A server brought us both mugs of what appeared to be tea for Eli and vodka for me. It made a weird sense. Alice’s blood worked well with clear liquor; Eli’s was more suited to whisky.
I poured a generous shot from my hot pink canteen into my mug of vodka. I tossed the whole thing back and looked at him. “I am ready to claim the request at the end of our bargain.”
“It’s still December and—”
“I know.” I stared at him, and I saw the anxiety there. Did he doubt me so much that he thought I would give up what we shared? I wasn’t easy to love, but I suspected he loved me. I wasn’t going to lose that.
Carefully, I explained, “I’m already exhausted. I feel like there are disasters at every turn, and faery bargains are hard, so I want to do this while I think I can say it right.”
“Geneviève, please, don’t—”
“I do not forsake you,” I said. “I do not agree to enter a marriage on that date. By the terms of this bargain, I can make a request. Eli of Stonehaven, my request of you is that the courtship we have begun here continue until such time as we both agree that marriage must and should happen. To each other or you to another.”
He was smiling as he took my hand. “At this time, I understand that you will not release me from my pledge to you, but neither will you enter marriage.”
“This is my request.”
“And so the rules of courtship shall continue between us, and you have willingly entered this courtship with me,” Eli added.
“I have.”
“Your request is granted, Geneviève Crowe,” Eli whispered. “My betrothed.”
“So, mote it be.”
Somehow, it felt as if nothing and everything had changed. We were still engaged, and I was still masquerading as a viable partner, but by way of a faery bargain we had secured a modification to that betrothal that not even the king could overrule.
It wasn’t perfect, but the holiday season had turned out far better than ever I had hoped. Sure, there were more gatherings, bleeding out, and the addition of blood martinis to my diet, but all said, it wasn’t terrible.
“I’m fairly sure that courtship includes kissing,” I teased. “There’s even mistletoe over the doorway.”
“We’re nowhere near that doorway.” Eli was smiling when he leaned in to kiss me, though, and everything felt just about perfect in that moment.
Death threats, draugr, and drama with relatives were undoubtedly in our future, but for today, I’d enjoy my blood martini and mistletoe kisses.
Also by Melissa Marr
Signed Copies:
To order signed copies of my books, go to melissamarrbooks.com
RECENT WORK:
Cold Iron Heart: A Wicked Lovely Novel (2020)
The Wicked & The Dead: A Faery Bargains Novel (2020)
Cursed by Death: A Graveminder Novel (2020)
Audible Original
Pretty Broken Things (2020)
BACKLIST:
YA Faery (Harper)
Wicked Lovely (2007)
Ink Exchange (2008)
Fragile Eternity (2009)
Radiant Shadows (2010)
Darkest Mercy (2011)
Wicked Lovely: Desert Tales (2012)
Seven Black Diamonds (2015)
One Blood Ruby (2016)
YA Thriller (Harper)
Made for You (2013)
Adult Fantasy for HarperCollins/Wm Morrow
Graveminder (2011)
The Arrivals (2012)
All Ages Fantasy for Penguin
The Hidden Knife (2021)
Coauthored with K. L. Armstrong (Little, Brown)
Loki’s Wolves (2012)
Odin’s Ravens (2013)
Thor’s Serpents (2014)
Co-Edited with Kelley Armstrong (HarperTeen)
Enthralled
Shards & Ashes
Co-Edited with Tim Pratt (Little, Brown)
Rags & Bones
Echoes of Ash & Tears
An Earthsinger Chronicles Novella
by L. Penelope
Brought to live among the Cavefolk as an infant, Mooriah has long sought to secure her place in the clan and lose her outsider status. She’s a powerful blood mage, and when the chieftain’s son asks for help securing the safety of the clan, she agrees. But though she’s long been drawn to the warrior, any relationship between the two is forbidden. The arrival of a mysterious stranger with a tempting offer tests her loyalties, and when betrayal looms, will Mooriah’s secrets and hidden power put the future she’s dreamed of—and her adopted home—in jeopardy?
