Fury Bound (The Wolves of Ruin, #2) — Chapter no 18

18

MERYN

wo days later, I watch from my bedchamber as Nocturna’s nobles departT Sturmfrost Castle.

The scene is fuzzy and dreamlike through the rippled panes of glass in the window. Cold fog has descended from the mountains this morning. It coats everything I see, dampening the landscape and dulling the colors.

It’s like my grief made tangible. A blanket of sorrow, heavy and thick and cold, reaching icy fingers into my flesh and bones. I wonder if I’ll ever

be warm again.

And there’s so much to do.

I need to check in with Siegrid and Tormun on the progress with Killian, the bracelet on my wrist a constant aching reminder of his menace. I need to get a status update on the war front. I need to check on my sister, who has remained in her bedroom since the coronation, terrified that she’ll be the next target.

But I can’t move from the window, the inside of my head a dull buzz.

It’s an endless parade of horses and carriages. Wagonloads of trunks full of ball gowns and pearls and perfumes. All the traces of a royal coronation, slowly emptying out of the castle and leaving nothing but sorrow behind.

What’s happened to Izabel’s clothes? All her beautiful party dresses.

Her riding leathers, the new jacket her parents had made for her for the Trials still barely broken in.

The thought rises in my throat, making it hard to breathe. I press my face to the frigid windowpane, screwing my red-rimmed eyes shut. The freezing glass smarts against my tight, tearstained skin.

I half-heartedly suggested to Matron Alienor and Siegrid that I be present as the nobles departed, to leave a last impression, but they both agreed the impression I left them with was “suitable” for now.

An impression of violence, nobody had to say out loud.

Of swift, ruthless retribution.

I don’t regret killing the councilor; he deserved what happened to him.

But his family? I killed them without a thought. Just pure emotion made lethal by my shadows.

Is this the kind of ruler I am to become?

Is this what it takes to wrest this kingdom from the grasp of Killian and Alistair Brightbane?

The parade of departing noble guests continues, but I turn my face away.

I’m staring sightlessly at my sister’s room when a knock sounds on the door.

Stark, here to escort me to Izabel’s funeral. He’s insisted that he accompany me as guard whenever I leave my chambers, at least in the immediate aftermath of the poisoning.

He and Anassa are always there, always present. It’s like I’m a fragile child who needs watching over, and it’s starting to make me itchy.

Somewhere in the back of my mind is a woman who wants to snap at them that she’s fine, that she’s strong. Toss a rude joke their way, and

escape their cautious babysitting.

But I’m too hollow to reach her.

Now, I open the door to his bulky frame, draped in mourning black. Not that he often wears any other color. The color suits him, this harbinger of death.

He looks too handsome for a funeral, his face clean-shaven. I breathe him and want to rage against the annoying comfort the smell brings me. I don’t deserve comfort.

We leave Saela behind and go outside to meet our direwolves. Anassa is as edgy as I am today. I pat her fur, and she huffs at me.

“We have lost a good wolf and a good rider,” she says in my mind. “But your distress is going to leak out into the entire bond if you are not careful.

Izabel’s memory will live within you forever. Now it is time for you to lead.”

“Okay,” I say quietly, digging into that hollow place, searching for the brash, strong woman I once was.

With effort, I slip back into the mask of the person who doesn’t let difficult things break her.

How many hits can I take before that illusion is shattered for good?

Straightening my shoulders, I mount Anassa, then nod at Stark. We move as one on our direwolves to the site of the funeral, a clearing at the edge of the Bonded City.

By the time we arrive, I’m able to shake hands with Izabel and Venna’s parents without trembling.

“You honor us with your presence, Queen Meryn,” their mother murmurs.

I reach for her hands again, awkwardly pressing them in a show of support. “Your daughter was very dear to me,” I manage, the words a paltry ghost of what our relationship meant.

Venna stands next to them, face pale and eyes bloodshot. She looks at me only briefly, then nods and looks away.

I understand. In her place, I’m not sure I could speak without breaking down.

Stark and I reach the platform to the left of the family, where space has been reserved for the new queen. I look around. The landscape is barren but still beautiful; the rocky ground austere, small scrubby pines fading into forest and then mountains, peaks as far as the eye can see.

