Tara Runeweaver's Arc

Chapter 13 of 19

The bonfire roared, but Tara's hands were empty. Silk caught the firelight at her wrists. She climbed the steps of the stone tower beside the gate to watch the road, and the warriors below shifted at the sight of her — a bride without a blade, easy meat for grieving men. A young rider broke from the line and ran up the tower steps. He pressed an antler-shafted hunting spear into her palms. Its sinew binding was still warm from his grip. "No sorceress of ours stands bare," he said. He did not meet her eyes. He bowed and went back down. Tara weighed the spear. It was light. She had never thrown one. But the weight was not the point. The point was that he had given it. She walked back to the gate with the spear in her left hand and her open palm raised in her right, the braided cord bright on her wrist. The obelisk behind her glowed, each rune answering the bonfire. The warband saw her and straightened. Bjorn looked at the spear, then at her face, and said nothing — which was everything. Hooves struck the frozen road. Erik's kin came into view, slowing as they saw the wall of fire, the glowing stone, the bride who held a hunter's weapon as if she meant to use it. Their lead rider raised a flat hand. Not surrender. A request to speak. Tara lowered the spear's point to the ground. She did not drop it. "Let them come to the fire," she said. Bjorn nodded. The riders dismounted. The gate held. She was no longer prey.