Page 120 of The Ashborn

“I really am sorry for all of it. I have not been the best protector for you. I’m still learning how to be…” His eyes trailed away from her for a moment, then sneaked back. “Selfless. There are no excuses, but River Storm taught me to think of myself first and never others. When our bond snapped, my mind… Well, I’ve been playing catch-up.”

“These tethers complicate a lot of things.” She sighed, pressing her lips together as she thought about Danek for a moment. They’d been growing closer until the battle of Dove Port, then all that mattered was saving the people. Still, she was happy to have the comfort of Connak back. She laid her head on his shoulder, taking in the life returning to him. There were burn marks on his hands from the battle, likely ignored during healing rituals.

“We never go away,” he whispered in the breeze. “You need to know that. If you choose to love someone. We’re strings threaded into the essence of you. As you are into us.”

Kienna jerked away, but she knew he was right. She felt his bond as clearly as she felt it with Ruva. Despite the charm, he was always there in her mind. The only one she couldn’t feel was Tristian. Her eyes fell on Ruva panting calmly with her back turned. She watched the forest floor dance with fading light.

Her other tether.

But there was another tether, one not so fierce and noble. Not two, but four presumed bonds clung to her like smoke after a wildfire. “Can you see Vaerin in there?”

“No.” He rubbed his scarred hands along Kienna’s arm. “One can never see the other, but I can feel your battle inside, and we all wish you would come home.”

Me, too, Kienna thought to herself.

Ruva looked over her shoulder, silver eyes bright and loving. She panted and whimpered out her love to Kienna, so she knew she always had her, too.

Chapter 48

—Broan—

Ingrid didn’t want to stop at the Meadhouse near the bottom of the mountain, much to Broan’s disappointment. He figured he’d have another fun evening before venturing off to overthrow the Elvish throne. Plus, he desperately wanted to see how Lief handled the EitrAle. There was also Jacob to consider. The River Storm soldier crossed his mind a few times. In the end, the rest of the group refused. The faster they could clear the open, the better. The Vikings were seafaring people, after all. Trekking up and down mountains and venturing into the forest was beyond their comfort.

“I can check the villages for him if it would put you at ease,” Ithril offered, stalking closely to Broan’s heel since leaving the Whiteridge Mountains.

“No,” Broan said, pulling snow from his growing beard. “If the rat wouldn’t go with us then, he won’t go now, and we would have to fucking kill him this time.”

Ithril clutched her bow tightly as she continued.

They finally found camp after crossing the Goldmere and clearing the green mountains. The forest greeted Broan as soon as he stepped onto the soil, runes on the trees dancing with silver and gold. He huffed. Fucking trees. They sparked wildness in Ingrid’s eyes. She backed away and spat on the ground.

“Harmless,” Broan said calmly, a smirk threatening his face. He enjoyed seeing her squirm. Otherwise, she’d be a tough façade with no character. That and it gave him an edge against the Warband General. “Don’t let the trees scare you, or you’ll never make it in the hidden city.”

Kaelthar dropped his pack to the ground and searched for stones. “Those runes? Elves carved ‘em to mark their trail. Means the path ahead’s safe, least by their reckonin’.”

Skald coughed into his arm, his white beard bouncing against his chest. Lief sat beside Broan as he tucked tinder between the stones Kaelthar had built. He started a fire once, and he’d be elated to do it again. He even took the flint stone to claim the right.

“The Lorekeeper won’t likely survive the way home,” Lief whispered.

Broan studied the old man, the way his chest heaved unevenly when he coughed and fought for a breath. Skald rested against the base of a tall rock. The journey to the Elvish city was a brutal one, but the journey back to Whiteridge would prove to be far more difficult. “I know a healer. Maybe he can help.”

Lief shrugged. “Eldyr would be so kind.”

A silence settled between the group as Kaelthar grunted through the camp, setting up tents and unpacking blankets. Ingrid settled in near the freshly lit fire and laid her head in the dirt, leaves gathering in the ratted, fiery hair. Ithril found a cozy tree and climbed to the top, the most relaxed she looked since leaving the forest.

“Grid,” Lief called across the fire. “Did you cross paths with any raiders on your last voyage?”

Ingrid sat, facing them, but Kaelthar clasped his hands together immediately and sat near the fire, the glow casting an orange hue in the faded light. “The Blackskal came upon us once. I was little more than a babe. Still remember the dragon prows cutting through the fog.”

Lief and Ingrid groaned, which pulled a smirk from Broan. At least he wasn’t the only one annoyed by the Chatterbox. Broan leaned forward anyway, entranced by the idea of these raiders.

Kaelthar continued. “Their ships bore dragon heads with jaws wide enough to swallow courage whole. Terrified me as a lad. Folk claimed it was in honor of the great sea drekar, but I knew it was meant for fear⁠—”

“Not tonight, Kaelthar,” Ingrid said, tossing a rock toward him.

Broan stood, approaching the tree where Ithril was, ready to relieve himself of yet another tangent spun up by Kaelthar about the Skalavian lands. He craned his neck until he saw her black boots dangling. “How do you keep from falling?”

“Rope,” Ithril said, her voice now alluringly calm.