Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-one
Eadlyn took a steaming mug of tea from Alys, cradling it in both hands.
Chamomile and willow bark wafted into the air, comforting but slightly bitter.
She carried it to where Aevar sat near the central hearth.
The glow of the fire wavered across his face, casting shadows that exaggerated the pallor of his skin.
He shifted at her approach, a grimace tightening his features.
This was not the first time she’d caught him wincing today. Lord, let this bring him relief.
She held out the mug. He accepted it, a whisper of gratitude softening the fatigue in his eyes. “Tahk.”
He took a sip and released a slow breath.
Eadlyn settled into the chair beside him and gathered the remaining pages of Scripture she’d been reading aloud.
She’d offered it as a distraction from the pain and the heaviness that had settled over the household like a veil.
For two hours, they’d read together in quiet companionship.
She hoped some words had reached Inga and Ranvi too.
“Would you like me to read more?” she asked, eyeing how he clutched the mug.
They were just about through the collection she’d brought with her from Essix.
She hoped to write to Edward as soon as possible and ask for the missing books.
Anything to continue what had become a cherished ritual between them.
“It will soon be time to eat…and then we must gather to light the first pyres.” He offered a wan smile, but pain left grooves in his forehead. “Perhaps later.”
She gathered the pages, a knot forming in her throat. As she carried them back to their room, the longhouse pressed in around her, heavier than it had all day. As if the weight of the dead hung in the beams and rafters.
Dinner passed in subdued murmurs. Aevar only picked at his food. Eadlyn watched from the corner of her eye, her own appetite waning with every shallow breath he took.
Dusk had draped itself over the village by the time they gathered at the forest’s edge.
The huskarls flanked them in silence, torchlight flickering on grim faces.
Villagers followed in a solemn procession.
Six pyres stood waiting with the bodies of the fallen laid atop them and surrounded by tokens of their lives.
Blades rested in the hands of the warriors, polished one last time.
Aevar had explained that, once burned, the ashes would be scattered over the fjord or buried in memorial mounds.
Runar stepped forward, his voice low and reverent.
He praised the fallen, calling them brave, worthy, and welcomed by the gods into Valhalla.
But Eadlyn’s heart pained to hear it. She bowed her head and prayed.
For the souls of the living. For the lost to find the truth.
And for God to provide the opportunity for her to be a light to them.
When Runar finished, the families stepped forward, torches trembling in their hands.
Flames touched the edges of the pyres and then rose in a consuming roar.
Burning wood and cloth filled the damp night air, the acrid heat brushing Eadlyn’s skin and clogging her lungs.
Sobs rose around her. Her chest ached at the sound.
It could have been Aevar lying on one of those pyres or someone else from her family.
She turned to take his hand, but her breath caught.
Aevar was swaying.
Before she could reach for him, he staggered. Kian caught his arm just in time to keep him from collapsing.
“I’m all right,” Aevar muttered, his breath uneven.
“You’re not.” Kian pressed the back of his hand to Aevar’s forehead. His expression darkened. “You’re burning up.”
“It’s the fires.” Aevar tried to shrug him off.
Kian snorted, though the sound lacked humor. “Not unless you’ve been roasting your brain over one.”
Aevar didn’t argue further. He just closed his eyes as if even staying upright was more than he could manage.
Inga stepped in with firm guidance. “Let’s get you back to the longhouse.”
He gave a weak protest before stumbling again. Erik moved to his other side, and together he and Kian half-carried him away from the pyres. Eadlyn followed close, her heart pounding at a frantic pace against her ribs.
Halfway there, Aevar lurched forward and vomited into the dirt. The harsh sound tore through Eadlyn, and she clutched her stomach, bile rising in sympathy. Lord, I don’t know what is wrong, but please let him be all right. No one spoke, but Eadlyn sensed the growing fear surrounding her.
Back at the longhouse, she rushed ahead to their room, flinging back the bedding with shaking hands. She turned as they brought him in.
