fourteen
It came to Sonya’s attention when she woke in the evening that Anton Morvell snored.
For such a mundane detail, Sonya couldn’t stop herself from staring at him in wonder, because Anton was anything but mundane. She guessed when one paused to consider the reality of vampires, they didn’t view the humdrum little details like if vampires snored, or if they liked to sleep on their side or back, how they styled their hair or if they wore spectacles. Instead, people thought first of how the theoretical creatures might differ from humanity before acknowledging how they might be similar.
He had freckles on his left cheek—just two tiny dark spots on an otherwise smooth, pale surface. A scar marred his arm that Sonya decided must have come from blocking a blade in another life. He had another smaller mark on his shoulder and a few light callouses on his hands but was otherwise untouched. No sign of his injury from the morning prior remained—aside from the dried trails of blood staining his skin and the poor, ruined duvet.
Sonya snatched up her dirty jumper and put it on as she sat cross-legged on the bed and watched Anton snore, a delightfully bizarre thing to witness. He laid like a figure from a Romance painting, dramatic shadows cast from the waning glow of daylight sitting sullen and morose at the scantily covered window, the sheets and duvet kicked down over his hip and thigh. His hand laid on the warm spot Sonya’s body had left—and he was utterly indifferent to the blood smudged on every surface of the bed.
“Goodness,” Sonya muttered. “Looks like a crime scene.” She abruptly pondered what his DNA might look like under a microscope, how it would differ from a human’s—and realized that may be an inappropriate thought to have when watching someone sleep.
Maybe they had the right of it when they called me Mad Marston.
Anton snorted and woke, inhaling once before he yawned and opened his eyes. He peered blearily at Sonya for several dazed moments.
“Hello,” he said, smiling. “Are you watching me sleep?”
Sonya nodded. “You snore.”
“I most certainly do not.”
The consternation in his voice had Sonya giggling as he sulked. Anton startled when, without warning, she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.
“What was that for?”
“I don’t know. I just think you’re lovely.”
His eyes widened as he touched his cheek, a shy smile turning his lips. Sonya had never seen Anton be shy and smiled herself. Then, suddenly, he snaked a hand about her wrist and gave it a tug, Sonya yelping when she toppled against his chest. Anton’s arms wrapped around her middle, and he hummed, content, nose against the top of her head. Sonya blew her messy hair from her face and pinched his side.
They lay for a time, quiet and heavy with lassitude as the last of the daylight drained from the horizon and the room fell further into darkness. Then, stroking her back, Anton said, “…I went to the Jarl yesterday.”
“What?”
“Or, well, went to the Jarl’s people to arrange a meeting with the Jarl. There’s a way to these things, a routine to follow. I had hoped my sudden reappearance would stir up enough shock to grant the audience immediately—but, ah, well.”
Sonya balanced her chin on his chest and peered up at Anton, confused. “But why would you ask for a meeting?”
“To see if he would force Calder into giving up his blood.” He sighed. “There’s no law against leaving a change unfinished, though it is viewed rather poorly in our society. He might have to give it willingly, but nobody said anything against a little strong-arming. If the Jarl tells him to do it, he’ll do it.”
Anton’s fingers touched her hair, her face, traced gentle, soothing lines on her brow while his eyes stayed on hers.
“It will be okay, Sonya. I promise.”
“I hope so.” She smiled, though her heart felt heavy and her fingertips numb. She knew he was sincere in what he said, but she knew no one, not even Anton, could predict the future. “But, before then, I could really use a nice hot bath.”
Word of Anton’s return to Vidarheim solicited an unexpected result.
Sonya recognized several residents of the other islands suddenly finding it imperative to visit Dagaz and, through one excuse or another, take a stroll past Gudbrand’s house. The gossip reached her ears in snatches and in furtive glances shared between neighbors, mouths muttering behind cupped hands, anxious whispers traded on the docks. An air of expectancy hung about Vidarheim that had nothing to do with the temperamental lightning storms.
Expectant of what, Sonya didn’t know, but she had her own theories.
