Page 27 of Hymn of Breath and Bone

“Urchin,” Caspian said in greeting as he dismissed the guards beyond the door and came to join me. He sat on the low table before the sofa, where I was perched cross-legged with the abandoned book in my lap. “You’ve been busy, I hear.”

From the look on his face, I knew Zephyr must have told him what I’d discovered.

I had realized on my way back to his rooms that the story of how he became king might be more painful than he was willing to share. Caspian had loved his mother, and I knew that somehow he must have been responsible for her death as well.

“You don’t have to tell me—” I began.

“I want to, Marina,” Caspian interrupted, scrubbing a hand over his face before dropping it back to rest on his bent knees. His eyes met mine, and I sensed the flicker of pain that shone in them. “I’m trying to decide where to begin.”

“Start with the wings,” I suggested quietly, placing the book aside and leaning forward to clasp his hands in mine.

The contact seemed to steady him, and he took a deep, shuddering breath.

”I was twelve the first time,” he began, speaking quietly and looking at the floor beneath our joined hands. “It was my first time sparring with him, rather than with one of my teachers, and he bested me in seconds. Keep in mind, I was barely out of my blood feathers, and practically still a fledgling, but it wasn’t good enough for him. His general held me down while my father broke every bone in both wings.”

I squeezed his hands, imagining the sickening crack of bone. It was betrayal I felt through our bond now. Anger and hurt and cold betrayal.

“And your mother healed them,” I pushed.

Caspian laughed, the sound lacking real humor. “She set the bones,” he corrected. “Talked me through the injuries and gave me something for the pain. Healing such an injury with magic is beyond any siren skill, but she knew enough to ensure I’d fly again.” Caspian looked up finally, his eyes lined with silver. I reached out to brush away the tear that threatened to fall. “My father was furious with her, but they were mates. He couldn’t hurt her. Was physically incapable of allowing her to be hurt. So he took it out on me.”

“Seas below,” I murmured, stroking my thumb over his cheekbone. “What a monster.”

“I suppose Zephyr told you some of it,” he went on. “About his fanaticism. His cruelty. I’m not sure you can really understand how bad he was, Marina.”

For a moment, Caspian’s broken wings flashed through my mind, and my stomach soured.

“My father did the same thing to you,” I whispered, feeling sick at the memory.

“Your father is a fool, and he can be vicious,” Caspian agreed, making me wince involuntarily. It was the truth, but it was hard to hear about the male who loved me and raised me and would never lift a hand to me in anger. “But he’s not cruel in the same way. I don’t think your father would hurtyoulike that. Hurt anyone the way my father did. There’s a reason the selkies fear the Siren King. He did terrible things to both of our peoples. Burned selkie villages to the ground. Executed his own people without trial. Sent hundreds to die on your beaches without remorse. Slaughteredchildren,Marina. He couldn’t be allowed to keep his crown.”

“So you killed him,” I said evenly, squeezing his hand to tell him that I understood. That I didn’t judge him for it.

“I challenged him,” Caspian corrected, frowning as he met my gaze. “I was willing to let him walk away. To kill him in name only and let him leave the cliffs.”

“And he didn’t let you?”

Caspian sighed deeply, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Honestly, he might have. My mother begged him to walk away.” He ran a finger down his chest, over the long scar.

“But?”

I lifted my hand to his cheek, stroking gently as Caspian considered his words.

“My father’s general—Ilya Stormcrow—convinced him that I deserved to die for treason.”

“The same general who held you down as a child?” I asked, feeling rage spike so suddenly, I knew it wasn’t entirely Caspian’s.

Caspian nodded, and I knew right there that if this Stormcrow wasn’t already dead, I would end him myself. “The Stormcrow was even more vicious than my father. Told him to keep fighting. In the end, I didn’t have a choice.”

“Why do you call himtheStormcrow?”

“It was always what he was called,” Caspian shrugged. “I think he liked the idea that he was some great bird of violence rather than a mere mortal.”

I moved Caspian’s hand aside and traced the edges of the thick scar across his chest. “He did this to you?”

“I still won, Urchin,” Caspian said, a flicker of his usual swagger creeping through. “Believe me, he looked worse.”

“And your mother?” I asked softly. I knew this was the part of the story he didn’t want me to hear, and his agonized sigh nearly broke my heart.