Fire and Bone (Otherborn #1)(67)

I notice a man moving to stand in Marius’s place. He’s wearing a green hooded robe that drags on the floor behind him; I’d assume he was a monk if I didn’t know better. Instead of a cross around his neck, he’s wearing a pentagram, and there’s a leather strap across his chest from shoulder to belt. It’s holding a dagger. A white stone bowl rests in his palms. He steps in front of me as a woman in similar robes walks up behind him. She holds a thin stick in her hand.

“Have you chosen a protector?” the man asks. His voice is coated with age, and his face is stoic, older features sagging a bit.

“Yes,” I say, feeling more sure now.

“Name him,” he says. “So that he may be presented.”

“It’s Faelan,” I say.

The priest guy furrows his brow and keeps staring at me like he’s waiting for more.

Should I have said Faelan’s full name? I don’t remember how to pronounce the whole thing. Instead I point behind me to my new shadow and add, “Him.”

The priest frowns and the woman behind him bites her lip, like she’s holding back a smile.

“Very well,” the priest grumbles. He looks at Faelan. “Step forward to take the vow, Faelan Ua Cleirigh. You have been called.”

Faelan comes from behind to stand next to me.

The priest holds out the stone bowl. “With blade and sacrifice, let the shield be true.”

Without a word, Faelan reaches out and pulls the blade from the sheath strapped to the old man’s chest. He holds his other hand over the bowl and slices into his palm like he did when he swore to Marius. Blood runs into the bowl.

My pulse quickens at the sight of the crimson filling the white stone.

A young girl comes from somewhere on our left, a long strip of red silk fabric in her hand. She holds it out to Faelan with wide eyes. She’s probably twelve or thirteen, dressed in a flowing white gown, a wreath of tiny white roses in her long braided hair, like a girl in an ancient wedding ceremony. She’s the first child I’ve seen since I got here. It reminds me of what Faelan said about his own childhood in this world. Somehow it seems wrong for someone so innocent to be a part of all of this.

Faelan holds out his wounded hand to her, and she begins wrapping the red silk round and round his palm with her elegant fingers. When she’s done, she ties it with a knot at his wrist, and gives a quick kiss to his knuckles before letting go with a giggle. Then she backs away and slips into the rows of onlookers.

Next, the woman holding the stick steps forward, her robes dragging behind her. Faelan moves to stand in front of me. His eyes meet mine, and my insides heat with the intensity in them. The memory of his lips, his taste, grips me, and I have to focus on not hyperventilating.

“You’re sure?” he whispers.

I nod. But how can I be sure when I barely know what it all means?

The woman places the stick in his palm, and he shifts it to hold it like a paintbrush, dipping it into the bowl of blood that the priest is holding. He hesitates for a moment, then brings the blood-covered tip toward my head.

I pull back a little.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “This is how I’ll cover you, protect you.”

I go still and he puts the stick to the center of my brow. My skin tingles at the touch of the blood, and with slow, deliberate strokes he begins to paint what feels like a crescent shape on my forehead. Its slick warmth spreads across my face, and the familiar minty smell of Faelan fills my senses.

“My blood covers yours,” he says loud enough for everyone to hear.

My pulse speeds up again, shaking me as I watch him. His green eyes seem to glow for a moment and gravity shifts under me, pulling me toward him. But I lock my knees and force my body to stay still.

“May the blade that aims for your heart pierce mine,” he says, his voice reverent.

My throat tightens at his sincerity, and the stark reality of it all hits me like a fist to the gut. He’s promising his life—his life to protect me. A girl he barely knows. I want to say something, to respond, but the only words in me right now are I’m sorry.

He gives me a slight tip of his head and steps away.

The priest comes forward again. He faces the audience and asks in a stern voice, “Who is your bloodmother?”

I search my brain. Not Lauren, she was my fake mother. “The goddess Brighid,” I manage to get out, trying not to tack a question mark on the end of it.

“What is your primary bloodgift?” the priest asks.

My mind races around the word bloodgift. After a few tense seconds, I say, “Fire,” hoping it’s the right answer. “I start fires.” It sounds completely ridiculous. And yet everyone stares at me like it’s no big deal.

“Do you have a secondary gift?” he asks.

I could have more than one? I shake my head. “No.” Another so-called gift is the last thing I need.

There’s some whispering in the audience, like they didn’t expect me to say that.

The priest is unfazed. He reaches out and places a hand on my temple, closing his eyes. He whispers under his breath for several seconds. My eyes find Faelan again, and the mark on my forehead buzzes.

Suddenly the priest declares, “All is set aright!” so loud I nearly jump out of my skin.

“Blood, spirit, water, fire, and bone, the Balance is kept,” he continues. “All is as it should be. She is Otherborn, she is now one of us.” He motions to my head, then surveys the audience dramatically for several seconds, both the lower courtyard and the royal figures surrounding us on the balcony, like he’s trying to catch every eye in the place. “Her guard holds true,” he says. “Anyone may vie for her fealty, but only one House shall win this beauty’s honor. May the contest commence!”