Embers in a Dark Frost

Embers in a Dark Frost Page 2

Keryn’s eyes narrowed. She scanned the kitchen. Everyone was busy with a task. As long as I’d been in Murias, there had never been a gathering like this, never been this many visitors, this much importance, this much work… It was an unusual time for everyone. Hope rose as she considered my words, but fear quickly set in, for I’d never been in the same room with more than a handful of my own family much less the rulers, prefects, and warriors of other houses.

I pushed my trepidation aside. I had to do this. In the hall, I could eavesdrop and find out the state of travel, the best roads to take, and how things fared in the Woodlands.

“I suppose you could serve the other houses,” Keryn said. “Keep your head covered, don’t look anyone in the eye, and just do your job. No one spares a glance at the servers anyway. Don’t give them a reason to. Understand?”

I kept my head down. I could barely hear through the blood rushing through my ears. “I understand.”

In the long corridor that separated the kitchen and the Great Hall, Keryn slipped a soft white tunic over my head and then belted it with a leather tie sewn with gold threading. She handed me a heavy jug of ale from one of the tables that lined both sides of the hallway. Servers bustled around me, jostling, but never looking.

“Go.” She pushed me toward the hall. “Don’t forget what I said.”

Immediately, I was swept up in the wave of the servers pressing forward into the Great Hall. I couldn’t see over those in front of me, so I followed until, suddenly, I was there and the servers thinned out, hurrying to the long tables.

For a moment, I couldn’t move. I was in the Great Hall, surrounded by Danaans, by the swell of music and the heady aroma of food and drink.

Colorful banners hung from thick beams high overhead. Tapestries depicting great battles lined the walls. Bright gowns and jewels adorned the females. Warriors practically glowed in shining, silver chain mail and the vibrant tunics of their houses. My jaw dropped a fraction. I’d only seen occasional visitors and those who worked in the palace; my teachers, the scribes, and my grandfather. I’d seen the Legions of Anu from afar, but never like this. So close, so imposing.

My hands trembled as I took a deep breath and followed a line of servers to one of the long tables at the far end of the hall, away from my family’s table. It was so crowded, so many milling about and talking in groups, that I knew I’d be safe.

A hand seized my arm and jerked me back into the shadows.

“Deira, what are you doing?” Lidi hissed in my ear as she pulled me against the wall.

I leaned close to her, wincing because her fingers dug into my upper arm. “Leave me be, Lidi.”

She glanced around nervously, trying to shield me from view with her body. “Come back into the kitchen.” She pulled, but I didn’t budge.

The energy in the Great Hall surrounded me, making me feel hopeful and intoxicated. No one would make me leave. “No. You go back. I’m staying.”

“Have you gone mad? If your grandmother sees you...”

I yanked my arm from her grasp. “I’m not mad.” My voice rose, but it didn’t matter; no one could hear me amid the music and the noise of the crowd. “Don’t you see? I’m tired. I walk these halls like a shadow. I want to live, to feel, to take my life in my hands and do what I will with it. I have that right.” My cheeks burned. My tone and eyes, I knew, were fierce. I calmed myself. “Please, go back to the kitchen.”

Her gaze softened into worry and resignation. Perhaps even pity. She inclined her head before slipping away. I watched her slim form disappear into the crowd, knowing I’d hurt her with my harsh words.

But they were words of truth. I’d always been a thing, a mistake to be hidden and kept.

Someone bumped into me. The ale in the jug sloshed over the edge, waking me from my thoughts. I blinked back the sting of tears as I headed down the length of the wall. I had to leave Murias. Otherwise, what was the point of my life? I had to make a stand now for myself. Because I knew no one else would.

As I stopped behind a table and began filling ale mugs, two servers went by, giggling.

“They’re so big! Did you see the color of his eyes?”

“Breathing fire might not be a bad thing,” the other said before erupting into more giggles.

I moved back against the wall. They spoke of the Fire Breathers. I admonished myself for using the term. Lidi had me thinking of make-believe again. On the tips of my toes, I looked in the direction the two servers had come. Far down at the end of the table, sat the officials and war leaders of the House of Sydhr, descendants of the god of fire.

I kept refilling mugs, staying in the background as much as I could, but making my way farther down the line. A few servers recognized me. I saw the flicker of shock, but they said nothing. It was too busy to lodge any sort of complaint at my presence.

Suddenly a lone drumbeat brought the hall to silence.

Everyone froze, as though the sound had suspended time.

