Chapter Twelve
Mead flowed freely, filling the air with laughter as the evening stretched on.
Alys and the other thralls wove through the crowd to refill horns and mugs.
Aevar kept a watchful eye, ensuring no one forgot themselves.
No hands straying, no roughness, or harassment toward the girls.
Some might grumble, but everyone knew Fathir’s thralls were off-limits.
Satisfied for the moment, he took a long drink from his horn, savoring the sweet mead Móthir and Ranvi had prepared. It settled warmly in his chest and chased away the chill that lingered from the tense council meeting earlier.
He scanned the hall, finding Staegar sulking in a corner with those who tolerated him.
His expression was all hard lines and bitter resentment.
He had made his objections clear, but the majority of the jarls had agreed the alliance was in the best interest of Nordra.
Those less favorable ultimately decided to give it a chance.
Staegar’s acceptance—or lack thereof—no longer mattered.
Aevar found Sig next. The dunga lurked across the hall, worming his way into a group that no doubt wished he’d find somewhere else to spoil with his presence.
At least he was well away from Eadlyn. Aevar looked to where she sat beside Ranvi at the head table reserved for family.
Satisfied she was under no immediate threat, he worked his way toward the front of the hall, weaving through the noisy crush of bodies.
Near the doors, a loud group of men had gathered around a barrel of ale.
Kian and Braan stood by, watching with amusement as Ulf and Skolli—two of Aevar’s cousins—prepared to square off in a drinking contest.
The moment Ulf spotted him, he waved Aevar over, sloshing ale from his mug. “Join us!”
Aevar shook his head. He’d had enough of the rowdy games tonight. Better to stay sharp, especially with so many guests—and grudges—packed under one roof.
He leaned against a pillar, watching as Ulf’s opponents, Skolli and a jarl’s son, downed their ale with reckless speed.
Skolli’s face flushed crimson as he choked mid-swallow, while the jarl’s son, already swaying, collapsed in defeat.
Ulf threw back his head and roared in triumph, arms raised like a conquering hero.
Aevar chuckled under his breath but let his gaze drift again toward the tables.
The seat beside Ranvi was empty.
Prickles crawled along the back of his neck, and he swept the hall.
The tables, the hearth, the clusters of men by the walls held no sign of her.
His heart picked up pace. Sig was still making himself unwelcome where he’d been before.
Staegar remained slouched in his corner, brooding into his drink.
Neither seemed in a position to cause trouble, but where was Eadlyn?
A band of unease pulled tight across his ribs. He squeezed back through the crowd to Ranvi and bent low to speak to her over the din. “Where’s Eadlyn?”
She looked up with a knowing smile. “She asked if she could retire to your room for the night.”
Aevar breathed out, the knot in his chest easing but not vanishing entirely.
“She’s all right?” he pressed, scanning Ranvi’s face for any hint that might betray otherwise.
“She’s fine. Just tired, I think. It’s been a long day. A lot for her to take in.”
Aevar straightened. Though there was no true cause for concern, the strange, persistent pull to check on her remained, gnawing at the edges of his mind.
The hum of voices and laughter from the feast still seeped through the walls, but the closed door softened the noise enough for Eadlyn to focus on the Scriptures.
She’d done her best to withstand it, but the crowded hall and the rowdy behavior had left her suffocating.
She hoped stepping away helped, though a small part of her still worried she had made a mistake by withdrawing so early. Ranvi had understood, at least.
Now, as she read, the tension in her body loosened. Her breathing steadied despite how the dull roar from beyond the door still left her on edge.
The door creaked open, and her heart jumped into her throat. She spun in her seat, but relief flooded through her when Aevar stepped inside.
He paused, scanning her face as if searching for something unseen. Concern darkened his eyes. “Are you all right?”
Eadlyn nodded, offering a small, apologetic smile. “Yes.”
“Were you not enjoying the feast?”
She hesitated, weighing her words. After seeing how much effort went into the festivities and what it meant to the Nords, she didn’t want to offend anyone, especially Inga and Ranvi. “I just needed space.”
Aevar’s expression softened, as though sensing more beneath the surface. “I’m sorry if you noticed anyone talking about you or looking at you oddly. Most are only curious. They mean no offense.”
