Page 169 of Given to the Black King

I laugh.

“This is a nursery.”

“It is an empty room.”

“It is already a nursery.”

The certainty in his voice reaches the bond.

My throat tightens.

He touches the bite gently.

“Tower,” he says.

“Four hundred steps.”

“I will carry you.”

“Of course you will.”

He takes me into his arms.

As we leave, I reach back and push the nursery door wide enough that it will not catch on the latch.

Torgan looks at it, then carries me through.

EPILOGUE: TORGAN

One year after the bond, a heartbeat wakes me before dawn.

Not Iona’s.

The smaller one.

Quick. Angry. Entirely awake.

I put my hand over the curve of her belly.

The child kicks my palm.

Iona does not wake.

She is eight months gone and sleeping badly. The child took root within days of her setting the seedward aside after the southern rite. Her ankles swell by evening. Her back aches. She has begun using my ribs as a footrest and denies doing so.

I lie still.

Another kick.

“I know,” I whisper.

The child kicks again.

We have established no language, but the meaning is clear.

Something is wrong.

I listen.