Page 11 of Court of Talons
“If what you’re saying is true, we’re already doomed,” I say quietly. “The house—whatever house it is—knowsthat Merritt has fallen. They’ll attack us outright.”
“No,” Nazar says. “If anyone was watching this battle, they’ll know two things: that the attack on our house happened, and that Merritt did not die.”
“Did not—” I swivel my head back toward Merritt’s pyre. Nothing of it remains. Even the ashes of the Tenth House retainers’ cloaks are destroyed. We have buried the bodies of our men and left our enemies for the carrion hunters to scavenge, but Merritt’s body is well and truly gone. By the time we leave,there’ll be only charred and overturned earth in that spot. “You burned him.”
“No,” Nazar says. “Merritt was struck down and rose again, cloaked in righteous fury. He reviled his attackers, who fled like the dogs they are. That’s the tale that will come out of this battle, if any tale is whispered at all. That the firstborn of the Tenth House was shot and did not die. That he roared forth with an even mightier Divh, who made the mountains tremble.”
I jerk as if struck, the image of that same enormous Divh branded on my mind. “Whydidthat happen?” I demand. “This—that wasn’t the Tenth House Divh who appeared above me. It couldn’t have been—it was far too big. And it would never bond itself to me. It’s forbidden.” Even as I speak, I recognize the stupidity of my words. The Divhhadresponded when I’d called its name—had bowed to me. But…how?
“When the warrior’s need is great, the Divh responds,” Nazar says evenly, but he refuses to be distracted from his point. “You stood in front of a sacred Divh, wearing the cloak of the Tenth House with your hood up. You turned the attackers back. To any who looked, you were Merritt.”
He folds his arms. “To any we meet at the Tournament of Gold, you must be Merritt as well.”
I snap my gaze to him, this new impossibility assaulting me like a never-ending storm.
“No,” I say, and here I know I am on solid ground. “No. You must be the one to purchase soldiers for the Tenth. I’m a first-bloodeddaughter, Nazar. No one would take me as a boy. Not with this.” I grab the trailing edge of my braided hair and shove it toward him, its thick, knotted length now gray with dirt and ash. “I am adaughter. I’m gettingmarriedtomorrow.”
The priest lets the silence between us lead me to the next realization. Obvious and clear and such a violation, it takes my breath away.
“You want me to…to cut it off?” These sacred coils are a symbol of my first-blooded birth, instant proof of my value to another noble house. Without them, I’ll never marry. Never leave the Tenth House, never truly live. Even if I somehow survive my father’s wrath, he’ll never let me see the sunlight ever again.
Nazar scoffs at my horrified expression. “You’re worried about yourhair? Do you know what will be left of your arm once the band is ripped from you? Rags, Talia. The muscles completely cut through, the bone broken, the entire length of your limb from shoulder to wrist scarred with twisted, mangled flesh. Many—mostwarriors die during a forced unbanding ceremony if they aren’t transferring the band to their own child, which is why it’s rarely performed. Many—most of those warriors die before the band reaches their wrist, where it sinks into the bone andstaysthere, if their Divh decrees it must, even if their bond is officially broken. Divhs don’t give up their warriors easily, once such warriors have been chosen. And youhavebeen chosen. As clearly as if you participated in the sacred rituals. You will likely not survive your unbanding. Even if you do, you’ll be forever scarred.”
If he means to scare me, he’s succeeding. And he continues relentlessly. “If Merritt dies on this battlefield without sending reinforcements back to the Tenth, his house dies with him. The only way you can save your family, your people, is if you secure men for them. Death is the way of the warrior.” He points to my arm. “If you are to die, then die with honor. Protect your house.”
I swallow, looking away.Honor,I think bitterly. Honor for my house, in the only way now open to me. I have no other choice, if I want to honor Adriana’s and Merritt’s deaths. If I want to make the Tenth House strong.
And Iwillmake the Tenth House strong.
“Cut it off,” I growl at last.
Nazar doesn’t hesitate. A few moments later, he’s at my side with a hunting knife, putting his hand into the great mass at my nape. Rather than uncoiling it from its bands and knots, he slices deep, sawing his way through the thick mane. At first, I feel nothing but the tug of the sharp blade. Then he pulls away.
My head springs forward, and I lift my hands to either side of my head. “Oh!”
“Turn around,” the priest mutters. “You look like you’ve been mauled.”
I know the moment he sees the thin scar stretching across my throat, so narrow beneath my chin as to be almost invisible unless you’re looking for it, but ending in a vicious, puckered whorl beneath my left ear. The scar that both my high-necked tunics and the thick, artfully arranged coils of my hair have long served to cover, a relic of the first—and last—time I strayed too close to my father when he was in one of his black moods. Nazar hesitates a long beat, studying the rough and crumpled skin.
“Your voice,” he says at last.
I shrug, keeping my chin up, my eyes cold, my expression as empty as the winter’s sky. My father’s knife hadn’t sliced my throat deeply enough to kill me, but my low, husky voice still bears the mark of his rage. So do my legs, for that matter, but those scars are more easily hidden. “I couldn’t speak for months after the injury. When I finally did, I sounded…different.”
Nazar doesn’t respond but bends once more to his task. He works the knife to either side of my face, then back around my neck. I struggle to hold myself still. The breeze against my neck prickles my skin, and my head feels lighter than it ever has, almost wobbly on my shoulders. When Nazar finally steps back, I teeter with my hands out wide by my side, uncertain how to balance.
His critical glance takes in my altered appearance, and my mind races at what he must see. My sacred hair had alwaysbeen my most valuable attribute, proclaiming me as a woman of worth. My face had always seemed attractive enough, at least with my scar hidden beneath all those glorious, coiled braids.Beautiful, my mother had proclaimed, more than once. I had no fear of being rejected by the child of the Twelfth House. But now…
Now my hair is soshort. My face is thrown into sharp focus and the scar along the left side of my neck exposed, this last a silent testimony to the shame I must never speak aloud.
No one would find me beautiful now. No one.
My chin lifts another notch.
Nazar stares down at the mass of hair in his hands. “We’ll keep this.”
I scowl. “Like a pet?”
“No. It’s got your dowry sewn up in it, and we may have need of that.”