Lyra
The caravan had gathered noblesfrom across Jorvandal, all here to celebrate the vows. Gowns the color of bone or blue dewberries glittered in the fading sun as folk crossed the bridge from the lower marketplace to the palace gates.
Furs from high-mountain bears or meadow foxes were added to the shoulders of men. Newly shorn beards braided in bone beads. Gold chains around wrists and necks of ladies.
Territory jarls strode in with pomp and arrogance. They offered greetings to their fellow noblemen and rulers, but underneath their felicitations was subtle measuring—as though each jarl wanted to be counted greater than the others.
I dipped my chin at the sight of Jarl Jakobson; his wife, Mikkal; and Astra, who looked around with awestruck delight.
Jakobson scanned the crowds, and I hoped he was searching for Kael. I hoped he knew his son would not greet him.
Kael had enough regard among the Stav and Sentry. I did notthink he would crave the slightest attention from his blood father.
From Stav reports, the seashore was clotted with longships. All here to pay tribute to the prince and his betrothal. Then there were those who were surely here to gawk at the new melder and the Sentry who’d been brought together in violence only to work side by side to save the prince.
I could not soothe the heated waves in my stomach.
“Oh, there’s the Myrdan royal coach.” Hilda patted my arm, pointing over the heads of people.
Canopies over carts, flags of black and crimson, marked the arrival of royals.
Courtiers, jesters, and Skalds clad in finery, they all made merry on their way. Some regaling the folk of Stonegate in grand sagas of the gods’ chosen formation of the kingdoms.
The traveler’s lullaby Emi sang on the longship rose among several different factions of the caravan.
Kveða við min mórðir. Skip búask ok á morgun. Ek sigla til min folog…
Drums beat a tune by which they marched, ominous and powerful. More than a beat, it was a threat not to underestimate King Hundur and his forces.
The king and his queen, who kept her face hidden from the burn of the sunset, rode in a cabriolet with satin cushions. Seated across from Hundur was the princess. Yrsa was lovely. She waved shyly to people as they pulled nearer to the palace doors. She had dark hair, fine as spider’s silk, woven into a crown of braids around her head. Her skin was a deep brown, her eyes were warm and kind. Thane hinted once Princess Yrsa had a slight talent with blood craft, but was not as skilled as his mother.
Perhaps the touch of craft in the princess’s blood made thisbetrothal all the more advantageous for Damir and his proclivity to catch magic.
Small as the kingdom was, Myrdan warriors were formidable. Strong grips on craft-made bone blades, piercings through the center of their noses, and runes tattooed across their throats. Selena told me once that Myrdan ink was a mark for every Draven warrior they’d slaughtered.
King Hundur was a broad man with a lighter complexion than his daughter. Suspicion rimmed his gaze that cut through the crowd like jagged glass. At his side, the queen was petite and wore a look of unease. She held a linen cloth to her nose, as though the smell of so many bodies had long grown rancid.
Beneath the arch of the front entry to the palace, King Damir bore the weight of his dark crown, a fine sword with jagged bones shaped like serpents on the hilt lined his waist. The thick cloak he’d draped across his shoulders made him broader than was true.
I thought it might be intentional.
“Hundur, my friend.” Damir clapped his palms against the Myrdan king’s shoulders once the man was free of his coach. “Welcome. I trust your travels were uneventful.”
Hundur sniffed. “Cold and rocky.”
Damir chuckled and draped an arm around the shoulders of his fellow king. They staggered into the palace, chuckling through chatter with each other like the oldest of friends.
“Lyra.” Hilda dug her fingernails into my arm. “Lyra, gods, tell me…tell me I am not imagining it.”
I winced and gently eased my arm free of her grip, following her look of stun down the long line of travelers.
My heart stuttered when he caught sight of us in the same instant.
“Hil!” Gisli’s voice cracked and he barreled through the crowds, desperate to reach his wife. He wasn’t alone. Three young ones shrieked and giggled, following him close behind.
Edvin’s children.
A sob broke from Hilda’s chest. She raced for her husband.