Copyright © 2020 by L. Penelope
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyediting: Align Editorial
Proofreading: Lillie’s Literary Services
~ 1 ~
Shield of Strength: To harden the body and mind against attack from within or without.
Add equal parts ground bitterleaf, blue ginger, and silent barbshell. Also have the ingredients for the Cleansing of Scales on hand in case a bony shell appears on the recipient’s skin.
—WISDOM OF THE FOLK
With a steady drumbeat pumping in his veins, Ember wiped the sweat from his brow and regarded his opponent. The man across from him in the brawling circle, Divot, breathed heavily, but no other evidence of strain tensed his broad features. Ceremonial paint ran in rivulets down his neck and chest mixed with his sweat, but his eyes were bright. His waistcloth, however, was no longer pristine, but dingy with dirt. Evidence of the fierceness of the match so far. Ember grinned. This would be a good bout.
The two challengers circled one another, stepping lightly. The glow of firerocks illuminated the large cave, nearly all the way to its high ceiling and the tiny circle of daylight barely visible above. They were deep in the interior of the Mountain Mother, on neutral territory belonging to no clan. Whispers rising from the surrounding crowd reminded Ember of their presence, but he pushed the observers from his mind. He needed to stay focused to win this match—the blade of his father’s intense scrutiny threatened to pierce his skin. Not only was his own honor on the line, but that of the Night Snow clan as well.
Ember and Divot were well matched as warriors. And though the other man had a few knots of height on him and was a bit broader about the chest and shoulders, Ember had been training nearly since birth. If not formally, then informally as a result of his brother’s constant attempts to best him.
He rushed the larger man, grabbing him around the waist and sweeping his legs from underneath him, using well-practiced technique to bring him to the ground. Grappling eliminated Divot’s height advantage and longer arm-reach. The men wrestled, Ember trying to get his opponent into a submission hold, but Divot evaded and executed an impressive reversal, throwing Ember on his back. While Divot applied his weight to Ember’s bent knee, attempting to press him further into the ground and pin him, Ember’s other leg was free for a sweeping kick to the head. It knocked Divot back to allow Ember to escape the hold.
He jumped to his feet while Divot rose slowly. When the man faced him, a shiver of revulsion rippled through Ember. The kick had split Divot’s lip; he spat blood onto the sand underfoot.
Ember’s stomach roiled. He’d eaten no breakfast that morning, for this reason. Shame brought the noise of the crowd rushing to his ears. The scent of sweat and blood and dirt assaulted him, shattering his concentration. With the aid of a lifetime of practice, he clamped down an unforgiving manacle on his body’s reactions and hi
s emotions.
A Cavefolk could not hate the sight of blood. It was absurd.
He steeled himself, not looking at the man’s red-tinged smile, instead staring aggressively into his eyes before ramming his shoulder into Divot’s chest. Soon they were caught in a clinch, arms locked together as they directed knee and elbow strikes. This close, the coppery scent of blood filled Ember’s nostrils. It tickled his gag reflex and caused his gorge to rise. All involuntary reactions he had long ago learned to smother with ruthless desperation. But wrangling his body under control distracted him for a fraction of an eye-blink. Long enough to fall victim to a knee directed at his ribs. The breath flew from Ember’s body. Divot took him to the ground hard, their momentum moving them right out of the sparring circle and into the spectators.
Cries of feminine shock and pain rang out. Hands pushed at him, and Ember rose to his feet. A chime sounded, indicating the end of the first round. Divot had recovered quickly and now stood in the circle, wearing a smug, ruby grin. Ember glared, his pulse racing in his ears, as the man laughed. Pushing him into the spectators was a sign of disrespect. He turned to see what damage had been wrought.
