Chapter 11: The High Queen's Daughter

Marit sat down on the nine steps because her legs would not hold her.

The carved letters swam in the lantern light.

Mother of Marit.

"Tell me," she said. "Someone tell me, now."

Hild lowered herself to the stone beside her with a grunt, the ring of keys clinking.

Her old hands shook.

"Your mother was the youngest child of the last High King," Hild said. "She was seventeen when your father's army came over the mountains."

"My father."

"Edric. He burned the valleys. He killed the High King on the steps of this Hall, and the High King's three sons after him."

The chief growled low in his throat, a sound.

"She hid in the cedar vault with me, her maid. We were there two days. Edric's men dragged her out."

Hild's voice cracked.

"He needed the Wildlands to call him lawful, so he wed the last of the blood by force."

"A hostage bride. A paper made her queen of a country he had drowned in fire."

Marit's stomach turned.

"He took her south to Aldermere. I was sent with her. I was the only one she had."

"And me?"

"You were born a year later. She sang to you in the old tongue every night, in secret."

Tears ran down Hild's face.

"She said you were the only good thing that man ever gave her."

Marit pressed her fist to her mouth.

The lullaby, the rain on the window, the soft hum.

"How did she die?"

"A fever, they said. Edric's physician said so."

Hild's mouth thinned.

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