The fog is breaking up, and the midmorning light slants through the pine branches, illuminating Izabel’s funeral pyre.

I’ve seen too many Bonded die, but this is the first Bonded funeral I’ve attended; such indulgences weren’t allowed to us as Rawbonds, not under the Valtiere kings at least. Now, though, people have turned out in droves to honor Izabel.

Her extended family. Young friends from the Bonded City who haven’t

attempted the Trials yet.

Tomison and Nevah, of course.

Egith, now the Alpha of Strategos, here to pay homage to our lost packmate.

And others, too; Izabel’s maidservant from the castle, and two children of a noble family who stayed behind to honor Izabel before returning to their fiefdom, evidently having befriended her at some royal function years ago. Others I don’t recognize, but who are nonetheless familiar because we

wear the same expression of grief.

I try not to notice how they all avoid looking at me. Stark is a reassuring presence at my back. Ready to defend me, as always. Whether or not I’m worthy of such protection.

The pyre is built high, in accordance with Bonded tradition. Izabel has been dressed in ceremonial armor. Her direwolf, Asteio, who perished when Izabel took her last breath, is laid out beside her.

Together in death, after all too short a time together in life.

I blink rapidly, willing tears away. It is time for you to lead.

After a brief piece of music played by a woman I don’t recognize, Izabel and Venna’s father says a few words of welcome and then steps back so that Venna can deliver the eulogy.

She moves stiffly, as if having to remind her legs how to walk, her body how to move, without her sister present. Her hands tremble as she pulls a parchment out of her jacket, then swallows.

Their mother stifles a sob, and I bite my inner lip until it nearly draws blood. Press my eyes closed, then focus them on Venna, who’s started speaking.

“Before yesterday, there was never a single day that I was apart from my sister.” She stops, gathering herself. One of the noble girls behind me starts weeping softly.

“We always knew, though, that being Bonded meant that we’d likely one day be parted. It’s not unusual for Bonded to die young, whether in the Trials or at the front. We used to argue about it when we were little—which one of us would go first, and how.”

Venna smiles lightly, looking over at her mother and father.

“I always predicted Izabel would go out in a blaze of glory, doing something courageous and foolhardy. I think if she were able to talk to us now, she’d say she was thrilled to have gone out partying.”

I glance over at her parents. Her father manages a watery chuckle. Her mother just shakes her head, eyes glazed.

Venna’s tone turns somber. “When we’re faced with it every day, when we know so many who have passed on defending our country, death starts to seem commonplace. But my sister’s life is not an abstraction, not a statistic. Every day, I’ll look in the mirror and wonder how this face would have aged on Izabel. Every day, I’ll wake up with half my heart gone

forever.”

Venna stares ahead, and I see the moment she locks eyes with Tomison.

The two of them stand motionless, just looking at each other. Time slows down as their grief reaches out in ripples, sending small painful threads through everything and everyone, like millions of cracks in a pane of shattered glass.

Finally, Venna looks down, gripping the parchment in front of her blankly as if she’s forgotten what she was doing.

My heart clenches. I hunch my shoulders at the ache of it.

If I’d taken that drink instead, Izabel would still be alive. If I’d never stepped into their lives, Izabel and Venna would still be together. Tomison and Izabel would still have a future together.

The hurt is a vise, constricting my chest, and I struggle to draw breath.

“Get it together, girl,” Anassa chides. “Fair or not, you must become a place for others to rest their heartbreak. You cannot lose yourself to it, too.”

I let out a harsh breath, the warmth of it misting in the cool air around me. Suck in another one. Over and over. Breathe, until Anassa’s advice takes root.

Venna recovers and looks around at all the faces gathered. “I know that Izabel would hate for us to wallow. She’d have some kind of plan for how to help everyone around her recover and keep marching on, making jokes the whole time. It would be obnoxious, and she’d probably overdo it, but in the end we’d all be better for it.”

Her voice wavers, then gains strength again.

“So that’s what we have to do, for Izabel. Keep going. And know that she’d be proud.”

Venna steps down from the platform, and her father moves forward, taking a torch up from where it’s been waiting and lighting the pyre. The flames move fast, climbing high until Izabel’s face is obstructed.

