Page 55

A NAME AND A PROMISE

WREN

“ T rader.” The word is knife sharp. “What are you doing here?”

I expect the man in front of me to cower under the dark glare of the Father, but he straightens, eyes narrowing, feet dug deep in the earth.

“I’m speaking to one of your people. Were we not instructed to do so?

Is this not part of The Trade?” The words are formal, careful, but edged, though the point hits an unexpected target.

There is a pang in my chest. I had forgotten about the Trade in our easy conversation.

He was instructed to seek someone out. I am just a someone.

I know it deep inside my chest, but my heart still stutters painfully.

I don’t know why. I’ve known him for the space of a sentence.

Whether he sought me out or stumbled across me, it was nothing.

Kaden sees something in my face, and his brows draw together, before a dawning thought has him reaching out to me. “Oh! No, Wren…” he says, voice apologetic, but before his hand can touch my own, the Father has his wrist in a bruising grip, bending it back to almost breaking.

“You will find someone else. There are many women in the village who would be pleased to give you a tour of sorts. Trade…wares…with you.”

Even with an arm wrenched in a painful angle, Kaden laughs, sharp and short. “I am fine where I am. I’m enjoying the company.”

“She is spoken for.” The words are torn from the Father’s mouth, and I step back slightly in surprise. He looks at me, eyes burning like pools of the Everfire.

“I was told that even those…with commitments…are free for the three days we are here. Is that not true?” Kaden is not quite abrasive, but not cautious either, and I assess and reassess the cheerful man in front of me.

To speak so to the Father is…well, you may as well jump off the mountain into the Below.

The Father exhales on a low note, sending shivers across my skin.

“She. Is. Spoken . For.” The emphasis is different.

And the truth of his words hit me all at once, like a rockfall.

It is not that anyone wants me, it is that they speak for me.

I am spoken for. I am lived for. There are no choices I make for myself — not even this one, which is granted to every other woman in the village.

I cannot choose what to eat, what to wear, where to go, with whom to speak, when I rise, when I settle.

I cannot even choose the words from my mouth, I am so tightly bound.

And in this rare moment, the first of its type since I was born, the first in so long that we thought the Traders would never return, I am being silenced again.

Again and again and again, I am only good for speaking other people’s words.

Even the dead have more freedom to their voices than I do.

And a low keening breaks from my throat, a small hawk’s cry, before I clap my hands to my mouth to silence it.

I know who I am. I have always known. I am a vessel for others.

It is my honor and my burden. But the glow of the man in front of me, the casual confidence with which he walks through life…

I suddenly and desperately want to taste it, if even for a moment.

All three men look at me with mirrored expressions — concern and confusion warring on their faces.

“Are you?” Kaden asks quietly. “Are you not willing, Wren? I would never force you… ”

I am about to answer, I want to answer, but Rannoch steps from the shadows behind the Father, looking like a storm cloud.

“What do you keep calling her?” The Councilman is all fire and fury. “Keeper? What is this?” There’s a note in his voice that I can’t decipher, but Kaden suddenly grins; whatever he hears in Rannoch’s question makes him fierce and wild, almost baring his teeth.

“Her name, of course.”

“That is not her name, Trader .”

“It’s what her friends call her,” Kaden bites back, and everyone freezes, freezes as though the Storms themselves have poured down the mountain and covered us all.

“Her… friends ?” The Father is studiously casual, echoed by Rannoch.

“Her friends call her Wren ? Do they.” It’s a flat statement, leaving no room for an answer, and there is a pit of fear like viper’s fangs in my stomach.

Kaden clearly knows he misstepped, but not how, and shrugs, just as deceptively relaxed as the others. “I am her friend, and that's what I call her.”

No one has moved, standing in an odd sort of triangle — Kaden by my side, Rannoch at one point, and the Father at the other.

Tilting his head, the Father looks between us, humming almost silently, the sound low and dark from his lips. He waits for a beat, then turns to lock eyes with me, and, without looking away, addresses the Trader.

“You are free to go.”

“But—”

“There is a woman in the village — Isabel — who will be happy to show you whatever you would like to see. She has been told to look for you. You should not keep her waiting,” he offers lazily.

“You’ll be the envy of many, many men. Isabel is as pure water to the people in this village.

A fine companion. And can show you more interesting things than the cisterns.

” He has been looking in my eyes too long now.

I’m desperately trying to focus somewhere distant over his shoulder, but will not last long; the demand in his gaze is as strong as the pull of Everfire.

“Flame—” Kaden is waiting for me to say something. He thinks I can say something. He is luring, trying to get me to come to him. “Wren…”

“Her name is not for your mouth. Any version of it.” The anger is a serpent’s bite. I do not know why. “Go! You’re not needed here.”

There is a pause, longer than I would have thought possible, and I start to turn to look at Kaden before the Father reaches out and grabs my chin in his hand, locking my head in place.

“Uh-uh-uh, Keeper.” The words are odd, almost affectionate, but hold the note of command I am used to obeying, and I wilt, staying silent.

Kaden makes a small, thoughtful sound, not angry or frustrated, just…

considering…if I had to guess. Taking a deep breath, he nods, clearly choosing to concede to the Father for the moment, and smooths his face back into an affable masque, though he smiles with less mirth and more fang than before.

Ignoring the others, he steps beside me, shoulder to shoulder with the Father who still holds my chin in a gentle grip belying the fierce expression on his face.

I was wrong in my initial guess - they are close enough in height to bother the Father, the twitch of a flickering muscle in his jaw the only sign of discomfort, but from the normally taciturn man it’s equivalent to a scream.

Eyes soft now, Kaden takes my hand, pulling my gaze to him even against the weight of the Father’s fingers.

Voice low, a hearthside whisper, he offers something halfway between a caution and a promise.

“I’ll see you soon, Flame. Before the night ends.

” The dark rasp of warning from Rannoch and the Fathers’s throats does nothing but pull a bright counterpoint of laughter from Kaden, who winks at me in unexpected amusement, then squeezes my hand, and walks away.

“The hell he will.” The Father’s words are growled, not spoken, his hand sliding from my chin to encircle my throat; suddenly my heart is beating like a wild rabbit caught in a hunter’s snare.

He steps into me, bending me back like a reed in the wind, his lips so close to mine our breath is shared, that I would swear before the Earth and Sky for the briefest of seconds I felt the feather-light touch of his mouth on mine, though it is an impossible thought.

Kaden is gone, the clearing is silent, but he is stone, unmoving.

There is not enough space between us to inhale without the heat from his body flooding my tongue, so my chest is rising and falling in short, shallow pants, but still he doesn’t release me.

It is not until Rannoch leans forward, a strange, barely restrained violence in the movement, that the disquieting moment is broken.

“Silas?” Rannoch is confused, oddly angry, and the Father immediately releases me, almost pushing me from him.

“What…” my hand drifts to my mouth. “Sir–”

“Don’t call me that,” he commands, lips curled up in unexpected disgust. “Especially not now. You have my name. Use it.”