If Roark knew I was awake he made no show of it and shouldered into my bedchamber.

His long strides took us across the sitting room, a gentle crackle from the inglenook the only sign of life in the room, then into the bedchamber. With care, the Sentry placed me on the edge of the bed.

I pressed the heel of my hand to my head, vaguely aware Roark was pulling back the furs and quilts over my bed. “What happened?”

He paused and raised a hand. Parchment or hand speak?

I gestured at his palms. “I told you, I’m a quick study.” With his words, at least.

The Sentry stepped back, giving me room to settle against the goose down pillow before he spoke again. You fell from the melder’s trance, and didn’t wake until now. Four soul bones was too many.

The way he formed his words was sharp, almost like he was spitting them through his hands. A true show of repulsion for the soul bones—perhaps for me—but written in the groove between his brows was something akin to concern.

Roark hovered over me. How do you feel?

I forced a grin, a weak attempt to mask the pain of exertion, the way my fingertips were frigid in numbness, the bone-deep ache from using such a force of power. The fear of the phantom’s name I could not stop repeating in my head.

“I feel as though I have raced the length of every corridor no less than a dozen times, but I am well enough.”

His vibrant eyes were narrow, but he did not back away as he gestured slowly, Liar.

I ought to send him back to the ceremony, keep our distance and disregard, but a sob broke free when I shifted too swiftly on the mattress.

Ashwood stepped closer, lowering to one knee. Overcome with the pain of the meld, the fear of the mirror, I hid my face against his chest, tears soaking his tunic.

When his hand cupped the back of my head, letting me break, I’d never felt safer.

27

Roark

Keep down.

I kicked a pebble from the forest path, frowning. I didn’t need to keep down, but that’s all anyone ever told me to do.

I was old enough to fight with the damn clan, and tonight I’d prove it.

From a small leather scabbard on my waist, I removed my father’s old whittling knife, etched with runes and a double-headed raven on the blade, and slashed at the low-hanging branches.

My foot caught on a gnarled root, and I toppled—head over foot—down a lumpy slope, landing in a heap with a cough and groan.

“What’s a boy doin’ out in the trees? Don’t you know the drums sounded? They’re barring the gates to town.”