The Crown of Bones (The Fae War Chronicles Book 2)

by Jocelyn Fox

“Maybe you should both give me a little bit of space,” I told them. “Better to err on the side of caution.”

  Vell looked like she was about to protest, but Beryk took her shirt in his teeth and tugged. She crossed her arms but followed him a small distance away, Kevoryk joining them. They were still a little closer than I would’ve liked, but they knew the power of the Sword. They’d seen the charred corpses of the Shadow-creatures on the battlefield, after the wall of emerald fire had roared down on them. I laid the bundles of iron on the ground, untying the cloths. Some instinct prompted me to arrange the shards in a loose circle, a miniature model of the trap that had pinned the Sidhe into the clearing, convenient targets for the Shadow-creatures.

  After carefully checking the invisible restraints on the Sword’s power, I drew it from its sheath. The emerald set into the pommel flashed hungrily. I held the Sword in my right hand and touched Gwyneth’s pendant with my left, hoping it would help to anchor me if things spun out of control. Then again, if things spun out of control, the whole forest would probably be a smoking crater, with Vell and Kavoryk and I reduced to cinders at the bottom.

  “Encouraging thought,” I murmured to myself. The Sword thrummed, vibrations traveling through my wrist and up the bones of my arm. It wasn’t exactly an unpleasant sensation, but it was strange. I took a deep breath, holding tight to the Sword’s power and my own taebramh, feeling the curve of Gwyneth’s pendant beneath my fingers. I touched the point of the gleaming Sword to one of the iron shards.

  The force of the power surging through the Sword drove me to my knees and shook the ground, the trees groaning in protest. My grip on the Sword tightened convulsively and I clutched Gwyneth’s pendant so hard that the ancient smooth iron bit into my skin. Faintly, I heard Vell shout my name, but I couldn’t reply. It was all I could do to breathe. The iron shards flared with emerald fire, the circle an eerie echo of the Sword’s magnificent and grisly performance during the battle. The crackling fire streamed up the Sword, the emerald in its pommel blazing. I was frozen in place, unable to move as the fire enveloped my arm, hissing and sparking with power as it flowed over my skin. I heard myself gasping and felt myself trying to hold my head above the fire like a drowning swimmer trying to keep her head above the waves of the open ocean.

  The ground beneath the iron circle cracked, a plume of dust swirling into the air. The cloth beneath the shards caught fire—real fire, bright and snapping. Acrid smoke stung my throat. The emerald fire flowed over my shoulder, caressing my neck possessively. Then it touched the iron pendant, and it hesitated. In that small instant, I ripped the bindings off my own power for the second time that day, and my taebramh rose like a pack of wolves through my chest, pushing the emerald fire back down into the Sword. The Sword vibrated so hard that my hand ached. Suddenly I was free, my body under my control again, and the Sword thought to me of the earth, cool and dark. I plunged the blade into the crack in the forest floor, and a silent rolling shock wave pushed me back, away from the Sword. Taking in a shaking breath, I fell to my knees and checked that I still possessed all my limbs: both arms, both legs, all functioning, albeit wearily.

  Vell leapt past me, stamping out the remnants of the fire before it caught hold of any of the tinder on the forest floor. Beryk helped, following her footsteps and scattering the ashes with his paws, burying any still-glowing embers beneath a thin layer of earth. They both gave the Sword a wide berth.

  Kavoryk helped me stand, his huge hands lifting me from the ground as if I weighed no more than a doll. I tested my legs gingerly. They buckled once, but I set my teeth and forced myself to stand. The huge Northman kept his hand beneath my elbow. I tried to rub the tingling feeling from my right arm, frowning. Something didn’t feel right.

  “It marked you,” Kavoryk rumbled.

  “What?” I said, confused.

  Kavoryk gestured to my right arm. “Look at your skin, little one.”

  I pulled up my sleeve and couldn’t bite back my sound of surprise. It looked like a tattoo artist with a penchant for green ink and Celtic designs had been given free reign over my skin. The markings started literally at my fingertips, originating from where I’d gripped the Sword, wrapping my fingers in intricate and delicate patterns. On my palm, a knot with three points stood out prominently on a background of interlacing lines which were both terribly complicated and incredibly beautiful. Swirling spirals swept up over my forearm, covering the tender skin of my wrist, following the pulse of my veins. Past my elbow—I had to roll up my sleeve higher—the design became bolder, wrapping around my bicep with a fierce pattern that spoke to me of ancient warriors, battle cries and bloody swords on the moors beneath a full moon. I knew without checking that the markings stopped just short of my neck, where I had gripped Gwyneth’s pendant and the emerald fire had hesitated.