Anassa moves behind me, then the wolves circle around us—the wolves of every Bonded present. They form a ring and, one by one, begin to howl, starting with Venna’s wolf, Skaia. The sound is wild and haunting.

Venna’s face is a stoic mask as she stares at the fire.

We wait as the flames burn on, howls fading to silence, until all we can hear is the crackle of the logs. Finally, the peak of the inferno passes.

Izabel and Asteio are reduced to ash.

Groups of mourners begin to stir. I stand unmoving as the mourners collect themselves, paying quiet regards to the Brooks family as they leave.

Stark puts a hand on my shoulder. “It’s time to depart, my queen.” It’s always “my queen” when he’s trying to protect me, I’ve noticed.

I shudder, and a resounding emptiness fills me. It’s so final, leaving her here. I know it’s irrational, but I don’t want the funeral to end. By clinging to the ceremony, it’s as if we’re still keeping some part of her with us.

Swallowing hard, I step down from the platform, moving toward the path back to the city. Anassa follows somberly behind, sensing that I need to walk this time.

The tears that I can no longer hold back cloud my vision.

I don’t see Tomison coming until he’s standing right in front of me.

Stopping short, I blink at him. “Tomison, I—”

“You did this to her,” he interrupts, voice breaking. His face is gaunt; it’s clear he hasn’t slept. It’s a look I know intimately.

His words are a welcome dagger in my chest—finally, someone has said

out loud what I know to be true.

In many ways, it’s a relief.

“I know,” I whisper. “I know, I wish—”

But he cuts me off again, leaning toward me, swaying slightly. “That cup was meant for you. That poison was meant for you. Izabel didn’t have enemies. She’d still be here if it weren’t for you and your—your bid for

power.”

There’s hatred in his gaze.

I stare at him, shivering. We should be united in our heartache, but he’s aiming his at me. He takes another step closer, until we’re only inches apart.

From behind me, Anassa bares her teeth in warning. Tomison’s wolf, Filikos, sidles up next to him, a low growl forming in his throat.

There’s a dark flash as Cratos appears, circling to put himself between Filikos and Anassa.

I glance over to see Stark’s hand on his sword, his face hard. Everything is balanced on a knife’s edge.

“You had to be queen,” Tomison continues, voice scratchy and almost unrecognizable. “You couldn’t settle for Alpha. And you’ve killed her. Now you’ve killed her—”

Filikos lets out a pained howl, echoing Tomison’s agony, and then

moves in fast—lunging, eyes wild, toward me.

I jump back quickly into Anassa’s fur as Filikos’s jaw snaps shut on empty air, but he’s not done. He lunges again, slobbering fangs coming for my throat.

“My family was right about you,” Tomison shouts. “I was blinded, but they saw you for who you are!”

Anassa growls, but Cratos is on Filikos in a flash, huge paw slamming him to the ground. Filikos thrashes against him, his brown eyes still focused on my face. Death is in his gaze. He wants to kill me.

Tomison goes silent. Not egging on Filikos—at least not audibly—but not stopping him, either.

“Stark,” I plead. Then, without thinking, I reach out in my mind. “Don’t harm either of them.”

Stark is on Tomison instantly, a thick arm around Tomison’s throat.

“Call off your wolf,” Stark snaps, steel in his voice.

Tomison doesn’t say a word, just stares at me. The despair and pain on his face tangle in my gut until I might retch.

Behind them, Filikos scrabbles against Cratos, twisting wildly to free himself. Cratos swipes his claws across an ear, and Filikos yelps, a high, painful note.

“Tomison, stand down.” Alpha Egith has appeared beside us.

I’ve never seen her so imposing. Her face is cold and hard, and her eyes flash as she focuses on the pair. I feel myself straighten at her commanding tone. Through my mental link with all the Bonded, I can feel the reverberations of her order. Her iron will, forcing itself down on Tomison and Filikos, until Tomison slumps in Stark’s arms.

Filikos stops moving underneath Cratos, submitting to Egith’s dominance.

Stark releases Tomison, and he stumbles forward, gasping for breath.

