Obsidian and Stars (Ivory and Bone #2)(83)

“That’s why I like the blackest nights—the darkest, obsidian skies of winter. When the world is coldest and darkest, the stars shine brightest.”

I think about this. I have never liked winter, when the cold could kill so easily. When game is harder to find. I’ve always hated the short days, and the long, dark nights.

But this is a new way to think of the winter, with its obsidian night sky ablaze with stars. Certainly I have been through my share of loss, my share of darkness. And I’ve hated it. But maybe Kol is right. Maybe the darkness can connect me to the past—to those who’ve left me and lit their fires in the sky. I turn to Kol. His eyes sweep the sky, flitting from one star to the next like a honeybee flying flower to flower. I draw closer to him, and he wraps the elk pelt around the two of us and pulls me against him. His warmth is irresistible, and I stretch out along the length of his body.

I turn my face to the darkening sky. Darkness connects us to the past—to the dead—but the darkness I’ve lived through connects me to the living—and to the future—as well.

I have to let go—of my mother, of Chev, of everything that’s behind me. Kol has to let go too. We are both the High Elders of this new clan now, and we have to keep our eyes on the way forward. The stars in the obsidian sky may be beautiful, but they show the past, not the future. I know I need to begin to let go of the past. It’s the only way I can really take hold of Kol.

The musicians stop to catch their breath and the dancers reluctantly sit. Urar adds wood to the fire, promising to read the flames. The night air snaps and hisses. The blaze spreads and grows. Soon, this spot of the beach is as bright as day as the smoke billows and coils, stretching a thick rope into the sky.

I watch it—we all watch it—and no one speaks for a long time. When the sliver of sun is completely gone, and the moon is high in the east, Lees jumps to her feet. “The moon is up and the sun is down—it’s time to dance again.”

I have never heard of this custom, and I suspect it’s something Lees has only just made up. She pulls Roon to his feet, and others who never seem to tire join them.

I’m surprised when Kol pulls his warmth away from me and gets up, too. “Yes,” he says. “I haven’t danced the wedding dance with my bride yet.”

I don’t know how this dance was overlooked. Perhaps with all the songs and dances of three clans, no one has remembered to ask for it. But Kol has remembered. “Waiting for this dance helped keep me alive,” he whispers in my ear.

A broad smile lights Kol’s face, much brighter and more enchanted than the stars in the sky. They are pale and weak, too far away to offer heat. But Kol’s smile holds the heat of a thousand suns.

Kol reaches out a hand, and I take it.

Kesh’s flute is the first instrument I hear. The others join him, and we begin to carve a path in the sand, moving slowly around the circle with Seeri and Pek, Lees and Roon. The music quickens and they dance faster and faster, but after a few turns Kol and I slide out of their circle and make one of our own. Kol’s leg is still healing, and we want to take our time.

But then Kol wraps both my hands in his. His grip is strong, his balance surprisingly sure. He tips his head back, looking up at the stars draped overhead, and he begins to spin—not quickly, not recklessly—but spinning all the same. He turns in place, holding me at arm’s length, letting me whip around him like a stone tucked in a sling.

I look up to see what he sees, and I catch my breath. The stars—small, distinct, pale—smear together as we turn. They blend into a circle of light, a beacon, right above our heads. My mouth opens to drink in a deep breath of night, and tears spring to my eyes as a sound bursts from my throat.

A sound something like a sob, but also like a cry of joy.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


I like to believe that some books come into being through a wave of inspiration. Maybe one day I’ll write a book like that. This book came into being through sheer determination, and I could never have gotten through that process alone.

I owe so much gratitude to my editor, Alexandra Cooper. This book exists because of your remarkable talent and your uncanny ability to recognize the heart of the story I’m trying to tell. Without you, I’d still be lost in the dark of that first draft. Thank you for lighting the way. I’m incredibly grateful to have an editor I trust so much.

I also am truly thankful for my literary agent, Josh Adams. I can’t thank you enough, Josh, for believing in me as a writer before I believed in myself, and shepherding my work along some invisible path that only you can see. You have agenting superpowers, and I’m thankful you use them for the forces of good.

To the team at HarperCollins: thank you to Rosemary Brosnan, Alyssa Miele, Erin Fitzsimmons, Jessica Berg, Olivia Russo, Patty Rosati, Kim VandeWater for kicking things off, and Bess Braswell and her team. At Adams Literary: thank you to Tracey Adams and Samantha Bagood. I owe special thanks to Sean Freeman for the artwork on this book’s striking cover.

Thank you to Stephanie Garber and Kat Zhang. You are great writers and great friends, and I appreciate you so much. I never work alone because of your support.

Amie Kaufman, thank you for reading, blurbing, and cheering. Thanks for being an amazing example of a generous writer.

Luke Taylor, your positive energy has come through for me at all the right times. Thank you so much.