  I growled a curse beneath my breath. “As if I didn’t already stand out enough, I have to have green tattoos.”

  “I do not know your words well,” Kavoryk said, “but they are war-markings.”

  “War-markings?” I held up my arm and turned it in the light filtering down through the tree branches. The green markings glimmered faintly in the golden sunlight. I knew that whatever I’d just received from the Sword, it certainly wasn’t ordinary, and I hoped it wasn’t without reason.

  Kavoryk pulled up his own sleeve just as I realized I’d never seen his bare arms. Thick black markings covered his massive forearms and continued, I had no doubt, all the way onto his shoulders and chest. His designs were much different than mine, bolder and wilder: no delicate interlacing knots for Kavoryk. A stylized spear stretched from his wrist to his elbow. Above his elbow, just like mine, the design became bands stretching over his massive muscles, symbols that spoke of war and blood.

  “How…?” I touched Kavoryk’s markings tentatively with the fingertip of my left hand.

  “Holy hell, Tess, what did it do to you?” Vell marveled, seizing my wrist to better examine the markings.

  “Apparently the Sword likes its Bearers to be inked,” I muttered, glaring balefully over Vell’s shoulder at the Sword, now calm and benign-looking in its crack in the earth. The emerald winked at me. I narrowed my eyes at it.

  “Well,” Vell said, glancing over at Kavoryk’s thick markings, “at least you didn’t get a spear. Or I guess it would have given you a sword.”

  “Don’t give it any ideas,” I admonished her. The Sword’s equivalent of a chuckle vibrated across my skin. I asked Vell, “Don’t you have any? Is it a Northern thing?”

  She grinned wolfishly, a strange spark lighting her golden eyes. “We have our own markings. We have no need to make more on ourselves.”

  “Your own markings?”

  Vell pulled up one side of her shirt, showing me a set of claw-marks across her side. The scars weren’t new, that much I could tell, but I leaned closer in fascination. I couldn’t help it: the claw marks were tinted blue. Kavoryk grunted—in surprise or approval, I wasn’t sure.

  “Even a herravaldyr must fight for his place in the pack,” she said, letting me inspect her scars without any embarrassment.

  “And you had to fight as well?” I asked.

  “How could Beryk fight and I watch?” Vell answered simply, putting her hand on Beryk’s neck.

  I absorbed that information for a moment. “That’s why you’re such a good fighter.”

  Vell smiled a little again. “That depends who I’m fighting against. Ulfdrengr are another breed entirely.”

  “And how are they blue?” I wondered aloud.

  “A wolf-warrior’s first scars are their badge of honor. There is a tree in the North that grows on the highest ice-cliffs. We use the leaves of that tree to dye our scars, so that we bear them forever on our bodies.”

  I nodded. “That’s poetic, actually. I can understand that.”

  “You shall make a good Bearer, little one,” rumbled Kavoryk. “You do not only listen. You hear.”

  I frowned a little. “I�
�ll just pretend I know what that means.”

  Vell examined my arm again and grinned at Kavoryk. “And she has some pretty impressive war-markings now, too.”

  I yanked my arm away, feeling my cheeks heat. “They’re not impressive. They were involuntary.” I rubbed my arm as I strode toward the Sword, which glinted innocently at me. “If you do that again, I’m going to…” I let my words trail into silence as I blinked in confusion.

  The shards of iron were gone. In their place lay nine polished dark stones, arranged in a rough circle around the Sword. I knew there had been more pieces of iron than nine; I had collected more than nine just myself. But there were nine stones on the charred cloth, and something about their shape made me narrow my eyes. I carefully stepped forward, careful not to disturb the stones, and pulled the Sword from the ground, shaking the dust from the blade. A strange tingle ran through my right arm as I gripped the Sword, a little shock running across my skin, following the exact pattern of my new war-markings.