Several women were righting themselves, brushing dirt from their waistcloths, but one was still sprawled on the ground. She had taken the brunt of the force of him crashing into her and was a petite creature, with hair like midnight cascading down her back, loosed from the tight braid in which she usually kept it. If her skin tone hadn’t identified her, the hair would have—clan women kept their heads shaved, preferring instead to decorate their bare scalps with paint as a sign of beauty. The hair of the unclanned was kept long, never cut until their initiation.
“My apologies, Mooriah,” he said gravely. He bowed deeply and held out a hand to her.
“It is nothing. I am unharmed.” Her voice was like the gentle rhythm of a drum. It soothed whatever remained of his disquiet. She blinked up at him then extended her hand in return. He held his breath.
His calloused hand enveloped her soft skin. He gripped her gently, swallowing down the fireflies that had taken flight within him. Her weight was light, and she was back on her feet in no time. She blinked rapidly, staring at their joined hands for a moment before slipping out of his grasp.
Though he had known her all his life, never before had he touched her skin. Its rich shade was a deep contrast to his—to all of the Folk, who shared similar features. But she had been born Outside, the daughter of sorcerers, and brought to the live in the caves as a baby. The two of them did not run in the same circles, and since she was as yet unclanned, their interaction was prohibited.
She caught sight of something behind him and scowled. He turned to find Divot leering at them from his position across the circle.
“Ember,” Mooriah whispered. He spun back to face her. “Show that beast what the Night Snow clan is made of.” She flashed him a smile that hit him harder than any fist ever had. He nearly stumbled backward but managed to nod.
He had enough time to towel off and rinse his mouth with water before the break between rounds was over. Then he cracked his neck and fingers, trying to concentrate on his opponent and ignore the scent of cinderberry that had clung to her skin. He flushed, willing away the feeling of fluttering wings the interaction with Mooriah had left inside him and reached for his focus.
The chime rang, and the fighters circled one another. “Your discourtesy to women shows what manner of vermin you and Iron Water are,” Ember taunted.
Divot shrugged. “What courtesy do the low-ranked and unclanned deserve? Unlike Night Snow, we do not offer clan membership to Outsiders.”
“And your clan’s inferiority is well known throughout the mountain.” He lowered his head and charged.
Ember did not generally use anger to fuel him as his brother and father did. Though his temper was not a vicious fire like theirs, it still scared him sometimes. But he did use it to focus himself, to home in on his opponent’s weaknesses and exploit them.
Divot was a skilled fighter indeed, but Ember had much more to lose than just a bout. Expectation and the future of the clan were bound up in what was, on the surface, a simple game. He could not afford a loss today, and with Mooriah’s whispered words spurring him on, he fought with renewed vigor and drive. He was fully in the zone, blind to the rest of the world, and emerged minutes later to the ringing of the final gong.
Cheers went up, and the official stepped forward to drape him with ribbons and declare him the victor. The shaman of Night Snow, an ancient man called Oval, stood next to the chieftain of the clan, Ember’s father Crimson, both looking just as morose as always, as though the match had ended in defeat.
Crimson’s voice rose to echo against the cave walls. “Once again, Night Snow shows its superiority. Let all the clans be on alert, we will take on all challengers and prove to them that we cannot be bested!”
Cheers from Night Snow were joined by grumbles and jeers from the other clans gathered. Divot stood with the Iron Water chieftain, head lowered, no doubt being chastised for losing the match. Ember felt a twinge of sympathy for him. With the First Frost Festival coming up in just a week, this match was the pre-qualifier for the largest competition of the year for each clan.
Tensions between Night Snow and Iron Water, the two largest clans, were high and these nonlethal games were meant to diffuse it, though Ember wasn’t certain it was working. He’d certainly rather show his proficiency in the circle than have their people embroiled in a deadly war. He could only hope that his performance, and the opportunity these games gave for the chieftains to work out their differences, would be the key to peace.
