Free Soul of Flame (Imdalind Series #4) by Rebecca Ethington Page A

the people you love.” His words were a revered softness that ignited my soul, the real meaning as to what he was doing not lost on me. “As a Skȓítek, it is the man’s responsibility to braid his hair as well as his wife’s and his children’s.”
    “I love it when you braid my hair,” I said without thinking, my heart rate pounding in sudden embarrassment. “I mean… I have never really done much with it,” I continued in a quick attempt to cover up my blunder.
    “I know,” he whispered, the side of his hand pressing against my face before he went back to his gentle movements.
    “For thousands of years before my birth, and centuries after, braiding was one of the most cherished traditions of the Skȓíteks. It was the way to convey moments in your life to others, to show stature and accomplishments in battle. Each braid was infused with magic of good blessings, of strength, of love. It was revered, and in many ways it still is.”
    I had thought his father teaching him how to braid was silly. However, now I almost felt bad for having mocked it. I had poked fun at more than just a boy braiding hair; it was his culture, a tradition, just as it had been with my father. My eyes pinched together at the unwanted connection and I pushed it away. I could tell by the tone in Ilyan’s voice that the braiding meant more to him than he was putting on. I felt terrible for having laughed at him, yet the emotion vanished at the sensation of his fingers in my hair, relaxing me. He was braiding my hair, but I knew at once that he wasn’t just braiding it.
    He was weaving the hair of someone he loved.
    “Is that what you are doing now?” I asked, my voice shaking in nerves as I trembled under his touch, my eyes trained on a bolt of lightning that lit up the sky.
    “He began first with the child’s braid.” Ilyan ignored my question as he continued his story. “The simple three-strand crown the girls wore, the long plait the boys wore. He made me braid the hair of every child in Prague. Parents even brought their children to line up for a chance to have the little prince braid their hair.”
    They lined up? I asked into his mind, my voice probably too loud in my surprise.
    “Yes,” Ilyan chuckled as his fingers gently pulled and prodded, my head still under his ministrations. “I sat in the square before the main cathedral as the Skȓíteks brought their children out. I am sure the mortals looked at us like we were conducting some sort of exercise. I even had a few come up and ask me what I was giving away.”
    He chuckled again and I couldn’t help smiling right along with him. The images from his thoughts flowed into me, painting a picture of what had happened. I could almost see the small, redheaded boy approach Ilyan. I could see the golden sleeve of Ilyan’s clothing as his tiny hands moved.
    “I bet you were a pro after that,” I probed, careful to keep my head still as he worked.
    “My knuckles were sore for weeks afterwards, but I mastered it.” I could feel his pride at the success he felt, even after all these years.
    “After that one, he taught me every other braid in succession. The braids for council, for war, for new life, for mothers, for loss. When I was old enough, my mother taught me the sacred marriage braid; the twelve-strand, double-layered braid that is performed by a woman’s mate during the ceremony for the Zȇlství. That braid is only known by the king and is taught to the man the night before the ceremony is to take place. My mother spent years spying on my father, breaking tradition in order to learn it and pass it on to me, terrified it would be lost forever if she didn’t. I believe my mother knew of the darkness in my father’s heart before anyone else.”
    I placed my hand on Ilyan’s knee as I pushed away my nerves over the braid he spoke about, my magic surging alongside his deep sadness at the memory of his mother teaching it to him.
    I am glad she taught you, I said,