  I held the Sword out at eye-level. “All right,” I told it, “you got to put your signature on me, now leave it alone.”

  The emerald in the pommel flashed indignantly. A shiver ran through my ribs and the leaves on the forest trees trembled.

  If you are going to be disrespectful, at least call me by my name, not some name for all of my type.

  “What do you mean?” I said skeptically. I wasn’t even sure that it was the Sword that had just spoken, but a twinge of my war-markings and a sting through the palm of my hand convinced me otherwise. It wasn’t so much a voice that I heard, it was more like words vibrating through my bones and into my mind, appearing like foreign thoughts in my head.

  How would you like it if I simply called you the Mortal Girl?

  I considered. “Well, I’m sorry if you don’t like being called the Iron Sword, but that’s the name that I was told.”

  It does not mean it was the correct name, Mortal Girl.

  “Fine. Point taken. What should I call you, then?”

  Caedbranr.

  I opened my mouth to repeat the new name, but the Sword stopped me.

  It is a name only for you, my Bearer. I will not use words often, and I do not expect you to, either. But I appreciate courtesy, especially from one so young.

  I raised an eyebrow at the Caedbranr’s last comment. “Just because you’re ancient doesn’t mean you can give me sass, either. I’m still Bearer here.” And with that parting shot, I sheathed the Caedbranr. A chuckle skittered down my arm in electric-shock spirals. “Stop that,” I hissed.

  “Are you done having a conversation with your sword?” Vell asked drily. “You know, this is the second time today that you’ve had a one-sided conversation, Tess. Sure you didn’t get knocked in the head during the battle?”

  Beryk yipped his version of a laugh, pink tongue lolling as he grinned.

  “Thanks for the moral support,” I told the woman and the wolf. “It’s much appreciated.”

  The black wolf looked at me and up at Vell. She shrugged slightly, a smile tugging at her lips. As I gathered the last smooth dark stone into my belt-pouch, Beryk tackled me, pinning me down by the shoulders. He grinned his wolf-grin and proceeded to thoroughly lick my face. I spluttered and flailed in protest. Jumping off me, he shot like an arrow back toward camp.

  “You’d better run!” I called after him as I leapt up, cinching my belt-pouch vengefully and sprinting after him, Vell’s chuckle nipping at my heels.

  Chapter 3

  A surge of the closest thing I’d felt to happiness since the battle surged through me as I sprinted after Beryk, Vell running light-footed behind me. The Caedbranr thrummed in enjoyment, appreciative of my speed. It liked the fact that its Bearer was young and strong and fast, no matter what sarcasm-tinged thoughts it inserted into my head.

  Beryk slid to a stop in the middle of the clearing by the barracks, challenging me with a playful growl as he turned to face me, tail waving high like a banner. As I slowed, I pulled the straps of the Sword’s sheath over my head, laying it carefully but quickly to one side. Beryk yipped at me excitedly and slapped the ground with both forepaws, arching his back with his tail sweeping back and forth furiously above his head. I grinned and sank into a crouch.

  “How about I tackle you?” I asked the wolf rhetorically, and then I dove at him, only half-catching him as he tried to spring away. He rolled and we went to the ground in a tangle of black fur and pale skin. I managed to snake my arms around his neck, thinking vaguely of the choke-hold we’d learned in martial-arts class, but Beryk bucked me loose with little effort. My landing in the grass knocked the wind out of me, and I rolled to my hands and knees. Beryk swiped at me with one forepaw, hard enough to knock me off balance again, and I paused, not sure if he was still playing. When I glanced at him warily, he grinned and slapped the ground with his forepaws again, tail waving enthusiastically.

  I tried a different approach this time, staying in my crouch rather than diving. Beryk waited until I blitzed toward him and he leapt up, putting his front legs on my shoulders. I grimaced a little—he was heavy—but wrestled with him gamely until he finally knocked me over. I rolled to my back and squinted up at him, panting. He pranced over and put one paw on my chest, looking for all the world like he was a conqueror claiming a new land for his own. I chuckled. “You win,” I told him. He barked happily.

  “He was playing with you like he would play with a pup,” Vell told me as Beryk loped over to her and shoved his nose into her hand. “Although,” she added with a wry grin, “he acts like he’s still a pup most of the time anyway.” Beryk drew back and gave her an indignant look, narrowing his golden eyes. She laughed at him and roughed his neck fur, which seemed to mollify him.

