Tara Runeweaver's Arc

Chapter 8 of 19

Tara walked to the cage alone. The black bear slammed the bars, then stopped when she knelt. She set her palm flat on the cold metal and let the runes warm under her skin. The bear's breathing slowed to match hers. She traced a small mark on the lock. It fell open. The bear stepped past her into the snow and was gone between the trees. Behind her, the warband let out a low sound that was not quite a cheer, but close. They rode home under a thin sun. Tara kept her grandfather's silver wolf turned inward on her thumb and listened to the men talk around her instead of about her. That, too, was new. By the time she reached the longhouse, the feast was already loud. A long table stood down the center, heaped with roast meat, bread, red apples, and steaming bowls. Warriors leaned over it, laughing, tearing at food with bare hands. Above the chieftain's seat, hung high on the carved post, was Erik's shield — dented, splintered, the iron boss still dark with use. Bjorn stood beneath it with a cup in his hand, watching the door. He had been watching the door. Tara crossed to him through the noise. She had nothing wrapped, nothing hidden. She drew the curved dagger from her belt and held it across both palms. Runes ran the length of the blade, faint and steady, marks she had cut herself in the hours before they rode. "For the hand that did not need my magic," she said. "And the hand that asked for it after." The hall quieted in pieces around them. Bjorn took the dagger. He turned it once in the firelight, and the runes caught and held. Then he smiled — small, only for her — and slid the blade through his belt against his hip, where his men could see it ride beside his own steel. He did not step back. He stood close enough that his shoulder brushed hers, and stayed there. Tara stopped counting the seconds.