Page 8 of White Raven

More applause thundered through the space. The Blaxhall clan, nine of them—three sons, four daughters, and Lord and Lady Blaxhall, the Earl and Countess of Snowfern—all hurried up with awe and pride. They greeted us with a bow or curtsy, before settling down at the long table. Brynden was placed on my left, my father, like always, on my right.

“Wrennlyn.” Brynden smiled enthusiastically, reminding me of an excited dog.

“Brynden.” I nodded at him as my father’s seeress stepped into the middle of the room, bowing deeply to the king. She was more than a hundred years younger than my father, and very beautiful, yet something old clung to her aura, making her feel wise and worldly. Her white-blue eyes were rimmed in heavy black pigment, runes were tattooed all over her face and body, her buttery yellow smokkr was draped in healing gems and a necklace of fox teeth and claws.

“Morrigan.” The king addressed her as he sat back in his chair, his hungry gaze wholly on her, as hers was on him. The king had a weakness for beautiful women, and I had no doubt their relationship, like so many others, was more than just king and his personal seeress.

“I came to bestow my wishes on the newly betrothed.” She held up a bowl with runes in it. “Allow the runes to speak freely.”

A gasp came from the crowd.

Runes were normally not used for fortune-telling. They were more to help guide and influence seers’ actions in reaching a certain conclusion. However, when a witch casts them with no direct question or purpose, they had the power to see outcomes seers could not. It was against their creed to throw them without intention or clarity, letting the runes speak freely instead of answer. But Morrigan never played by the rules. I guess when a king favors you, rules can be broken.

“We are honored.” Vorian slid his hand over his beard, his tone silky.

The entire room went silent as Morrigan mixed the bowl; the shock and excitement of an unbound casting gripped the crowd in reverence. She tossed them up, her gaze intently on me.

The marked bone pieces sailed up toward the ceiling, raining down on the table with clunky raps. There was a moment of pause, bated breath, my focus scouring the bones which landed in front of me.

Blank.

All nine had fallen on the unmarked side.

Morrigan let out a small gasp, her head shaking. “I’m sorry, that’s never happened.” She grabbed the bones, hurriedly swiping them back into the bowl. I had never seen her anything but poised and confident. Sweat dotted her hairline, her expression tight. “I’ll try again.”

“Yes. Do that.” The king stirred in his chair, his lids narrowing on her, causing her to fluster more. She took a calming breath, her lids shutting this time, swirling the runes in her bowl. Once again, she flung them in the air, letting them drop.

Every rune hit the surface, twisting and rolling, like some power was moving them, until every piece settled. They were all void of symbols.

Horror struck Morrigan’s face. She swallowed roughly. “Tha . . . that is impossible,” she muttered to herself. “How can you have no desti⁠—”

“You can go!” My father’s voice boomed out, his hand gesturing for her to leave, appearing bored with her. “We are done with your little party tricks.”

Morrigan’s expression hardened, her shoulders rising. “Party tricks?!”

The king’s gaze cut to her, stopping anything else from sputtering from her mouth. I recognized that expression very well. It suggested you shut up before his wrath escaped his stoic demeanor. Harsh lessons usually followed if you didn’t.

Morrigan dipped her head, gathering her things and fleeing the room. I had a suspicion she would not be his personal seeress after tonight.

“Such nonsense.” My father sat up, lifting his cup. “Let us focus on why we are here. The union of my daughter, Wrennlyn, and Brynden! Skål!”

They lifted their cups, yelling back. “Skål!” Music and voices quickly filled the room as if nothing happened, the awkwardness vanishing. Except it loomed over me, a dark cloud, whispering in my ear, while my false smile cheered with everyone else to my happy nuptials.

Downing my cup of mead, I gladly took more. A thrall always stood right between my father and myself to make sure we never saw the bottom of our plate or cup. My shoulders started to loosen, my anxiety dissolving just as the parade of the sacrificed animals, cooked and decorated on silver platters, moved down the path between the tables to us. My already queasy stomach coiled, knowing I would have to consume both sacrifices as part of the ceremony.

Hand fed by my betrothed.

My skin prickled, spotting the two Northerners carrying the heavy plated hog on their shoulders like it was a casket, the carcass greased and shiny, decorated with brussels sprouts, carrots, and specially grown winter apples from our hothouses.

I disliked how aware I was of him, comparable to food stuck between your teeth. Thralls were below my notice, a ghost in the background. Yet I couldn’t stop watching him as they placed the pig on the table before us, every flex of his arm muscles, every bend of his fingers or twitch of his jaw.

The barest of smirks brushed over his mouth, pulling at the scar, feeling my eyes on him. His gaze slid to mine when they stepped back, his expression blank, but I could feel the animosity, the rage glinting in his black eyes. Feral. Vicious.

“My lady?” A voice spoke in my ear, jerking me to the woman trying to pour me additional mead.

“Yes. More.” I jammed my cup at her, almost angry at her for catching me staring at him. I took a huge gulp of the sweet liquor, my brain growing even fuzzier, forcing myself to not look again until he disappeared into the crowd.

I jumped when a skinned, headless rabbit dropped down in front of me, garnished with rosemary and lemon. The poor thing was minding its own business earlier this morning, and now it was being served with potatoes.