  I retrieved the Sword from where I’d left it in the grass, sliding the sheath-straps over my shoulder. “All right,” I said, “I suppose we should go find Finnead and tell him that the iron’s gone.”

  “You can go find Finnead to tell him that the iron’s gone,” replied Vell, turning back toward the forest.

  “Where are you going now?” I called after her with a hint of exasperation.

  “To hunt,” she called back over her shoulder. “We should have a good, hot meal before starting out on the trails.”

  I couldn’t argue with her logic, so I shrugged and brushed the bits of grass and dirt from my pants as I walked toward the barracks.

  “There you are,” said Ramel, opening the door just as I reached for the handle. He grinned at me. “All dirty after playing in the forest?”

  “All dirty after wrestling with a wolf,” I corrected him.

  He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “And here I was, thinking you had standards, pretty one.”

  I punched his arm lightly in reproach, sliding past him into the barracks. “Be nice. Vell and Beryk are my friends.”

  “I’m your friend, too,” he pointed out.

  I frowned at him. “Just because I’m friends with Vell doesn’t mean I can’t be friends with you.”

  He shrugged expressively and spread his hands. “I mean no disrespect, Tess, but there are long-standing tensions between the North-folk and the Sidhe of the Courts.”

  “As if I didn’t already figure that out,” I replied dryly as we walked into the main room. A few of the Sidhe moving through the room paused and touched two fingers to their foreheads in obeisance as I entered. I nodded in what I hoped was a firm yet courteous manner, and to my relief they returned to their tasks without any more awkward displays of fealty. Awkward on my part, not on theirs, I corrected myself dourly. I sighed. “Someday you should explain it to me,” I told Ramel, scanning the room.

  “Finnead is in the healing room, if you’re looking for him. I believe he’s making certain that Allene and Eamon have the necessary provisions to care for the wounded on the journey back to Darkhill.”

  “Do they need any help? Is there any iron left? Oh, that’s what I came to tell you—the trap is gone. The Glasidhe
marked the pieces, and we dug them up. Vell and Kavoryk helped, in case you care,” I finished with a touch of acidity.

  Ramel held his hands up. “Now, now, my fair Lady Bearer.” He grinned when I scowled at his use of the formal title. “I am sure that your wolf-charming friend is delightful, but there are certain, ah, cultural misconceptions, if you will, that prevent most of us from holding an unbiased opinion.”

  “Sounds appropriately pig-headed. And you didn’t answer my question.”

  “I believe the healers took care of all the wounded who were iron-touched,” Ramel replied smoothly, “but you may go and check yourself, if you please.”

  “Might as well.” I shifted the Sword a little on my back, settling it more comfortably between my shoulder blades, almost automatically checking that its power was safely caged beneath my ribs. I knew that soon I wouldn’t have to make a conscious effort to feel its energy; it was much like when I’d first discovered my own taebramh. It had taken a very conscious effort the first half-dozen times that I’d called upon it, or had to control it, but now I felt it like the pulse of my own heartbeat. The Sword’s power was a little different, because it belonged to the Sword and not me. I wielded it, as its Bearer, but the power did not come from me. It was a bit like reaching an understanding with a new dog: it obeyed me, but it had a mind of its own. And, of course, the Caedbranr was no puppy from a pet-store. We were coming to a mutual understanding, though.

  I wondered if it would be safer if I left the Sword in the common-room. It needled me with a hint of reproach: it would not hurt the wounded, those most defenseless against its power. I thought back that it wasn’t the wounded I was worried about, it was Allene. In response to that thought, the Caedbranr gave me the equivalent of a shrug. Apparently it couldn’t tell whether a Sidhe would be attracted to it just once, or forever, or not at all in the first place. But then I realized that Finnead and Eamon would both be there, so I squared my shoulders and walked into the room.

  The sharp scent of healing herbs and the fresh, sweet smell of blood mingled in the warm air of the healing room. The healers had stoked a fire, and there was a large pot steaming over it. I ran my eyes over the rows of low beds. Most of them, to my relief, were empty, or rumpled, as though their occupants were well enough to go for walks about the barracks.