Page 4 of Ties of Death

The girl blanches and flees, the door banging behind her.

I return to my porridge. No doubt she’s running to tattle to some higher-up. Perhaps even Daenn himself, if I’m lucky. I want to savor my porridge in peace before said irate higher-up returns.

I finish my food, regretful when I can’t manage to scrape any more out of the bowl, and then I rise to examine the room.

My bag leans off to the side of one of the shelves that has been carved into the rock wall. The shelves are mostly empty.If this were actually my room, or occupied by someone else, they would be filled with folded clothes.

Next to it is another set of shelves. These are slightly smaller, meant for personal belongings. These are also mostly empty, but I do spy a comb and other toiletries, all in the slightly more unpolished style I associate with my clan. The workmanship is still very fine, but the gryphon clans don’t lacquer or paint everything like the lowlanders. Instead, we carve designs into the handles and edges of our tools: swirling clouds, stylized gryphons, birds, trees, and mountains. This comb is simpler, the work less detailed with simple cloud swirls and vague winged creatures.

I eye the comb longingly. I am in desperate need of untangling the knots in my hair from the flight… But first I kneel by my pack, digging through until I find the letter opener. I’m surprised they didn’t search my bag and take it. Or maybe they did, and they just deemed it not enough of a threat to bother.

I consider for a moment, then I reach around to my back and slip it through my buttons, wedging it between the dress bodice and my stays.

I’m about to test how easy it is to draw when a curt knock comes from the hall. I whirl to face the door, dropping my hands to my sides as it swings open. The young woman has returned, and with her an older woman, one I recognize instantly.

She’s short and plump, and cheerily pretty, though none of her regular cheer lines her face now. Grey streaks her brunette hair. She hasn’t aged much since I last saw her, but that was only a year ago, when she came to give me the news of my mother's death—when I had all of these black dresses in my bag made.

Sigrid.

Sigrid sweeps into the room with her usual no-nonsense bustling stride.

Her eyes soften on me for a brief moment, but then she stops before me, all business. “What tantrum are you throwing, love?”

Her voice nearly breaks me.

“Calling it a tantrum won’t change my mind, Sigrid.”

Her brows draw together. “You really intend to marry the king in that? Must I go fetch Daenn to order you to change himself?”

I raise my chin. “Oh, do. It will be even more satisfying to tell him no to his face.”

“Your friendship, at least—your history with him—should count for something in your mind.”

Why should I care about our shared history when he didn’t? Did he have our friendship in mind when he claimed me as his bride like some barbaric war chief?

“It would if he hadn’t killed my husband in cold blood.”

Sigrid draws back at this. She didn’t know—but why would she? Why would Daenn announce his darkest deeds to the clan upon his return?

I sigh. “It’s good to see you, Sigrid, but I won’t change my mind on this.”

She stares at me for a long, long moment. “No, I can see that you won’t,” she agrees, her frown still in place. “But you will at least let me do your hair.”

She waves off the girl who fetched her. The girl scurries out, dress in hand.

Tears try to choke me, and I give a quick nod. “Thank you, Sigrid.”

3

Break Tradition

Daenn came for me soon after, as I expected: it was custom in our clan for the man to escort his new bride to the ceremony.

Sigrid stayed with me even after she finished my hair. I think she decided that I’m liable to run without supervision. It’s like she knows me, despite the years we spent apart.

Now she opens the door for Daenn and presses her fist to her heart as she bows her head, the customary gryphon clan sign of respect.

Daenn acknowledges her with a quiet greeting, but his eyes stray immediately to me.

---