Tara Runeweaver's Arc

Chapter 12 of 19

The bridal dress stood on its wooden frame inside the hall, pale blue and stiff with frost-bright beads. Tara stopped before it and pressed two fingers to the bodice. The pearls were cold. Outside, a horn cracked the morning open. She ran. A horse had dragged itself to the gate, legs wrapped in bloody rags, ribs heaving like a bellows. Its rider lay crumpled at the foot of a wooden cross wrapped in a frozen cloth. He gripped Tara's sleeve. "Erik's kin. Riding for the wedding. They want a funeral." Then his hand fell. Tara stood. Bjorn was already beside her, jaw tight, hand on his blade. His men gathered, waiting. She felt the cord warm on her wrist. She kept her palm open. "Light the bonfire," she said. "Call them in. Not out." Bjorn looked at her. She did not look away. "They expect us scattered on the road. Let them find us ready, with my runes on every log." He nodded once. The order went out. By dusk the great fire roared at the gate, flames twisting blue and green above carved logs, every mark hers. The warband stood behind it in full mail. Bjorn took her open hand and held it against his chest. The wedding would wait. The riders would meet a wall of fire and steel, and Tara Runeweaver would stand at its center, not behind it.