A Time of Blood (Of Blood and Bone #2) - John Gwynne Page 0,104

new chambers.

He followed her through high-arched corridors and down spiral stairwells, torches flickering, until finally she stopped at an oak door.

“This was Olin and Neve’s chamber,” Byrne said, opening the door. “It has remained empty ever since Olin took you from Dun Seren.” She gave a wan smile. “Though I ordered it cleaned when Rab told me you were on your way here. Apparently, there were some spiders who did not wish to give up their cobwebs.”

Drem stepped into the room, a large bed with clean linen neatly folded, a chest, a fire crackling in a hearth. A smaller bed against one wall. Drem walked to a shuttered window and opened it, saw a view of rolling meadows and the dark smear of Forn Forest in the distance.

“You must be exhausted,” Byrne said. “Rest, sleep. The feast-hall is always open, night or day. As is my door, to you.” She paused, looking solemnly at Drem. “Ah, but you have your mother’s look about you.” She reached out a hand, tentatively, and took his, gave it a gentle squeeze. “We have much to catch up on, you and I. Fifteen years of catching up, but we are together now. You may feel alone, but I am your kin, your aunt, and we are together again.” She looked around the room. “I thought you would like to be here. You probably don’t remember it, but that is where you slept.” She pointed to the small bed. “You were all happy here: you, Neve and Olin. They adored you, and adored each other.” A tremor ran through Byrne’s voice then, so out of place with the strong, stern figure she seemed to be.

They stood looking at each other a few long moments.

“My thanks,” Drem said.

Byrne shut the door.

Drem sat on the bed, running a hand over the white linen sheets.

We lived here, the three of us, together.

Byrne’s words echoed in his mind. You were all happy here.

A tightness in his chest, a burning in his eyes.

You were all happy here.

And then great, racking sobs were bursting from him, the building wave of emotion in his chest impossible to contain any longer, erupting out of him, an outpouring of what felt like years of suppression. A flood of memories, all the half-conversations about his mother, the empty longing, and then the death of his father, lying in Drem’s arms, blood speckling his father’s lips. It all came out of him, his vision a blur as he cried and sobbed, hands twisting fists of linen sheets as he rocked on his bed.

The sound of his door opening and closing. Drem strained to see who it was, a blurred figure, dark-haired, then Byrne’s voice. He didn’t know what she was saying, he was too busy trying to control his weeping, and there was a roaring in his ears. He felt Byrne’s hands on his shoulders, her arms enfolding him, but he didn’t want that, felt embarrassed and claustrophobic and tried to push her away, but she was strong, her grip immovable as she pulled him into a tight embrace. At first he struggled through his sobbing, but slowly, incrementally, he allowed himself to sink into Byrne’s embrace, lay his head on her shoulder and wrapped his arms around her, all the while Byrne rocking him gently and stroking his hair while she whispered comforts to him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

BLEDA

Bleda rose from his chair as Uldin, King of the Cheren, strode into a high-vaulted chamber. For a man of the Horse Clans he was taller and broader than most, a stern-faced warrior with streaks of iron-grey in his thick warrior braid and beard. His wounds had been cleaned and tended to, a row of stitches running across his forehead, but apart from that only a slight limp betrayed that he had recently seen battle and been injured. He looked far more a king now than when Bleda had seen him ride through Drassil’s gates. A wolf-skin cloak was pulled tight over his sky-blue deel, edged in fine-gold embroidery. His curved sword he wore at his hip, hanging from a soft tooled belt twined with gold chain.

Two warriors walked a step behind him, a man and woman, his honour guard, both of them blooded with fresh cuts. One carried a sack slung over one shoulder.

“Well met,” Uldin of the Cheren said to the two Ben-Elim that stood in place of Kol. One was Hadran, Kol’s second. The other Ben-Elim had hair as pale as silver, and his right wrist was