As Crimson and Oval left the center of the circle, his father motioned for him to follow. Ember shot a glance at the section of the audience he’d fallen into but couldn’t glimpse Mooriah through the crowd.
Once ensconced in the side cavern that Crimson had at his disposal, his father whirled on him. “Your victory was solid, but how in the Mother’s name did he manage to roll you out of bounds? You lost your focus, and it could have cost you the match! Do not let it happen again.”
“Of course not, Father.” Ember dropped his head. The scent of blood still lingered in his nose, and he waged a constant battle to ignore it.
The echo of heavy footsteps entered the small cavern. That particular stomp could only belong to one person. “Well done, brother,” Rumble said, insincerity dripping from his voice. “It looks like it will be you and me facing one another in the festival.”
Ember met his brother’s cool gaze. Eyes of pale gold regarded him with barely concealed hatred. They were the same age, born in the same month to two different mothers. As the son of the Lady of the Clan, Crimson’s first wife, by tradition Ember should have been the heir, but Rumble’s mother effectively lobbied for consideration for her son. Had Ember’s mother been alive, she might have objected, but as it was, Crimson had kept the two in competition all their lives, holding the promise of heir to the chieftain’s seat over them.
“I look forward to besting you in battle,” Ember said.
Rumble raised a brow. “I do as well.”
Crimson grunted. “Come, we have matters requiring our attention. Try not embarrass me or the clan.” Rumble smirked before following their father out.
Ember grit his teeth. A match against his brother was what he’d expected, and victory would offer more than just bragging rights. Both men suspected that this, their twenty-fifth year, would be the year Crimson made his choice between them.
Ember needed to win, not for his own sake, but for the sake of the clan. The Mother only knew what horrors a chieftain such as his brother would bring down upon them.
~ 2 ~
Sanctification of Amity: To ensure a good rapport between rivals.
Combine generous pinches of star root and funeral bane along with a dram of natalus ichor. Do not inhale the fumes. In the case of reluctant participants, sprinkle ash of mercy.
—WISDOM OF THE FOLK
Mooriah only got a glimpse of Ember through the throngs of people after the match concluded. She still couldn’t believe that the chieftain’s son had helped her up after he’d crashed into her. It had taken quite a while to slow the beating of her heart, only to have it start racing again—this time with annoyance—when Glister’s grating voice sounded behind her.
“Oval has summoned us.”
Composing her face into a brittle smile, Mooriah turned to face the other young woman. “Of course,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’ll be right there.” Glister narrowed her eyes, then turned on her heel and left. With a last, longing look at the circle but no further sight of the victorious warrior, Mooriah grabbed her satchel and followed.
They wended their way through the crowds to find the Night Snow shaman waiting at the entrance to a narrow tunnel. He was an ancient man, his skin leeched of all hue in the way of elderly Cavefolk, the effects of many generations spent inside the Mother Mountain with little access to the rays of the sun. Not just pale, like the younger Folk, but edging toward translucent, the bluish-green veins already easily visible all over.
Oval stood with Murmur, the clan prophet. Murmur was younger, still an elder, but his often dreamy gaze, which saw so much, gave him a more cheerful manner. Oval called his two apprentices over, and Mooriah and Glister hurried to the men’s side and away from the crush of bodies.
“I hope you both enjoyed the festivities. To close out these events, and as a show of good faith between clans, we will join with Iron Water in the Sanctification of Amity.” Oval’s voice was low and creaked with advanced age. “We will seek the blessing of the Breath Father for continued peace between us and mutual advancement.”
Anticipation grew within Mooriah at the pronouncement. For the past three years, she had worked diligently as apprentice shaman, studying hard and completing the duties she’d been tasked without complaint. At the end of her training, if she were promoted to assistant, then her place in Night Snow would be assured. She would no longer be unclanned, an Outsider, and though she would still be recognizably different in appearance, the slights and snubs that came with her current status would plague her no more. This chance to seal the peace with their old adversary was another opportunity to prove herself.
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