Page 84 of Marked By the Enemy
“Two circles, joined by a vertical line. Flame at the top. That’s marriage. Sacred. It was used when a union had to be remembered by more than blood.”
I blinked. “It’s true. My mother’s family came from Lunegard?”
He shrugged. “There you go then.”
I ran my thumb over the carvings again. A tingle started at the base of my neck. I held both combs—fae in my right, human in my left—and studied them slowly, line by line. My palms shook.
The man chuckled and turned to Astrid. “This one’s for you.”
He handed her a different comb. A different wood had made the comb. The runes carved into it were almost the same as mine—three symbols in a line—but the first on the left was different. Astrid held it for a long time without speaking. Her fingers curled around the teeth like they were fragile or familiar.
I leaned closer. “Do you know what they mean?”
The old man spoke instead. “This one,” he said, pointing to the first rune, “is Earth Seat of the Summer Court. The square symbolizes Mother Caldaen, the Goddess of our world, with Caldaen’s four corners, her four elements of Earth, Water, Fire, and Air. The square is a stable shape which symbolizes the Earth Seat. It’s grounding and protective, like the fertile soil we live on and like Mother Caldaen. But this rose here.” He pointed. “This rose symbolizes the Summer Court.”
Astrid gave a slow nod, but said nothing.
He traced the next rune. “Same tribe as Talia’s—Valari. From Lunegard. Eight-petalled water lily.”
Then the third. “Marriage.”
My gaze bounced between Astrid and me. “So we share two?”
“Yes,” he said. “But hers… hers are older.”
“It isn’t just a water tribe,” the man said. “It’s a water-moon tribe.”
Astrid finally looked up. “The runes remember what I forgot.”
The man turned to scan the gathered faces. “And where is Branwen?”
“She stayed behind,” Darian said. “To keep watch.”
The man reached into the satchel at his hip and pulled another comb. “I have one for her.”
“Where did you get them from?” I asked.
“I stole them from a collector,” he said. “I stole them for you and your Vowbearers.”
“What is your name?” Darian asked him.
The man looked up. A smile touched the corners of his lips, soft and cracked from the wind. “Call me Holt.”
By then, the circle had changed. The meal had grown rich and loud. They set spits across the fire, and the smell of venison—fat, salt, and woodsmoke—soaked into the air. There was bread too—dark and heavy, full of oats and seeds, crusts still warm from stone ovens.
Someone passed around a thick wedge slathered with wild-honey butter, and I tore off a piece and let it melt in my mouth, sweet and smoky and better than anything we’d eaten in weeks. The ale was darker than the bread, frothy in earthen jugs passed between strangers who spoke like kin. No one asked for anything. Everything was given.
A boy with a fiddle began to play near the edge of the ring. The strings were worn, but the notes held, light and steady. Another joined in—pipes carved from bone or reed, I couldn’t tell—and soon a third voice followed on a low drum tapped with bare fingers. Music spilled like light into a forgotten chamber—faint, but holy.
Children danced. Even the wolves relaxed, their bodies long and curved in the dust, ears twitching to the rhythm. The falcons perched on the rafters of a nearby shed, heads tilted, watching with gold-ringed eyes. I leaned back on my elbows beside the fire, ale in one hand, and let the sound roll over me. Warmth seeped into my skin from the flame, and laughter flickered around us like fireflies.
For once, the bond didn’t stir with warning. It hummed like it wanted to stay. Willow was helping a boy and a girl roast roots wrapped in clay. Astrid had found a place by the music, tapping her stick to the rhythm, eyes bright.
Even Lymseia smiled—just once, but I saw it. Darian was standing again. Watching, always watching. But his shoulders had softened. Ash from the fire dusted his cloak, and when I caught his eye, he gave the smallest nod of acknowledgment.
I sat beside strangers and didn’t feel strange. I didn’t need to speak. Their presence did the work. Memory wasn’t always pain. Sometimes, it was this—bread and song and light on skin. And for the night, we weren’t walking toward war. Maybe we were coming back to something that had always been ours.
By the time the stew pots were scraped clean and the last song faded into silence, the air had cooled and the sky was dark. I pulled my cloak tighter, but not out of discomfort—more out of habit.