“Busybodies,” Anton grumbled as they stepped outside and he closed the door behind them with a loud thump, the sound startling two draugar near the gate into continuing on their way. “ Shameless busybodies—I see you, Ingoufsson! This is the third time you’ve been here tonight; bugger off home !”
“You can’t blame them for being curious,” Sonya said as Ingoufsson—a lanky draugr with straw-colored hair—tripped over his own feet in his rush to bolt away.
“I can, and I will.”
He paused to adjust Sonya’s hood, ascertaining the warm cloak stayed in place. A messenger had come, and now they were off to Eihwaz, to the Jarl’s large, sprawling home at the island’s heart, and given the erratic weather and tossing waves, Anton decided it best if they walk the long way. “Even my seidr abilities won’t save us if he kicks up a holy fit while we’re in the water.”
Sonya supposed it wouldn’t; a ship had capsized on the isle of Wunjo two days prior, and the resulting discontent among the draugar had reached them on this far side of the bay. No one had been hurt, but supplies had been lost to the turbulent waters, and for people who relied so heavily on trade, it was a costly mistake the people blamed on Calder.
“This way.”
“I know where to go,” Sonya informed Anton as they passed the gate and walked the path, taking the northern fork that would eventually lead them westward. “Fiske has taken me all over the islands.”
“Oh? Has he now?”
“Yes. You know, his understanding of Vidarheim is impressive.”
Anton snorted. “It should be. After all, it was named after him.”
“ What? ”
Anton began walking over the rope bridge that would lead them to Sowilo—their course also needing to pass Jera, Ansuz, Fehu, and Othala before reaching the main cluster of Eihwaz. “What’s that?” he teased. “I can’t hear you.”
“You can’t just say something like that and not explain. It’s cruel.”
“No, I think it best to sate your curiosity another day….”
It took well over an hour to reach their destination, and all along the way, draugar paused in their doings to watch their passing, and sometimes Sonya heard them whisper, “ Thegn Anton, ” in astonishment. Some wore expressions of joy—others nervousness or distress. Some women had particularly saucy things to say to Anton in Old Norse, which amused Sonya to no end.
Scowling and flustered, he rushed them along, trying to stifle Sonya’s giggles.
The Jarl’s home rose ahead of them, a striking silhouette against the bleak skyline, partially consumed by the great stone tower it sprawled around. Its resemblance to the local architecture was fleeting, and more prevalent were the strong stone walls and stained-glass windows more popular on the Continent and in the east. Sonya and Anton entered through the wide, looming doors and were greeted by a bearded man with an actual spear.
He said something to Anton—who replied—and then gestured them toward the doors across the hall. Sonya sighed as they passed by the main hearth, its mantel in the shape of a wolf’s maw, the heat sweltering but very much welcomed.
“It’s going to take ages to learn the language.”
“Nonsense, all it will take is a bit of patience.” Anton wagged a brow, the fire gleaming in his spectacles. “ Du skal kravle, f?r du kan g? .”
“What on earth does that mean?”
“You have to learn to crawl before you can walk.”
He gave his hand a leisurely wave, and the door barring entrance into the next room swung aside, nearly startling the pants off the attending guard. A deep, muted chuckle reached their ears.
The one-eyed man Sonya had spotted once before at the moot waited for them along with the dark-haired Asian woman she’d also seen in the mead hall. The audience chamber was grand if a bit dark, with large colonnades of chiseled pillars lining a massive table with a dormant fire pit at its head. Beyond the pit, a dais held an intricate throne fit for the backside of a veritable king to the draugar, but Jarl Asger sat at the table with the woman, both enjoying a drink, and his mien was casual as he gestured Anton forward.
“Anton Morvell!” he greeted in a voice like a churning sea, his ‘r’s rolling and syllables crashing like waves dashed against the rocks. “Anton the Light-Hand. Well met. It has been many years.”
Sonya noted how a muscle ticked under Anton’s eye, but in the wavering glow of the braziers, it might have been an illusion. “ Jarl Asger. Apologies for my delayed congratulations on your sudden promotion.”
The man made a sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh, setting aside his large tankard. “Peace, Light-Hand. It has been done and settled, and her soul has gone on to join the All-Father.”