There’s a whole world of pain in his eyes as they meet mine. “Queen Meryn—”

“You’re dismissed, Tomison,” I manage. “I’m relieving you of your duties on the Council Palast, and of active service generally.” I hear myself as if I’m listening to someone else, someone capable of managing this moment.

There’s a low pounding in my head. I’m saying goodbye to two friends

today. My fingers ease, slipping down from Anassa’s coat.

I take a deep breath. “Go home, Tomison. You need time to heal.”

A small crowd has gathered around us, and I glare at them. Onlookers purse their lips, then move off. Ready to spread this story widely, I expect.

My shoulders slump. I stay where I am, next to Anassa, as Egith escorts Tomison away. Stark and Cratos stand with us, watching their backs as they retreat.

I turn at a pull on my sleeve: Venna’s beside me, mouth pressed into a thin line.

“He’s hurting,” she signs, clearly not wanting Tomison to overhear us.

It’s not just Tomison; Filikos is in pain, too. Asteio wasn’t his mate, but they were close friends who grew closer from their riders.

What happened today wasn’t a thought-out plan of retribution against me; it was two beings reacting with wolfish instincts to the person they blamed for their distress.

“I know. I know.” I suck in air. How many allies can I afford to lose?

But I can’t expect Venna to carry on, not without time to heal as well.

“Venna, I’ll understand if you want to take a break from your duties in the palace as well. I value your help so much, but I think you should be with your family right now.”

Venna’s brows draw together. “No. Meryn, I can’t sit around and do nothing. I’ll suffocate.”

I take her hand, squeezing tight. “Are you certain?”

“The worst thing right now would be for me to sit still.” Her expression is resolute.

I lean in and wrap my arms around her shoulders tearfully. “Okay. Okay.

As long as you’re sure.”

Venna holds me close, then steps back.

“Take a night or two with your family, though,” I urge her. “You can resume your post at the castle in the morning.”

She nods and moves off to stand with her parents, who are saying their final farewells to other mourners. For a split second, watching her is like seeing Izabel’s ghost, pale and somber.

I shake my head to clear the vision and wrap my arms around Anassa, hiding my sobs in her fur.

I’m the last to arrive for our Council Palast meeting, but I don’t interrupt any idle chatter as I enter. Siegrid and Nevah were both at the funeral, of course, but even though Igor and Castle Matron Alienor didn’t know Izabel, they understand what a blow this has been for all of us.

The direwolves sit quietly along the back wall, watchful. Anassa moves to join them, exchanging a few brief sniffs of hello before she settles back on her haunches.

Gazing around at solemn faces, it’s impossible to miss the empty chairs: two for Venna and Izabel, one of which will remain empty; one for Tomison, who may never return; and one for the Councilor of Sturmfrost, a role that will need to be filled now that Gerhold is dead.

Sorrow rises in me as I stare at all the empty seats.

“Queen Meryn,” Siegrid says, almost gently, at least for her.

I startle and then sit.

A pile of paperwork is in front of my chair, and I pull it toward me, flipping through the first few pieces of parchment without processing anything on the pages.

“There is much for us to discuss today, of course,” says Siegrid, seamlessly falling back into her role as de facto leader of our group. “First among these concerns, however, is appointing a new councilor.”

Her words are followed by a silence so complete it’s almost loud. I don’t need my powers to know what images are running through everyone’s heads.

I draw a shallow breath and then stand again.

“Yes. I wanted to say something to all of you about that.” My brain is muddled and slow from the emotion of the day, but it won’t help to wait.

This is important if I’m going to be any better than the Valtieres, that I own my mistakes and faults and try to improve.

Siegrid half-stands as if to interrupt me, but I hold out a hand. She sits back down, expression resigned.

“What I did was wrong.” I look at the people gathered around the table once more. Matron Alienor is focused on her clasped hands, but Igor,

Siegrid, Nevah—they’re all staring at me squarely now. Waiting for more.

My mouth is suddenly dry. “I… the councilor’s family should not have been harmed. I lifted my hands in anger. I didn’t think, and instead I let emotion take control of my power. And… that’s not the kind of queen I want to be. I do not want to rule with fear. And I’m sorry.” I run out of words and sit down, feeling inadequate.

