Page 1 of The Bone King and the Starling
I watch the young thrall wash blood off of her hands in the fountain, enrapt. She does not see me in the shadows. I do not want her to. I don’t want any of them to. Not yet. For now, I’ve come only to watch.
The wind picks at the cloak disguising my armor. I pull the hood low as much to protect from the wind as to hide my face. The thrall wears no such cloak. She wears only a battered dress and shoes that look ill-fitting when she takes a few steps back towards the house she was thrown from. She stops, turning at the sound of laughter.
Before her abrupt arrival, I had been watching the drunks in the town square fall over each other as they exited the longhouse. I’m pretty sure one of the men was the chief of this small village, but I would need the morning’s light to know for certain. The thrall disregards the men now, but she still does not return to the building she was thrown from. I wonder what evil or ill keeps her at bay. What fear does she have that is greater than the cold? From the little of this town I have seen so far from the anonymity afforded to me by cloak and shadow, I can only guess.
The town is poor. That does not surprise me. When I first told my men I wanted to host the next games here, despite the many larger cities that may have been more suitable, many grumbled and spat. I did not have many volunteers interested in crossing the western woods by horseback. One of the only villages that is not accessible to Ithanuir by boat. It was a nuisance, and yet, I do not question the gods, for it was their hands that guided me. And I am surprised, confused even, by what I have found.
Though the poverty of this place may not surprise me, what does surprise me is how poor the poorest are compared to the town’s wealthier inhabitants. The thrall, for example. Her hair is a natural riot of curls unlike most of the other villagers in this place, yet where many others have tight patterns of intricate braids in the common style of this region, hers hangs long down her back, few braids that there are, tattered.
Her skirts look dirty, even in the moonlight. I cannot see much of her face as she watches the doorway to what looks like a kitchen, though I can see the face of the young male villager who approaches her from the back.
Blond and well fed, laden with muscle, he wears a cloak similar to mine and hide boots that glint in the moonlight as he makes his way across the square. He catches the thrall by the elbow as she idles near the fountain and pulls her around to face him, as if it is his right.
An unpleasant feeling stirs low in my gut, seeing her touched. The fact that she does not enjoy his touch only amplifies it. She rips her arm away from him, but he pushes her chest, forcing her back towards the fountain. When the backs of her skirts brush the stone lip of the fountain and she wobbles, he grabs her by the throat and shoves her backwards, holding her suspended over the shallow water.
I am moving, though I had no intention of doing anything more than watch tonight. Intervening here could jeopardize all of my plans for this village, for these games. But as I move, it is as if I do not have a choice. My bones have begun to sing, telling me to close in, stop this. Closer, I can hear this boy’s harsh words on the wind, “You will not deny me much longer. And when I finally have you, the things I will do to that little cunt…”
I grab the boy by the shoulder, wrenching him back and bringing my wrist down hard across his forearm, though not quite hard enough to break it. I shove him off of the thrall and he stumbles towards the hall. The expression on his face as he turns his gaze up to me is positively laughable.
“You dare,” the boy shouts at me — me.
The sudden splitting reminder that he cannot see my face or identify me by my armor catches me off guard. I chuckle. I am unused to being treated as only a man.
“You dare laugh at me? I am Tori, son of Gilead, and this whore here belongs to me.”
“I’m not a whore,” the thrall says, surprising me.
“Don’t talk back to me.” The boy called Tori advances on her as if I’m not even there, like he doesn’t even see my body, he is so fixated on the girl. He has hate in his eyes, more than desire. I pity her for the things he will do. And he will do them. Males like him in villages like this live unrestrained. At least, they did.
I punch the boy in the gut as he lunges towards her. The pressure of my fist is enough to cause him to buckle and collapse onto the cobblestones. I wait for him to rise. He does not. He merely continues to spit insults up at me and writhe there like a wounded animal, so I grab him beneath one arm and leg and toss the whimpering coward into the fountain.
A group of drunks standing nearby laugh and I chuckle with them at how long it takes the stupid, malignant parasite of a boy to remove himself from the icy water. As warm as this fall night is, he still cannot afford to be outside more than moments. For that reason only, I imagine, he spews a few more foul curses in my direction — leveling another curse at the thrall, too — before staggering off down a street to the left, taking him away from here. Away from her.
“He will be back,” I tell the girl, turning to face her while making sure to give her space.
She is looking after the boy, tracking the alley he disappeared behind and keeping her back to me as she does so. And when he’s finally gone, only then does she let her shoulders droop. “I know. Thank you, sir, for intervening. He has grown more bold with the games so close.”
She turns around and tilts her face up to look at me. I know she cannot see me beneath my hood, against the light of the bright white moon. It is full tonight.
But I can see her.
Beneath the shimmering, supernatural light of the gods — gods who already took their sacrifice from my men and women on this night — I see her face in full clarity and everything, simply everything in the gods’ expansive earth, comes together.
Time unwinds like a spool of thread. My body grows hot beneath my armor and I know that I will have many more gods to thank for this before the night is through. Raya, goddess of small creatures, for sending me the raven from the east — the first sign I received to come to this small village when I could have used a much larger, more important town to host these games. Aquenius, god of water, for laying the watermark on the map. Resenia, moon goddess, for showing us her most precious gift in all its fullness here in this square right now so that I might see this female before me in the light and marvel. To Ghabari for what will come next.
