Tara Runeweaver's Arc

Chapter 3 of 19

Tara rose slowly from the melting frost and met the chieftain's eyes. The great fire at the hall's center burned in strange colors tonight, blue and gold tongues licking high. His banner hung above it, knotwork bright in the shifting light. She slipped one hand into her belt pouch and closed her fingers around the small carved wolf she always carried. Its wooden weight steadied her. Bjorn, she would learn his name was Bjorn before this night ended. He stepped closer through the warriors and took her wrist, not hard, but sure. The firelight caught his face and she saw him truly for the first time. Not the careful mask. Not the polite nod. He pulled her against him and looked down at her like a man who had finally stopped lying to himself. "Bjorn," someone murmured behind him. He did not turn. Tara stood tall in his grip. She did not lower her eyes. She did not soften. Her rune pendant still glowed faint red at her throat, and she let it. If he wanted her, he would want all of her. His hand tightened at her back. That was her answer. That was the standing-near she had been measuring for. The hall doors crashed open a third time. Cold wind shoved through, guttering the colored flames. A tall man strode in with snow on his shoulders and a wolf pelt at his throat. Erik of the North. His warriors filed behind him. He stopped at the fire and looked Tara up and down like a thing already chosen. "The rune-witch," he said. "I have come to take her home with me." Bjorn did not let go. He turned his body so Tara stood half behind his shoulder, and his other hand settled on the axe at his hip. "She stays," he said. One word at a time. "She is mine." Tara felt the words land in her chest and stay there. The fragile opening had not shattered. It had become a door, and Bjorn had stepped through it in front of every man in the hall.