A River of Golden Bones (The Golden Court, #1)(38)

A tear slipped down my cheek, the salt stinging my cuts.

“Those white roses are probably brown now.” I sniffed, wiping my scratchy woolen sleeve under my eyes. The thoughts that had swarmed my mind came spilling out even as I choked on my words. “I wish it was me. Briar deserves to be a part of this world. She was meant to be a part of it. I was never planned, never wanted. It should be me lying cold on that tomb.” Cold air slid over my bottom teeth and I gulped a pained breath. “She would’ve had a plan. She would’ve told me what I needed to do to fix this.” I stared up through watery eyes at the glowing moon. “I can’t just fight my way out of this. But that’s all I know. What do I do now?

“Who am I supposed to be without her?”

Tears trailed over my lips as I tried to regain my composure. It was true. I had always taken my cue from Briar. Whatever she was, I was the opposite—if she liked sweets, I only wanted savory. If she wore pastels, I wore earth tones. If she wanted to be the center of attention, I wanted to be a shadow. I always knew how to be by looking at her. Who would I be if I had to decide on my own? I couldn’t put my finger on why, there were no words to describe it, but none of my options felt right.

I imagined Briar walking beside me, her breath fogging the evening air as we both stared out at the dark forest. If she appeared right now, I wouldn’t question it—it would only feel right. She was supposed to be here with me.

I reached out with my senses as if I might be able to feel her. I always knew when she was close, but now I felt nothing.

Just me. Only me.

A building appeared on the side of the road, and my eyes widened.

No, not a building, a wagon.

It had giant wheels, taller than me, and a towering canvas roof. I crept closer, not seeing a single flicker of candlelight. Whoever owned this monstrous wagon appeared to be asleep. Colorful ribbons streamed along the side windows in a riot of color. Carved wood wrapped around the back door leading into the wagon’s back cabin. Painted musical notes danced along the wood.

What strange sort of traveler lived here?

It didn’t matter, so long as they were leaving town.

I snuck to where two dusty leather trunks hung on either side of the folded-up stairs. With deft fingers, I raised the rusting latch and lifted the heavy lid. I placed my pack in first, wedging it between stacks of balled fabrics and leather bags. I clambered in and pulled the hessian cover back over my head.

It was a strange load of wares. Clothiers perhaps? The thick wad of canvas beside me felt more like tenting fabric. Maybe they were stall holders at a country fair? Judging by the cobwebs, these bags didn’t get taken out often, and I hoped their owners would ride out of town without checking them.

Curling into a ball, I settled my swollen cheek against the rough fabric. I felt for the front pocket of my pack, untying it and grabbing out my knife.

“Goddess, bless me this night,” I whispered. “Grant me safe passage through the mountains.”

I lifted my chin to the sky beyond the sealed lid, and the cuts along my neck stung at the movement. I prayed that the night was calm and that I could get a few more hours’ sleep to prepare for whatever lay ahead. I clutched my knife to my chest as my eyes fluttered closed.





Fifteen




I held in another sneeze. The wheels kicked up so much dust it was unbearable. I jostled back and forth, being shoved side to side as the wagon bumped over the rocky terrain. We’d been riding uphill all morning. My legs shook from bracing myself against the trunk’s side. My ribs smarted with each bounce and shudder. Finally, I relented and just let the wagon tousle me about.

The rocking slowed, the driver called to someone, and then the wagon halted. I clutched the hilt of my knife tighter. My ears strained, still ringing from the attack the night before.

“All right then,” a warm voice said. They spoke in Valtan, the language of the Onyx Wolf kingdom. But the accent was distinctly human, not as formal or lilting as the Wolves’ tongue. “Who are ya?”

The lid lifted and the hessian above my head peeled back. Shielding my eyes, I squinted against the bright sunlight. The human hovered over me, cocking their head like a curious pup. Their eyes scanned my face, widening at my wounds. It must’ve looked pretty bad then.

“Hello,” they said, touching their fingers to their forehead. “What’s your name?”

“My name’s . . . Calla.” I considered lying, but no one knew that name.

My Valtan was a garbled mess. Vellia had trained us in all four languages of the continent, but the Onyx Wolf kingdom’s language was the hardest to comprehend.

“Beautiful name,” they said. “I’m Ora, palizya of this home.”

Palizya. It roughly translated to “owner,” but the Valtan word was reserved for those who were neither man nor woman, and used the -ya endings to their titles. Though the humans spoke the same languages as the Wolves in their kingdoms, they had many more words that Wolves were forbidden to use. Valta had eight different words for gender, but the Onyx Wolves, like all Wolves, only ever used two. It was just another way the Wolves and humans were different, even when they lived in the same lands.

“Hi,” I said, grimacing as I sheepishly lowered my knife.

Ora swept their maroon scarf over their shoulder and extended a hand out to me. I’d seen no one like them before. They had dark hair that fell in waves around their shoulders. Permanent smile lines etched into their brown skin. Kohl lined their dark bronze eyes, red paint covered their lips, and dark stubble covered their jaw.