I swallow and choke, surprised by the sudden way my throat works.
The female tilts her head and squints. “You are not from Winterbren, sir.” Her voice is pitched as a question, so delicate and strong in equal parts. Her hands fiddle nervously in her apron-covered skirts. The brown of her skin appears silver in this light.
She is simply beautiful.
Though to be sure, there is nothing simple about her beauty. The way she has been put together is unlike anything I have seen, and in the capital Ithanuir, I see all kinds, all shapes, all colors. She has brown skin, though it’s difficult to assess the exact shade. Her hair is dark curls that cling to the beauty of her face. A few loose braids hold the mass back so that I can see her clearly. Ragged though they may be, I’m grateful for them now.
She has high cheeks and eyes that tilt up towards her hairline. Her brow is soft, as is the slope of her nose, which is perfectly proportioned and round. Her mouth is full. So full. Her upper lip is tiny compared to the bottom. My hand twitches in my cloak. My thumb aches to drag across her mouth, to test that softness with my own rough skin. To feel it crumble beneath me like an army beneath my axe. I want to conquer her.
The thought is as harsh as it as consuming. I want to conquer her. But it is true. I have never wanted anything more.
Perhaps, one thing.
To be conquered by her in return.
“I…am not,” I bluster, embarrassed in ways I have never been. I am unused to this. To being received as a man, only, and in the presence of a female so lovely the gods have grown jealous of her. That they would send her here, to this place at the forgotten end of the world, where she would be made to work at the lowest tasks and be treated by the villagers with cruelty as she does it, it is a disgrace. Only redeemed by the fact that the gods sent me here to fix it all, and to find her.
“Are you of Wrath?” Gods, her voice is saccharine-sweet. She is too soft. Too small. Too decadent a creature for the likes of me.
And it matters not. I clear my throat, my hand twitching again. I move it to the handle of my axe to keep from reaching out and grabbing her, no better than the boy who came before. “I am.”
“Are you passing through?”
“In a sense.” I shift my weight uncomfortably between my feet.
She edges back, undoubtedly put off by my uncertainty. I want to ease her, yet I open my mouth to say something, anything that will keep her here, and find nothing. My lungs are dry. The gods who have brought me to her feet forsake me now.
She takes a step away from me, towards the longhouse. “I should return to my duties, sir. It was very nice to meet you. You have been very kind. I will not forget such kindness.” When I do not say more, she turns from me with a short bow.
She does not know that the gods have interceded, changing her fate forever.
I have already overstayed my time in this village, but I linger, waiting until the darkness is thicker than syrup, long after the fires have grown cold, after the drunks have crawled off to bed and the thralls have taken their rest among the rushes.
I slip into the hall and position myself near another group of travelers. They eye me warily but grow more comfortable when I pay them no attention, but instead watch the thralls huddle together for warmth in this drafty place. A disgrace. And it is not only because she is here among them. No one deserves the humiliation of having to sleep here, in this. I can only imagine what these travelers think, being welcomed into Winterbren like this, and I snarl under my breath, drawing the eyes of a young girl sleeping between her parents among the other travelers. She looks directly into my eyes, despite my hood and offers me a small wave. I wave back.
The girl’s mother notices our exchange and directs the girl’s attention away from me and I smile. If only the thrall I am after had someone to watch over her as this young girl does. Because, as my gaze finds the dark swath of her curls among the other thralls asleep on the floor, I watch her shiver and know. This thrall, who has nothing to protect her from the cold as she nestles amidst the rushes with not even a thin blanket to cover her will find shelter soon enough. I will be her shelter. And yet…
Doubt hovers over me like a cloud.
This poor thrall has nothing and no one. She is young and abused, clearly alone. It will take time for her to understand what I already know.
She is destined for me by the gods.
She will be frightened and unsure when I return to stake my claim. I will need to restrain myself with her. I will restrain myself with her, I assure myself, even as my disobedient cock swells in my trousers at the thought of having her pretty face turned up towards mine — her on her knees, my fist wrapped in her curls, restraining her so that I may do what I like and take my time.
My desire is not a beast I have often — if ever — lost a battle of wills to. But I struggle now. Struggle to remain against the wall, watching, when I want so ardently to go to her, pick her up and take her back to my camp, have her among my things, as a Viking should. We are not a people who wait and watch, but raid and take. At the very least, I long to go to her now and give her my cloak, my fur, to shelter her from the cold. I am failing her already.
Wait. Wait… Tomorrow. This is her last night like this.
I itch with yearning, but I know that I must wait to reveal myself to her in the daylight. For tonight, I watch her sleep. And then I wait longer, long enough that I know my warriors will have begun to worry, but I want to ensure that she remains unbothered by the blond fool.
Finally, when I feel the familiar irritation resulting from sleeplessness begin to set in, I rise and leave the great hall that is many things but not great. I find my horse, who is displeased to have been kept in these unfamiliar stables for so long, and return to my camp.
There, I find the prisoner we took from among the bandits that attempted to raid our caravan two days prior. We originally took three prisoners, but two were sacrificed in the full moon ritual. I take the last and sacrifice him to Raya and Ghabari, carving his skin from his flesh methodically while he screams.
I bathe in his blood beneath the light of the full moon and offer my thanks to the gods for bringing me here to this small village on the outskirts of Wrath where my wife has been waiting for me.