding.I have only given a bone shard of fealty, nothing more.
“Like Kael gave to the king?”
Yes. But mine went to the prince.
“I’d think the king would want a Draven warrior bonded to him.” I bit the inside of my cheek after hearing my own words. “I didn’t mean just because you’re Draven that you—”
Roark held up one hand, silencing me.
Damir holds no love for my blood, but that wasn’t what brought him to reject my bone. It is this.With the tips of his fingers, Roark traced the long scar across his throat.The king did not think I would amount to much, so I was given as the prince’s servant.
My knee bounced under the table, and a sly grin cut across my lips when I took in the twitch to Roark’s mouth. “Well, I’d say you proved him wrong.”
Roark drummed the edge of the table, then,I tried hard to do so. Now the king would like me to give up the shard from Thane and meld it to him.
“You won’t do it?”
Roark hesitated.Thane is the reason I am alive. I owe him a great deal.
Silence cloaked the room as the truth settled against me. I wanted to ask everything—Why was he abandoned? Dravens did this, but why? Was the scar what stole his voice? I didn’t ask any of it.
I’d never admit it to the man, but his resistance to giving up his fealty to Prince Thane was rather…admirable.
