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My throat tightened. Lyra would take on some of my darkness?
As though she was feeling my angst over the realization, her palm slipped into mine and pulsed three times. Like she was informing me it was all right with her.
“Words fester like a boil,” Emi hurried to say. “Sometimes spreading to others within a clan. There are some who will see Roark as a traitor, forgetting he was a child when a bond took hold. Accept it.”
“No,” Lyra said, her voice soft and low. “I plan to change it.”
Gods, I clenched my teeth to stifle a groan. I needed the woman alone, and soon.
The scrape of wood over the floorboards drew my attention to the table. Members of the úlfur council rose, one by one. Violence was potent, like acid on the tongue.
My hate lingered on the spindly man at the end of the table. A man with a full beard made of knots and braids and golden beads. Malice curdled under my skin when the craft took hold, icy and sharp.
Patience. All I needed was a bit more time of calm, then retribution for attacking my wife would be had.
The queen, at the head of the table, stood last.
“What is this?” Elisabet looked too much like the mother I tried to forget.
She was dressed in a simple blue woolen gown. Instead of the dark kohl over her eyes and lips, she wore a clean face. Her lashes were pale, her cheeks flushed with pink.
I hated her for it.
Once the queen of Dravenmoor had been a loving mother, making swords of branches and battling me in the courtyard until we could not cease laughing. She taught me how to make a plait in my hair and taught me of our lore, our histories, and our sagas.
She was the sort of mother who was gentle toward her sons, proud of their achievements, and loving enough that when she sent me away half alive, I battled for seasons trying to make sense of it. Of what I’d done that was so wrong, my mother tore me apart.
To hate her was simpler. Less painful.
“The melder has finally been brought before the council.” Virki leaned over his hands onto the table. “Among a few others.”
When Auki took note that Virki would not cease staring at Emi, he took a slight step in front of her.
Still, Emi would be the one to speak for us. The úlfur would not hear Lyra, not yet. When they learned the truth of the bond, they would not have a choice.
I kept my regard pinned to the queen. We do not come for Lyra to be tried by these bastards. We come with news instead. Glad news.
Emi forwent my insult, opting to call the council by their title, but finished strong. Like my cousin was readying to stand in front of the both of us when the úlfur, undoubtedly, reacted to the truth.
The queen tapped one finger on the edge of the table. “And what news is this?”
I held out one hand for Lyra’s. She didn’t hesitate.
Show them, I said against her cheek.
Slowly she lifted her fingers. The fading rune bands were there and matched perfectly.
The first rough gasp echoed in the room.
“All gods.” A man whose name I could not recall leaned forward and tossed the hood made of a bear head off his hair. “Are those sjeleven seals?”
More and more the úlfur gawked at our clasped hands; some cursed; some remained silent. None looked at us with such violence as my uncle.
“You made a foolish mistake, nephew. One that will cost you and your little melder your lives.”
Lyra stepped into my side but didn’t cower under Virki’s stare.
I grinned and raised one hand. I think you’d like to see that.
