Page 5 of On Broken Bonds

“Great thanks to Aqualis for the tides and currents, for cleanliness and purity,” Lyra continues, her hazel eyes, so like my own, shining as she repeats the words. “And to Eryndor…”

Each time I look at my sister, it’s like seeing every version of her. The version that held my hands and danced with me before the fireplace, our slippers tapping on the hardwood as adults encouraged our performance. The version of her that would come, whispering, to my room in the night, begging me for one more bedtime story when our mother had said it was enough.

And the version of her who cried silently beside me at the realization that our parents would never read us to sleep again. That the godfire had taken them like it took so many others. Between the curse that kept our family trapped in its clutches and the godfire plague, it was just too much. Far too much.

“Do you think the gods will ever stop punishing us?”

They’re the desperate, tear-soaked words of a little girl who couldn’t begin to understand. I’d tucked Lyra under my arm. She was only two years younger than me, and already so much smaller, no doubt from the shadow-touch.

“Shh,” I’d said, smoothing my fingers over the damp hair around her temples, that same honey brown color as our mother. “Shh, it’s alright.”

But I didn’t answer her question.

How could I? I was only eighteen when our parents died to the godfire fever, and so many in our holdings still suffered, the bodies piling up on carts like so many bags of grain. How could I explain to her that, like a child forgotten in a time-out, the gods had put us out of their mind? Our suffering was likely not the active will of an angry god, but a lack of attention from a bored one.

Once Valtor realized he would not get what he wanted, not from our mother, who taught us that our bodies were ours, and ours alone, we fell from favor, and have been left alone to sit in the dark since.

And I, as the eldest daughter and heir to the holdings and the titles, had the weight of it all on my shoulders. Speaking to the farmers, working with the single healer in our midst, bartering with other land-owners. Desperately trying to retain Lyra’s tutor, trying to ensure we had enough to eat. Slipping a coin to Hilda and Ivor when I could. And always, always trying to appear more certain, more mature, than I ever felt.

“…for justice, ambition, and the care of us all,” Lyra finishes.

I blink, realizing I’ve forgotten myself, my arm aching from holding up my glass as my mind wandered through the past five years, Lyra’s illness, our parents’ absence. There’s only one god left to thank, and it brings a sour taste when I speak his name, knowing it would be foolish to leave him out of our toast.

“And to Valtor,” I say, working hard not to spit out the words like something rotten on my tongue. “Overseer of it all, shepherd of the sky, sea, and earth.”

It’s tradition to stretch out this last part, to wax poetic for Valtor, but I can’t bring myself to do it. So, instead, I raise my cup and clink it against Lyra's, the sound echoing through the room as though it means more than either of us can put into words.

“Cheers,” I say, shooting my sister a wicked grin and bringing the glass to my lips, a silent challenge to her, a call-back to our childhood, to see who can finish the sweet juice first. She blinks in surprise, then lets out a quick, happy sound at the realization.

I drink, gulping greedily at what I should certainly savor. The juice is sweet and heady, like the earth and the first breath of air when you break the water’s surface, all at once.

“Oh, no you don’t—” Hilda tries to protest, but we’re already chugging at the drink, laughing as dribbles of it slide down our faces. Lyra comes up for air first, of course she does, coughing slightly but laughing harder, her eyes widening when I finish my glass and set it down with a thump on the table.

It's hardly spiked, we don't have the mead to make it as strong as it once was, but still, I feel the warmth effusing through my veins.

“Well, I’ll drink to that,” Ivor says with a laugh, taking a hearty sip of his own drink. “Now, dear,” he says, reaching out and touching Hilda’s hand, even as she shakes her head at us good-naturedly. “Please, let's cut into this chicken so Lyra knows whether she needs to thank you for the meal or not.”

For a while, we let ourselves pretend. The chicken disappears piece by piece beneath teasing arguments over who deserves the crispiest skin, and Hilda swats at Ivor every time he tries to sneak extra carrots onto her plate instead of his own. Lyra laughs so hard at one of Ivor’s terrible jokes that she nearly spills her drink, and for those precious moments, the house doesn’t feel so cold or hollow. The cracked furniture fades into the background. The empty halls stop echoing quite so loudly.

When dinner is finished, Hilda shoos us away from the dishes before Lyra or I can protest. Ivor disappears briefly, only to return with his old lute tucked beneath his arm, the wood scratched and worn smooth from years of use. He settles heavily into his chair beside the fireplace, plucking uncertainly at the strings until a familiar melody stumbles into shape.

Ivor might not be very good at playing the lute, and Hilda’s singing voice might need a little work, but it’s enough.

Lyra laughs, her face flushed and happy, as we spin, elbows crooked together. We move through the dance with feet that have done it a hundred times, though our slippers are worn through now, mended to the point of being more thread than silk.

“…o’er the hills and through the night,” Hilda sings, tapping her hand on her thigh, “we rejoice in brilliance and beauty, star-light…”

Her voice, high and simple, cuts sharply off at the rough sound of a knock at the door.

The mirth floods out of me like the stopper pulled from the bottom of a trough. There’s the instant and automatic understanding of who it is on the front porch, and we all still in that knowledge, a shared sense of horror pooling between us.

I turn to Lyra, my hands on her forearms. Her chest starts to rise and fall quickly, a wheeze whistling at the height of her breath.

“Go.” It’s an order. I’ve thought of this moment often, imagining the men on the porch. I’ve thought about it enough that a sense of deja vu rolls over me when they pound on the door again.

It’s as though I’m a member of a god’s army, highly trained and ready to act. “Out the back, to the stables. Ready the horse so you can go if you need it, but make no move.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Lyra says, shaking her head, her hands balling in the fabric of my dress. Her eyes are wide, wild.