Tara Runeweaver's Arc

Chapter 15 of 19

The guests ate at the long fire, and the warband watched them eat. Tara felt every eye in the yard land on her, then slide away. Bjorn stood at her shoulder. His mother counted bowls. There was no quiet anywhere a bride could find it. Tara took Bjorn's wrist. She did not ask. She led him past the carved posts, past the gate, to a small tent the women had raised behind the hall for the wedding that never began. Blue cloth. Gold thread. A flap that closed. Inside stood a four-poster bed heaped with furs. Someone had set a bearskin on the floor beside it. The noise of the yard dropped to nothing. Bjorn looked at her like a man who had not been allowed to look in weeks. She slid her grandfather's silver ring off her thumb and pressed it into his palm. "For you. Not for them." He closed his fingers over it. He pulled her down onto the bearskin, slow, and held her face with both hands. They did not speak for a long while. He traced the braided cord at her wrist. She traced the scar along his jaw. Small things. Specific things. The kind of tenderness she had never been able to give him in the hall. When they came out, the fires were low and the guests were sleeping. His mother sat alone by the coals, awake, and did not turn her head. Tara understood. The tent would stand. The bride and the chieftain had a door now. Something private had finally been made.