Anton’s hand formed a trembling fist, but he kept his tone level and cool. “Along with many others. Many others who did not deserve such an end.”
“They were all given a chance to stand aside. They chose honor instead.”
“Death by the ax or death by social exclusion. What a wonderful choice,” Anton drawled. “Excuse me, Jarl, if I do not agree with your vision of honor.”
If Asger took exception to what Anton said, he made no mention of it, merely nodding his head and scratching at his bearded chin. “Aye. I can’t expect you to say differently. Sit, Thegn. Have a drink.”
Anton pulled out a chair across the table for Sonya to take, then sat in the one next to her, sweeping aside his cloak to free up his arms. “I am not a Thegn. Not anymore.”
“Aren’t you?”
“You can hardly be a Thegn if your House has been obliterated and burnt to the ground.” Two tankards of mead were delivered by a servant. “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” Sonya added.
Jarl Asger reclined in his seat—a very regal slouch, Sonya thought, with his chin balanced on his ringed hand. “But the question is, do you want to be Thegn?” Then, before Anton could speak, he added, “You’ve taken a wife?”
Sonya choked on her drink.
“Not quite,” Anton replied testily. “This is Sonya Marston.”
“Well met, woman.”
“How do you do, sir?”
“Good. I am Jarl Asger, the Livid. Allow me to introduce my wife, Fru Narangerel.”
The woman bowed her head, a graceful, practiced motion. “Welcome to Vidarheim, Sonya Marston. How are you finding our realm?”
“Oh, it’s lovely. Austere, yes, but beautiful. I’m looking forward to seeing more of it.”
While Sonya and Narangerel shared chat about the islands, notably straying from any mention of the weather, Anton and Asger continued to stare at each other, unflinching. Finally, Anton broke and spoke first. “I am not here for what you assume. I do not wish to be your Thegn.”
“No? You have loftier aims, then? Your request for counsel mentioned Calder.”
“I do not want to head seidmadr, either.”
If Sonya wasn’t mistaken, something like disappointment flickered in Asger’s eye, and he shared a brief, telling look with his wife. “ Nei ?” he answered. “Then what is this about, Light-Hand?”
“It is about Sonya.” Anton lowered his gaze to his untouched tankard for a moment, his mouth working over silent words as he arranged his thoughts. “Calder is her v?rdr.”
Again, Asger and Narangeral shared a knowing look, and it lingered with the heavy pretense of knowledge unshared as if they understood more than what had been said. “And?”
“She is a product of his negligence. That I sit here at all is proof of how he has failed to maintain his duties as head seidmadr. The prison wards are failing, he and his team failed to fully clean up a potential information leak—leaving Sonya and another to become aptrgangr . Sonya escaped that fate, but the other was not so lucky and was left to freely wander into civilization! The Albians would not have been happy had I not happened upon the creature first!”
Asger remained silent, thoughtful, as Anton’s voice rose.
“Gods, man, the storms! That he has been allowed to rage unchecked in his tantrums is indefensible!”
“And?”
“ And?! What do you mean, ‘and—?!’ ”
Asger held up his large hand, forestalling Anton’s next outburst. “And why are you bringing this to me? Make no mistake, if you wish to continue belonging with the draugar here—with my people—it is your duty to report crimes against the realm, but you claim you are not here in quest of his position. So why are you here?”
Anton took a breath, and then another, calming himself. “Because Calder has refused Sonya his blood.”
Both Asger and Narangeral recoiled as if Anton had said something rude, Narangeral covering part of her face with a slender hand.
“I wish for you to change his mind, Jarl.”
Recovering himself, Asger grumbled and glanced between the pair—then slowly shook his head, Sonya’s heart clenching in her chest. “ Nei. I cannot. As distasteful as it is, the bylaws state no ward can be forced upon a v?rdr if the blood is refused. It is his choice.”
Anton slammed his hand on the table, the tankards jumping. “ Fuck the bylaws!” he snapped. “It also states you can’t murder a Jarl, but you handled that just fine , didn’t you?”