“That’s to be expected. It doesn’t bother me.” At least not much. Even back in Kenwich, she was used to whisperings behind her back. Coming from her own people cut deeper than it did here. “That’s not why I left.”
He tilted his head. “May I ask why?”
Eadlyn drew a slow breath. Though she had reconciled with the past, the sight of drunken revelry still stirred something in her. “The drinking…it makes me uncomfortable.”
Aevar shrugged, a small, matter-of-fact gesture. “Drinking is part of feasting.”
“I know.” She paused. Though they were still strangers in so many ways, he was her husband. He deserved the truth. “It’s just that…my father drank more than he should have, and when he did, that’s when he was at his worst.”
She caught herself touching the scar on her lips.
Aevar must have too. He stilled, his jaw tightening. “He did that to you?”
“Yes.” She kept herself emotionless, refusing to let the memories hold power over her.
“Then he is lucky he is already dead.” His voice held a protective, almost vengeful edge. The tone surprised her, an unexpected shift from the distant and controlled mask she was used to.
Aevar pushed away from the door and crossed the room to lean against the wall opposite her, arms folding across his chest. “How did he die?”
The memory of that day came to her. It had been snowing—the first snow of the season—and she’d returned from a walk in the courtyard.
Her father had ambushed her on her way in, shouting drunkenly about something she didn’t even recall now before storming off.
She’d heard his stumbling steps echoing down the hallway, followed by a loud crash.
“He’d been drinking all morning. He fell down the stairs at the palace and hit his head. He never woke up and died three days later.”
Aevar absorbed the information in silence.
A sudden roar of laughter from the feast outside broke the stillness, and Eadlyn flinched despite herself.
“So that’s why,” she said, gesturing toward the door, “I prefer to leave when the drink flows too freely.”
“I understand.” Aevar’s voice was quiet now, an anger still simmering beneath the surface. He glanced at the Scripture pages. “Does your Holy Book say anything about drinking?”
Interesting he asked that. “It does. ‘Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.’ How can you oppose evil if you’re too drunk or distracted to notice it?”
“There is wisdom in that.” Aevar paused for a moment, then asked, “What else does it say?”
“More than I could tell you in an evening.” She smoothed her fingers over the delicate pages before her. “There are thousands of years of history within Scripture, and this is only a portion of it.”
“Will you read it to me?”
She snapped her attention back to him. “You want me to read the Scriptures to you?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps I am curious why so many follow your God.”
“You’re not returning to the feast?”
“The guests think I have left to be with my wife. If I return, they will wonder why.”
She studied him. Was it the alcohol making him more open to her, or was he truly curious? He didn’t seem intoxicated, at least not to any discernible degree. Regardless, if he wanted to hear God’s Word, she wouldn’t deny him.
“All right.”
She shifted back to the parchments and turned to the front. She would start at the beginning with the story of Creation, and if he still wanted to hear more, they could go on to John and Romans.
Across the room, Aevar settled into his furs, getting comfortable as if he really meant to listen. She had not expected such a response, and she prayed this moment—this small opening—might be the beginning of something more.
Aevar finished buckling his belt, adjusting the sword and knife at his waist. There would be no violence today outside the competitions, but he would not go unarmed.
Not with Staegar’s bitterness still hanging heavy in the air and Sig’s predatory glances trailing Eadlyn like a wolf sizing up prey. Better safe than sorry.
Behind him, Eadlyn gathered her clothing. He looked over his shoulder at her. His mind drifted back to last night. The soft cadence of her voice as she read, the way her words wove a thread of calm even through the chaos beyond the walls. He hadn’t expected to be so intrigued, and yet…
He didn’t know what to make of her God, but curiosity tugged at him nonetheless. Maybe they would read again tonight. If she was willing.
Still, her devotion to her faith posed a complication. He turned toward her. “After breakfast, everyone will gather to offer sacrifices to the gods.”
She stilled mid-motion. Her gaze lifted to meet his, and hesitation tinged her voice. “Sacrifices?”
Aevar nodded, watching her closely. Unease crept into her features, but this was part of his world. He didn’t know how to navigate it any other way. “Animal sacrifices. Not human ones. Kalgora is the last to practice those.”
Some of the tightness eased from her posture, but uncertainty lingered thick between them. Her fingers curled around the fabric she held. “May I stay here?”