Shocked, I turn.
While I’ve been staring out the window, Taliesin has stoked the hearth to life. Firelight dances across the planes of his bare chest, illuminating a network of scars. Some are so faded they must be years old, but a few are angry and raw, like they were etched into his skin only yesterday.
My words die in my throat. I hate myself for staring, but I can’t seem to stop.
He drops his tunic into a damp heap at his feet. The pine marten pounces immediately, like it’s a wondrous new toy. A soft purr vibrates through her.
“Well?” he asks.
My cheeks warm. “How do you know who Osian is?”
“You told me about him.”
He pulls a dry tunic from an open wardrobe before tugging it over his sculpted chest, his marked skin vanishing beneath thefabric. Then he throws two more garments my way—a tunic and a pair of trousers so soft they feel like feathers against my damp hands.
“Thought you might want to change,” he says. “You look cold.”
Cold doesn’t even begin to cover it. My skin has taken on a bluish tint, and I’ve lost most of the feeling in my feet. The chill has sunk deep, needling my bones. It’s like it’s taken root inside me.
My hands clench around the dry garments. “How am I going to do this chained?”
“I’ve only chained one wrist. You’ll manage.”
He nods, then vanishes out the door with Bryn on his heels, leaving me to my privacy. Behind the tapestry, I shed my drenched cloak and tunic, each layer peeling away the fatigue of the road. As I pull on the dry clothes, warmth slowly spreads through my limbs in soothing relief. I sigh and close my eyes. For the first time in hours, I feel a little more human. Less…haunted.
And horrified by my earlier confession. Of course I don’t hate the Order. I just hate what they make me do sometimes. What’s worse, my words could be considered treasonous. I could certainly never say any of this to someone in Caer Draen. Not even Osian.
I have no idea what came over me.
Alone now, I find myself drawn to the tapestry again and its vivid sunset. I wish I could capture an image as perfectly as this, but even in the few times I’ve allowed myself to draw, my hand only creates nonsensical scratchings.
One day, I think, but then I immediately correct myself. It can’t be one day. I shudder to imagine what the Order would do if they discovered I’ve drawn just once.
And that makes too many traitorous thoughts for one day.
I emerge from behind the tapestry and my gaze shifts to the trunk in the corner. The one he was so keen to protect. I hesitate, then edge closer. The chains clink with each step.
It’s locked. Of course it is.
I crouch anyway, testing the lid, like it will yield to my bound hands more easily than whatever gouged its surface. It doesn’t. With a sigh, I sit back on my heels, irritation prickling beneath my skin. Whatever he’s hiding, he guards it well.
I leave the trunk and ease into the chair by the hearth, stretching my bare toes toward the flames. The storm still hammers against the glass, the wind snarling like a horde of wild beasts. It feels never-ending, and my skin itches from the sensation of being trapped. Even when the gusts die down, there’s no way out. I pull my knees to my chest and long for the stars’ guidance.
Taliesin soon returns with Bryn loping by his side. He takes the other chair, his gaze briefly flicking to me—to the chains—before the room settles into a charged quiet, only broken by the occasional rattle of the windowpanes.
“What happens now?” I eventually ask.
“We wait out the night,” he says firmly, “and then we survey the damage in the morning.”
“I don’t need daylight to tell you that bridge is now a permanent part of the Northern Sea.”
“We’ll assess our options.” He leans back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. “Staying here isn’t an option. The Order will come looking for us both eventually, and this will be the first place they search.”
“Maybe I don’t mind that.”
“I don’t think it will be a good thing if they find you. Something’s not right.”
I bite back a sigh, eyes on the dark windows. “And if they don’t wait until morning?”