“Cool your head, boy!” Asger rose, and so did Anton, the former leaning forward with his hands braced upon the table’s edge, his expression hard. “I’m going to tell you something, Light-Hand. You’re not going to like it, but you’re going to hear it, and you’re going to listen. You seem to think I left you in that prison because you were Eerika’s boy and I bear you some grudge, but that’s a load of horse shit—and you know it, even if you don’t want to admit it. You got left there because I cannot overturn the orders of a previous Jarl!”
Anton froze. Blood leached from his face slowly, and then all at once, his head jerking in negation. “No,” he retorted. “ No . It was Calder . It was—.”
“Aye, Calder did the deed and put you away, but it was her signature on the order.”
“ Why? I cannot believe this ridiculous—.”
“Because that woman you idolize and defend was a shit leader and shit v?rdr. Because she wanted Radu dead just as much as the next man and refused to name a successor for head seidmadr. Because she needed you quiet and obedient and found you more to her taste when shut away in the dark.”
A sickly green pallor overtook Anton, and Sonya worried he may sick up all over the table. She took one of his clammy hands in her own, and he allowed it at first, giving her fingers a squeeze, then he dropped it. Without a word, he sketched a hasty, distracted bow to the Jarl and his wife, and then bolted for the door, leaving Sonya behind.
Sighing, she rose to her feet. She flattered herself in thinking her intuition rather keen, and it hadn’t been wrong about Jarl Eerika. She had not been a good person. “Excuse us, please.”
Asger nodded. “Go after him, kona . He’ll be fine, in time.”
Sonya found Anton had not gone far; he stood in the next room in the blazing light of the great hearth, his head turned to a figure who leaned in the mantel’s shadow. Calder’s lips stretched in a toothy, derisive grin as he took in the sight of Anton and Sonya barging out of the audience chamber, clearly upset. He laughed.
“Your meeting didn’t go the way you thought it would, brother ?” he mocked. “How disappointing.”
“We’ve nothing to say to each other,” Anton hissed. “Unless you wish to give Sonya your blood, do not say a word to me.”
“I told you already I would give it blood if you handed it over.” Calder uncrossed his arms, black cloak rippling, and extended an indolent arm. “Well? Where are its collar and leash?”
Anton sniffed, silver eyes glittering with contempt, and continued from the hall. Calder watched him go.
“Hmph,” he grunted upon spotting Sonya still in the firelight, waiting. For a moment, he looked uncertain and surprised, as if he had expected her to linger and didn’t know what to say now that she had. “Well, well. Look at you. I hope you’re enjoying being Anton’s little pet. Hopefully he’ll tire of you soon and quit this farce.”
Sonya raised her chin.
“You’ve limited options in front of you, after all. I can see you’re running out of time. Either you die, or Anton throws you to me, and who knows how I’ll feel at that point? I don’t like a well-used cunt.”
Sonya said nothing, ignoring his use of vulgarities, having heard worse in pubs before. Really, it was quite juvenile, and clearly her lack of response enraged the lamentable man.
“Well? Does it have anything to say?”
At length, Sonya stated, “You looked at me with pity.”
Whatever he expected her to respond with, it hadn’t been that. Calder’s snide expression faltered, his mouth opening and closing as if not entirely certain he’d heard her correctly. “What?” he demanded.
“In the highlands, when you sunk your teeth into me,” Sonya explained, her voice level and patient as if speaking to a child. “There was pity in your face when you dropped me. It wasn’t enough to save me, but it was there. Your words and actions suggest you believe in this peculiar, human-hating agenda, but I don’t think you do. You try very, very hard to be—calling me an ‘ it’ at every turn—but your efforts are transparent.”
“How dare—.”
“I find it more pathetic you think it necessary to pretend in such bigotry for whatever image you’re trying to maintain, and I must ask myself whether it is more cowardly to actually be intolerant or to imagine yourself so.”
“You know nothing !” he shouted, and the echo of his dismay bounced off the stone walls. “Nothing!”
“As you say.”
Calder may have snarled something else, but Sonya had turned away, uninterested in listening, and followed Anton into the rain.