Page 3 of White Raven

Growing up, I used to stare at the intricate stitching with fascination. My favorite showed the silvery wings of my own people and the inky hues of the Northerners, flying in our raven forms on errands for Huginn and Muninn, the faithful servants of Odin. A magical time when the Ravenshadow tribe to the north, and the Silvervale tribe in the east, were the sole Messengers of the Realm, delivering messages and warnings to other worlds far away.

Older Ravens—my tutors and others who lived before the Battle of Blood—taught me more of our history. Centuries ago, the sun and moon were not at war. My own people did not live in constant daylight, and eternal darkness didn’t plague the northern kingdom. King Gavric Helvig, leader of the Northern Night Ravens, and King Vorian Stallard, ruler of the Eastern Day Ravens, were trading partners, not fierce enemies as they are now.

But all that was before the Leatherwings. Before the Battle of Blood. And before Huginn and Muninn took away our magic and barred us from ever leaving our world.

The war splintered us, the curse divided us, but it was the foretelling which made us true adversaries.

The last tapestry displayed King Stallard and King Helvig in a great battle against the Leatherwings king, Greythorn. The frightening ruler of the bats.

“My lady.” A guard stationed outside the king’s office bowed, opening the heavy door.

I stepped in, my chin rising, my expression hard as if I was going into battle. I suppose dealing with my father was like going to war each time. King Vorian Stallard was not cruel. He showed his love in small gestures, but it was reserved. He was the king first, and I was the White Raven first.

On my entry, Iskald rose from his spot on the rug beneath the painting of the late Queen Elsara. She was beautiful with her long regal nose, dark blue eyes, and blond hair, but she was a stranger to me. The mother I never knew. The large wolfhound pranced over to me, licking my hand. My fingers slid through his silky, white fur, using it as a security blanket.

“Your Majesty.” I dipped my head and curtsied.

His back to me, Vorian Stallard stood proudly at the window overlooking the gardens and village. His hand stroked the fur of his other hound, Runa, who never left his side. Standing just under six feet, he occupied more space than his lean body would suggest. His aura exuded confidence in his role, the power he held.

“Wrennlyn.” He turned to me, his white-blond hair tied back to show off his trim beard, white wolf fur over his shoulders, his crystal blue eyes on me. Handsome and regal, the king was only 349 years old, considered early mid-life in our realm. Most Ravens lived to be over 800.

Desired by many women throughout the kingdom, Vorian did not seek a wife after losing his love eighteen years ago in childbirth. His kingdom was his only devotion. Though his bed was never cold, I heard of the many he invited back to his bedchamber, whisperings from noblewomen to the maids about his prowess in bed, hoping he’d take one of them as a wife, which had my ears bleeding.

Vorian flicked his gaze to his personal thrall, Ansfrid, and the guards at the door. “Leave us.”

“Yes, your majesty.” Ansfrid bowed stiffly, threads of silver discoloring his pure white beard. His shoes clipped fastidiously across the floor in measured steps, gesturing to the guards. The door clicked shut behind them.

Nerves rattled around my stomach. He never excused them. There were always guards around, so many we would often forget their presence.

Had he heard about last night? Had enough of me and Sarina sneaking out with lads from the village, ruining my reputation?

Women being virgins before marriage was not a coveted virtue in our culture. Men, along with women, wanted someone who knew what they were doing in bed, had experience to please their partner. Many houses in the village were so small, the whole family were in the same room while their parents had sex. It was normal.

Except, I couldn’t be seen with my legs wide open with a poor farmer in a horse stall. That was below the White Raven.

“You know I don’t waste my time with useless words.” He cleared his throat, walking closer to me. “I will get to the point.”

My heart amplified in my chest.

“You are to be married.”

“What?” The declaration hit me like a broadsword. “What are you talking about?”

Many noblemen had spoken to the king about either their sons or themselves marrying me. He always turned them down, stating it was not something he would even consider until I was much older, if at all.

Marriage was designed as a power move, to gain more command. We already ruled the Silvervale kingdom; no one could help boost my father’s wealth or status. And who I was, the role I was supposed to play, was above matrimony in my father’s eyes.

Or it used to be.

“The White Raven would never marry your useless offspring!” I heard my father bellow at one merchant who dared to offer up his son. “Get the hell out of my castle, before I toss you out the window myself!”

After that the proposals stopped coming.

“I’ve gotten reports.” He clasped his hands behind his back, his eyes slipping quickly to the papers sprawled over his desk. “There are rumblings from the north. Sightings and rumors of Night Raven guards near our border . . .” He tapered off, a strange, faraway look in his eyes.

“Rumors?” I sputtered. “You’re basing a marriage for me off rumors and rumblings?”

His jaw tightened, his nose flaring. My father’s temper was legendary.