Another moment of silence passes, and then Igor speaks. “You’re right, Meryn. It was terrible, what you did. In that moment, I was ashamed of who you were becoming.”

His gaze on me is unflinching, and beside him, Alienor nods once, decisively. The disappointment radiating off my dear friend—my family, really—is almost more than I can bear.

My stomach clenches. He’s right, of course.

It was an evil act, killing that whole family. What did I think I could say to make up for what I did? Are any words enough to hold up against mindless slaughter? Any reason that could possibly justify it?

“Well.” Siegrid’s voice is brisk. “This may not be a consolation, but you should know that the Bonded disagree with Igor’s assessment. Word has spread at the battlefront and throughout the Bonded City. People are impressed by what you’ve done and the swift vengeance you took on behalf of one of our own.”

Nevah nods lightly. “My family has thrown in for you now.”

Siegrid’s right; it’s not a consolation. It’s a reminder that those with pack instincts will value ruthlessness and loyalty, even at the risk of alienating the rest of the population.

Igor’s lips thin in disapproval, and he looks away from me.

Is this the fate of a Bonded queen? To be just another face of violence and destruction? How do I balance it all?

“Still,” Siegrid continues, “I agree that you should have kept your power on a tight leash. But what’s done is done. Let’s turn to the task at hand instead of losing more time. The councilor vacancy?”

“It should be Igor,” I say quietly. His eyes snap back up, brows furrowed.

Igor shakes his head firmly. “No, Meryn. I don’t have the experience or knowledge to do the job justice.”

“I agree,” Siegrid chimes in. “The position should be held by a noble

family.”

Of course she believes that. “Which one do you recommend, then,

Siegrid?” I ask bitterly.

She doesn’t respond.

“We do not know which noble families will remain loyal to us.” I’m only saying what everyone else here is thinking. “In the meantime, someone needs to immediately take over leadership of the city. We will spend time vetting proper candidates and choose the councilor’s replacement with appropriate consideration. Until then, I’d like Igor to take the position temporarily. I know I can trust him, and that’s all that matters at this moment.”

The silence in the room is stiff, stretching on indefinitely.

Eventually, Igor sighs, placing his meaty hands on the table. “Fine, Alley Cat,” he says, using the nickname he gave me as a child. “I’ll do it, for now, but we start looking for a new permanent councilor right away.”

Siegrid shrugs. “It’s settled then. Let’s turn to the war effort.” She leafs through the pile of parchment on the table. “I’ll depart tomorrow to rejoin our forces at Linsfall.”

I hope my relief at the thought of Siegrid returning to the front isn’t too obvious.

Igor and Siegrid get into a detailed conversation about troop deployment and training schedules, Igor making sure he understands the finer points of the army conscription, a responsibility the Councilor of Sturmfrost has always been at least nominally responsible for.

As good a place as any for Igor to start taking a more active role.

I scrub my hands across my face, my exhaustion and frustration merging into a murky fog that makes everything seem blurry and slightly distant.

We’re on our last topic of the day—some appointments that the Matron wants to make in the castle’s guard. It’s apparently a separate force from the army or the Bonded, something I probably should have known.

And then hell breaks loose.

Siegrid feels it first, standing up with such violence that her chair skitters backward and tips over with a crash.

Genicos, her wolf, races to her side, growling and bristling.

I reach for Anassa mentally, and that’s when I sense it, too: a break, huge and terrifying. As if a giant axe were reaching into that mental sea where I

connect to the rest of the Bonded and slashing down, hacking off an entire river, as painful as hacking off a limb.

“What is it?” I ask Anassa urgently, panicky. Not understanding it, my head pounding and my vision hazy at the enormity of what’s happened.

Anassa also leaps to her feet, hackles raised and fur standing on end.

Nevah pushes back from the table, too, a sickened expression on her face.

The un-Bonded at the table look around warily, unable to sense what we’ve all felt.

What I’m only just starting to understand.

“It’s—it’s the Phylax pack,” Siegrid chokes out, the first to put it to words. “They’ve all…”

She swallows, looks at me. Her face is ashen.

“The whole pack has defected to Killian.”