He couldn’t say why he’d done it, but before climbing into the ship the previous morning, he’d taken the pendant from where he always kept it, tied to his sword’s sheath. He’d cut a length of rope from a fishing net and fit it through the loop, knotting it around his neck. The pendant was tucked beneath his tunic, a cold circle of metal resting against his chest.
If he’d had any hope left inside him, Reyker would have used it on the green-eyed girl from the forest, hoping that she no longer lived in the village he was about to attack. Hoping that she was far from the Dragon’s reach, and from his own. As the ship drew closer, he could feel her presence growing stronger, like sparks in the air before a storm. It was the blood magic, awakening the connection he’d forged between them. He wondered if she felt it too.
The shadow took shape. He could make out cliffs and hills, the forest beyond.
Another island. Another ambush. An endless stretch of blood and fire.
Do you watch me from the afterworlds, Mother? Do you loathe what your son has become? The thought sickened him.
A sudden movement in the water caught Reyker’s attention. A large creature breached alongside the longship—there, then gone.
Cold dread chilled him. This was no shark or whale. It surfaced again, closer.
A giant black sea-beast, rushing straight for them.
“Spears! Arrows!” Reyker shouted, drawing his weapons. The creature reared its head. It was a demon from the bowels of some dark nether-realm. Reyker hurled his spear, and the point sank into the demon’s flesh just as it smashed into the hull. The ship shuddered beneath Reyker’s feet, water flooding in.
“Bail!” Reyker called, but it was too late. They were sinking fast.
The sea was merciless, white waves curling around the longship as it foundered. Every man went into the water.
Someone screamed.
A warrior vanished beneath the waves, a rose-colored cloud efflorescing in his wake. Then another man was sucked under. And another. Reyker’s comrades—men he respected and reviled, men he’d fought beside and bled with. They were snatched so fast it seemed the demon was in two places at once. Blood tinted the sea red.
He clung to a piece of wreckage, struggling to keep his head above the whitecaps, and watched numbly as every man was taken and devoured.
The demon came for Reyker last.
He stared into the quivering black globes of its eyes, inhaled the sour stench from its gaping mouth. Was this one of Ildja’s Destroyers—demons she sent to fetch evil men to her lair? Or was it Ildja herself beneath the monster’s scales? Had the serpent-goddess finally come for her retribution: to swallow him, body and soul?
The demon’s jaws snapped around him, teeth digging into his flesh, dragging him down into the abyss. It was only instinct that made him kick and fight until his breath was gone.
When that dark womb of stillness engulfed him, he embraced it with a flood of relief. Reyker welcomed whatever torments awaited him on the other side of this world, knowing it was nothing less than he deserved.
It was no small thing to touch a man’s soul. To trace the essence of his being, know him as no one—not his mother, brother, or lover—ever could.
Each soul I’d touched was different. They could be dark or light, warm or cold, sharp-edged or smooth. They contained colors and shapes that didn’t exist in our world. Some hummed, sang, or screamed. Some smelled of metal, others tasted like salt. Often, I saw scattered images of things the person loved, hated, or feared.
No matter what a soul was like, I sensed its burdens. The weight of guilt was distinct.
The prisoner standing before me, the cord of his life tangling fatefully with mine, was a herdsman named Dyfed. His ankles and wrists were shackled, but my brothers and uncle still held him as Father ushered me forward.
“I done nothing wrong, milady,” Dyfed said.
I placed my palm inside his tunic, against his chest. His heart drummed nervously beneath my hand. I closed my eyes, searching.
Around me, the great hall disappeared. I floated in the gauzy realms of the intangible. This man’s soul was sharp and light, spread out before me. A warm sphere in its center held an imprint of his family. I waded through pride, love, disappointment—each emotion had its own texture and consistency. I caught a glimpse of what I sought, appearing as if from a fog: the outline of swords, poleaxes, bows. A cartload of weapons, shrouded in cold guilt.
I let go and took a step back.
“Well, Lira?” Father asked. “Did he steal from the armory?”
This was my role in our clan. I’d been touched by the gods, born with the ability to read souls. While other god-gifted women of my island—the Daughters of Aillira, as we were called—were adept at healing, storytelling, navigation, and foretelling foul weather, my gift was different. As a soul-reader, I could steal a man’s secrets, reveal his darkest sins.
Father trusted me. I could not lie. “He is guilty, as suspected.”
“You’re wrong!” Dyfed cried. With a quick jerk, he pulled free from the other men, grabbing my arms. His red-rimmed eyes bored into mine. “There’s more. Look again, soul-reader, and you will see—”
My uncle, Madoc, tackled Dyfed, slamming his head against the ground, and Dyfed’s eyes rolled up until only the whites showed. My older brother, Garreth, kicked the prone herdsman for good measure, cursing him beneath his breath. When Garreth turned, we shared the briefest of looks, but much was said. Father is wrong to use you this way, he seethed in a silent language only siblings could share. Mother would never have allowed this.
Mother would want our clan to be safe, I responded. I want to help, however I can.
We’d quarreled over this point many times. Was it right for me to be a man’s judge? Was it right for Father to ask it of me? I knew Garreth’s feelings on the matter. I’d yet to find answers that satisfied my own conscience.
My younger brother, Rhys, clasped my elbow, offering what comfort he could.
“Ready the gallows,” Father said to Madoc, “and inform the chieftain and the villagers that there’s to be an execution.”
My throat tightened at the word. I’d condemned men before, but they had been whipped, imprisoned, or exiled. Never executed.
Madoc’s spine stiffened at being given an order by his younger brother. His mouth was an angry slit in his hardened face, but he grabbed Dyfed by the chains on his wrists and dragged him away.
When they were gone, Father sighed and bent over the grand table that took up a corner of the room, palms pressing against the tabletop. On the back of his right hand was the warrior-mark of the Sons of Stone, my clan’s legion of warriors: three swords in the shape of a triangle, inked onto the back of the sword hand, so any man foolish enough to cross blades with any one of them would know which clan was about to send him to his grave.