A vow of blood and tears

Chapter 22 Bane

That’s enough for today, Brother Glyn signed. Even he looked tired, shadows under his eyes from our early mornings. We met well before the sun rose, the only time I could slip away without waking Cirri.

The early hours didn’t bother me; if not for Cirri sleeping in my bed, I would have slept little myself. Only my mind was tired from the deluge of information I’d been flooding into it for the last week. The rest of me felt invigorated; Cirri’s blood, bound to me as it was, was like a fire in my veins, the small taste having kept me sated through the past seven days.

But the thirst was begi

I didn’t dare ask Cirri to allow me to feed again, not when she had fought so hard to overcome her terror of me. But if she didn’t offer… I would turn once more to the convicts.

I shook those thoughts away, examining Glyn. We had progressed past the alphabet in the first two days, moving on to basic conversational skills, and had finally, in the last several days, approached higher-level concepts.

I was far from fluent, and it took me much longer to form even the single letters that Cirri flung out at extreme speeds. Much of what she said would still be beyond me, as Glyn had warned; this was an entire language, learned not in days, but over months and years.

But it would be enough to speak to her, to understand the gist of what she said, without having to resort to making her write every little thing.

You deserve a few days to sleep, I signed to him, focusing on my movements, on the position of each finger. Based on Glyn’s crooked smile, I had a feeling some of that had been wrong, or more simplistic than the signs a fluent speaker of the priests’ tongue would use, but it served my purposes well enough for now. I switched to speaking. “You’ve earned every bit of gold promised and more, Brother. I hope you choose to remain a while longer, and not only for my sake. It would be ideal for my court members to learn as well.”

If there is gold, I am your man, Glyn told me. My old chapter will be able to fund the fortification of the Vale with these lessons.

It was a reasoning that made his mercenary heart so much more relatable; while no Silent Brother would work without pay, at least the gold I poured into his hands went to a good cause. The Silent Brother chapters of the Rift were already well-funded, and it did me no harm to ensure my brother Andrus’s territory was protected.

Go on, Glyn said. Let it sink into your brain. You’ll be no use here if you cram like a boy studying for an exam. Every mind needs a rest. 

“Enjoy your nap,” I told him, and the Silent Brother nodded, tired but contented with what he’d managed, as I left him.

Indeed like a boy studying for an exam, but in this case, the grade was my wife’s respect and admiration, an altogether more important and perilous thing.

Released from my lesson an hour early, I made my way to the library, eager to see her. Raising my toe claws so I walked only on pads, I prowled silently to the door, peering in.

She was bent over her desk, books open before her, her back to me. That red hair was plaited into a thick, messy braid that hung over her shoulder; there was an ink spot on her skirt.

She didn’t look up as I stepped into the library, her tapping pen the only sound as she examined whatever it was she was looking at.

I didn’t want to disturb her, not while she was deep in thought. She had been eating, sleeping, and breathing these books for days now, to the degree that I knew when her thoughts drifted to them; her eyes would go all dreamy and unfocused, gazing off into the middle-distance, and I knew her well enough by now to understand that at these times, she was translating something in her head or pondering a translation that still eluded her.

As I watched, the golem she’d named Rose emerged from the lower stacks, carrying two heavy books. The golem deposited them on the table, and Cirri signed the words ‘thank you’ without looking up.

Thorn remained where he was, stationed to the side of Cirri’s table; his head had swiveled around fully to look at me in the door, but he’d made no movements otherwise.

They were eerie things, but brilliant; I had to give Wyn credit where it was due. Over the last week I’d had time to observe them, how my wife slowly adjusted from refusing to put her back to them, to trusting them implicitly to keep an eye on things while she lost herself in a world of words.

At night, though, they were exiled to the Tower of Spring. Cirri might trust them now, but neither of us wanted them standing over us as we slept, watching us with those eyeless faces. Some things a man had to draw a line against.

The golems nodded to me, but didn’t interrupt Cirri as I slipped into the stacks myself, to await the final hour until I could pull her from her work for di

It had been a long time since I’d simply wandered in here. When I’d first taken Ravenscry, I’d given the books a cursory glance at best; at the time, my thoughts were all on the battlefield, how I might turn the rest of the keep to my advantage. When the war was over, and I was trapped in this new and deadly body, I had thought it a place to begin my studies on our history, a way to fill the long years ahead of me.

And when my interest in that had waned, brought to an abrupt halt by the lack of progress, I’d shut the library up and not stepped foot in it since.