Dancers swept into the center of the room, tall, lithe and as pale as moonlight, with hair the color of night. They were not the silvered-haired beauties from Murias. No, these must be from one of the other houses. The drums began again, heavy and steady. The servers resumed their work more quietly than before.

Riveted by the scene, I watched the dancers, their sheer blue gowns flowing and rippling like gentle water over smooth stones with each timed movement. It was a dance celebrating the form. There were six of them. All female. All perfect. All true-blooded Danaans.

The sound and vibration of the drums pounded through me, making my cheeks hot and my limbs weak. I’d never seen a dance like this. Never heard music like this. Demanding. Overwhelming. Mesmerizing.

I forced myself to continue down the line, stopping to fill mugs and trying to focus on my task, to overhear conversations, not realizing at first that I’d come to the Fire Breather’s table.

Leaning between two warriors, I trained my ears to their words, but the drums were so fast now, beating loudly in time with my heart that it was all I could hear. The entire hall was spellbound, all eyes on the dancers undulating in harmony to the frenzied tempo.

And then it ended with one enormous drumbeat that echoed in the stillness of the hall.

The crowd stood to honor the dancers while I watched, horrified, as my jug, knocked by the two warriors as they rose, slipped from my hand, flipped over the table, and hit the stone floor where it shattered into pieces.

All eyes turned to me.

I froze; my body and hand stretched out where I’d tried to recover the jar, feeling as though the blood drained from my face and down to my feet where it ebbed from my body.

The crowd remained silent and staring. I hurried in between the two tables and knelt to gather the pieces. No one helped me. Tears pricked my eyes, but I blinked them back, concentrating hard on my task, willing my hands to stop trembling.

The scrape of a chair. Footsteps. Black boots on the floor in front of me. My breath caught. Why wasn’t the music starting? Why weren’t people talking, eating? Jars broke all the time...

Dear Dagda, what have you done?

A black-clad knee bent down in front of me. Close. Too close.

I raised my head and looked straight into fire.

CHAPTER 2

The blood I thought lost came rushing back with a roar.

Eyes, the color of amber held in front of a flame, bore into mine. His face was strong and rugged, beautiful and brutal. A face that spoke of war and power, of an iron will and a predatory nature that held me still.

His black hair was cut short. He wore polished black chain mail under a black tunic with a silver raven on the breast. A thick silver torc hugged his neck and a black tattoo climbed, like entwined flames, from beneath his tunic, up the left side of his neck where it clipped his jaw, earlobe, and the tip of his ear before continuing up his temple to disappear into his hairline.

I heard no noise from the Great Hall, only the sound of my breathing and his. His sharp black brows, like the wings of a crow in flight, dipped just a fraction. His penetrating gaze searched my face.

Then, his hand snaked out and snatched the veil from my head.

I bit back a cry as the pins yanked hair from my scalp as they came away with the veil.

A collective gasp rose to the rafters. Chairs scraped against the stone floor as Danaans stood in shock, anger, disgust—I knew not which, for I couldn’t pull my eyes away from the stranger in front of me.

“Hair the color of flame.” His voice was quiet and thickly accented. A tic began in the muscle of his shadowed jaw. “You’re human.”

My life was over. I had disgraced not only the House of Anu, but also the entire ruling council of Innis Fail.

Still, the dark warrior stared at me, his face a mask of fierce thought even as his hand pulled the remaining pins at the back of my head, releasing the tight bun Lidi had arranged. My hair fell around my face; the ends pooled on the stone floor.

A murmur rushed through the crowd. Cloth rustled near me. A shard from the jar cut into my palm, but I didn’t move.

“Forgive her.” My grandfather jerked me up by the arm so quickly my vision swam. “She has a faulty mind and forgets her place.”

I gasped and gave him a sharp look. His hand squeezed my arm, warning me to be silent. For once, I listened.

“What is this, Lairgnen?” Another male stepped forward. Long, blond hair flowed freely down his back, save for the two war braids at each temple. Torch light reflected a myriad of tiny sparks off the silver chain mail he wore over a vibrant blue tunic. I knew him to be Mael, descendant of Taranis the Thunderer, leader of his house, King of the Plains, and Master of Air.

Never had I seen such a gathering of beauty. Everywhere I looked was perfection, on the faces and forms of trueborn Danaans. I wanted to crawl under the nearest table.

The warrior who’d unveiled me straightened, standing taller than my grandfather, taller than Mael.

I realized with yet another degree of humiliation and fear, this had to be Balen, leader of the House of Sydhr.

No one had to tell me. He had the age of heroes written in his eyes and the weariness of it, too. Lidi had been right, and I wondered if the legends and myths were true. How long had he lived?