ends of the curls at her left ear. In his other hand he held a charm made of silver and a shard of black rock that glinted like the waters of the Tarinnish. She nodded, and he took pieces of her curls to braid with the charm. It hung heavily at her temple, as cold as ice. His knuckles skimmed her cheek, and Mora caught her breath.
“Do you have one for your hair, too?” she asked.
Tender surprise parted his lips, and he nodded. From his bag he dug out a second charm, silver, too, but with a rough pinkish-red stone. An uncut garnet.
Mora touched her chest over the Blood and the Sea, then crawled behind him to unbind locks of his long hair. It was so soft and smooth, as fine and straight as—she did not know. The strands slid through her fingers and she braided it loosely, having to twist the braid again around the charm until it was a feral knot. She brushed her knuckles against his cheek when she finished. The fading sunlight found the arch of his cheekbone, the fine stubble along the line of his jaw, and highlighted his bottom lip.
Her pulse was too fast, her hands unsteady.
Sitting away, Mora folded those hands in her lap and turned her gaze to the north. “The dragon will be there?”
“Yes,” he answered after a brief pause, voice rough. “Just over the horizon, and the entire length of it will only be visible for an hour at the top of this Longest Night. It is so great a beast that every other night some piece of it remains under the mountains: a claw, its tail, the end of its nose …”
“I hope no clouds blow in.”
A small hum was his only answer. It turned into a melody, gentle and merry. A round. Mora murmured the words in a singsong voice, not quite joining him. When it came around and around, the sun was gone, and only purple-silver twilight surrounded them.
Full darkness dropped slowly, and Rowan asked her to point out the first star she noticed. It was the Star of Third Birds, and then just after came a star Rowan named Dalubh. “The Star of Third Birds flies very near to the Tree of the Worm this time of year, though in its branches, not its roots. That star, Dalubh, is the head of the worm. And so your year will be filled with mysteries, and your challenges are invisible to you, where perhaps weakness, or enemies, or old choices have been rotting away at your foundations.”
Mora wrinkled her mouth in distaste. “If you eat something, you’ll prophesize better.”
Rowan laughed, and the noise rang out into the open night. “Maybe not. Prophecies have grown difficult this year.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Too many possible futures, perhaps? Confusion of intention, or the stars and the island itself are at odds? I cannot say, but maybe tonight will tell us. The only consistency has been the appearance of some part of the Dragon of the North, the Lion of War, and the Wolf Star. These stars are surrounded by wild fortunes, dooms, lighthearted weather predictions, all manner of prophecy.” Rowan paused, studying her as though looking at something else. “The first prophecy I ever cast that involved all three—dragon, lion, and wolf—was for the Aremore queen.”
“I was there. I heard it.”
His eyes suddenly sparkled.
To put him off, she said, “What else should we do to wait?”
“Pray, I would say to one who did such things—but you may brood instead.”
Mora shoved him over, and he laughed as he fell, catching himself with his palm. The laugh turned to a sharp hiss. Rowan turned his hand over to reveal the dark glint of blood scored along the heel of his thumb. She did not feel the slightest bit of guilt, and did not help him tend to it.
To her surprise, he touched the blood and drew it into a spiral that filled his white palm. Then carefully he lifted that hand and pressed the palm to his cheek, leaving a shadowy imprint of a blood spiral there.
“Rowan, last summer, just after Celeda’s rebellion, I saw a vision of Morimaros the Great.”
“You had a vision?” The prince narrowed his eyes.
She ignored his tone. “Hal saw him, and Lady Hotspur, too. Dragon, lion, wolf. Like it bound us together even outside of your prophecy.”
“You are the dragon of my prophecy,” he said, not a question.
“Maybe.” Mora scowled.
“What do you think your vision meant?”
“I have no idea. I