But here, I remembered these shelves; books so old the binding had frayed, the colors bleached to unrecognizable shades of their former selves. They were not all in Veladari; I recognized the stark runes of Nord, the tongue of my former life, a language that was guttural and harsh when spoken, and the flowing script of Serissan, which was beyond me.

Pulling one of the Nord books from the shelf, I opened it carefully, reading the poem with some difficulty at first. It had been many years since I’d read anything in my mother tongue.

It was a pastoral shepherd’s poem; not something I was keen to remember. If there was one thing I remembered from my former human life, it was that sheep stank, and were stupid—in my young mind at the time, all the more reason to run off from home and join the jarls for the glory of battle.

I smiled to myself; I hadn’t made it to the jarls, but by the ancestors, I had waded knee-deep through blood and gore.

Turning the page, I found the Shieldmaiden’s Lament, and then another short poem on the stony heather of that country. None of it exciting, though I was a biased reader; had I not thrown myself into battle with the first warg I’d ever laid eyes on, determined to either kill it or find myself in the halls of Valhǫll? At the time, the halls of the dead had seemed a more exciting prospect than the endless stone, lichen, and sheep of my home.

I paused several poems later, snorted while reading the page, and circled the stacks until I emerged in the bright portion of the main room, Cirri now ahead of me.

“There in Valhǫll’s garden, there was a girl so fair,” I read aloud, my voice echoing through the empty room.

Cirri twitched, then looked up at me in surprise. The golems tilted their heads.

“She had roses in her lips, and fire in her hair.”

My wife tucked a lock of hair behind her ear with a smile, listening even as she made a notation in her journal.

“The circle of her arms was soft, her hunger deep and bare. She burned me all throughout the night, her lust without compare.”

A flush rose in Cirri’s cheeks, pink at first, quickly becoming a fiery red. She looked down at her journal, letting her hair fall forward to hide her face; the golem Rose put the back of her hand to her forehead, swooning dramatically.

I couldn’t prevent the tips of my fangs from showing in a grin. “I vowed to steal her from the gods during the fateful ride. She gave her heart and stole my soul, and kept me by her side—in the fields of Valhǫll, with my lusty Valkyrie bride.”

Cirri had pressed her hands to her cheeks as though trying to tamp down the blush. She glared up at me, but her sparkling eyes gave her away before she started to silently laugh. Thorn shook his head in disgust.

“According to the footnotes, that was written by a sixteen-year-old thrall in Nordrin, five hundred-odd years ago,” I informed her. “Hence the single-minded focus.”

She was still laughing, her face pink.

“Although I find I can easily picture you in it—roses in her lips and fire in her hair.” I reached out to twine a scarlet curl around my finger. “Maybe I shouldn’t discount the yearning, desperate poetry of a teenage boy.”

You never wrote poems about lusty Valkyries? she asked in her journal, covering her mouth to hide her grin.

“When I was a boy, I thought poetry was a waste of time better spent fighting.” I looked at the Nord poetry book. “Clearly I was missing out. But keep in mind—I hadn’t met you yet, so how could I possibly have been inspired to write a poetic ode?”

Her shoulders quivered with a disbelieving laugh.

“To be fair, I understand his view… I would have stolen you from the gods, as well.”

Don’t be ridiculous, she wrote, shaking her head.

“You don’t believe me?” I released the curl of her hair, touching her cheek. “I would walk right into Valhǫll, burn it to the ground, and bring you back. He might not have been the most original poet—” I patted the book. “But he had that right, at least.”

Oh? Could you do better? she asked, raising her brows. I have yet to see any poetry from you, Lord Bane.

I scoffed, the sound emerging as more of a growl. “Of course I could. I simply haven’t tried it yet.”

She was still blushing as she wrote, The poem may have been a little—well, a lot awful, but he was just a boy. I hope he went home to her.

I didn’t tell her that the poem had likely been taken from his corpse, if it was in this book. If he’d found his Valkyrie again, it had certainly been in Valhǫll—the book’s foreword had been clear that these were collected from the battlefields, the words that the thralls and jarls kept close to their hearts in their last days.

“I’m sure he did.” I looked over the spread before her. “It’s time for you to put this away and eat, Cirri. You’ve been at it for hours.”

She shrugged one shoulder, tossing her braid back. And I could go for hours longer.

“I’m sure that’s what he said to the Valkyrie,” I murmured with a leer, and her face flamed red again. Ancestors, I loved the sight of that blush, even if it made my throat burn with remembered sweetness.

Bane!