Aevar tried to resist. “No. It’s your bed.”
She ignored him, and Kian and Erik eased him down, guiding his sagging form to the edge of the mattress.
“I need to see the wound,” Inga said, her voice clipped but steady.
Eadlyn stepped in to help, peeling away his damp tunic. Her breath caught when the bandages fell. The wound was inflamed, angry red streaks spreading far beyond the original cut.
Inga’s gaze flicked to her, then to the others. “We need the healer. Now.”
“I’ll get her,” Braan said, already moving.
They lowered Aevar back against the pillows. Sweat beaded on his skin.
“How did it get bad so quickly?” Eadlyn whispered against the dryness in her throat.
She didn’t like the grim look on Inga’s face.
“Some Kalgorans poison their blades.”
The word struck Eadlyn like a blow. Poison. “Is there anything that can be done?”
“We’ll see what the healer says.” But Inga’s eyes gave her away, dark with concern and something far too close to fear.
Minutes crawled by before Braan returned. The woman who stepped in behind him was older than Inga, her face deeply lined and her hair entirely gray. A basket hung from the crook of her arm, the air around her thick with crushed herbs.
Eadlyn stepped aside, though her attention never left Aevar. The rest of the family lingered near the door as the healer worked, but Aevar’s eyes kept drifting closed. His strength seemed to bleed away with every passing moment.
When the healer finished, she handed Inga a small pot and a pouch. “Salve for the wound. Tea to cool the fever. As much as he can drink. I’ll return in the morning.”
Eadlyn stepped forward, desperate for hope. “Will he be all right?”
The healer paused, her attention lingering on Aevar’s pale, sweat-drenched face.
“He is strong,” she said at last. “The gods will decide.”
Eadlyn clenched her hands.
No. Not the gods.
God would decide.
Eadlyn slumped in the chair beside Aevar’s bed, her spine stiff with fatigue and her hands chilled despite the fever heat that poured off him in relentless waves. The air was thick with the sour stench of sweat and sickness, like something that didn’t belong in the world of the living.
He hadn’t spoken for hours. They’d managed to get a little of the healer’s tea into him, coaxing his lips to part while he drifted somewhere far beyond reach.
But nothing stayed down. Every attempt had ended in gut-wrenching heaving—violent, wracking tremors that left him gasping and the wound bleeding again.
The sight of fresh blood had turned Eadlyn’s stomach.
The last time his eyes opened, they’d been glassy and unfocused. Before that, the fevered muttering had turned into restless thrashing. He’d called out names—Thora’s at first, and then hers. When she had taken his hand and whispered she was there, he had quieted.
Now he lay still. Too still.
His skin burned beneath her fingers, the heat of his fever seeping into her like a wildfire she couldn’t smother. Her prayers had long since turned from murmured words to silent, breathless pleading, repeated again and again in her mind.
Please, God. Please. Don’t take him. Not like this. Not now.
Beside her, Inga moved with purpose, dipping a cloth into the basin and pressing it to Aevar’s forehead. They’d taken turns through the night, replacing that cloth and whispering encouragements that felt like lies. It was like trying to douse a blaze with a thimble.
The hours blurred together. By the time the light of morning crept into the room, Eadlyn’s body ached as if she’d sat vigil for many days already. Voices stirred outside the room. A moment later, Runar appeared in the doorway.
Sleeplessness shadowed his eyes as he stood at the foot of the bed, staring down at his son in silence before turning to Inga. “Any improvement?”
She shook her head, yet her voice carried a brittle hope. “No. But he kept down a little of the tea.”
Runar gave a single, curt nod. “Good.”
Inga rose, stretching her back with a groan. “I will see to breakfast.” She rested her weary gaze on Eadlyn. “I’ll bring you something when it is finished.”
Eadlyn glanced up at her. “Thank you, but I don’t think I can eat right now.”
The fear that had taken root inside her the moment Aevar stumbled at the funeral still hadn’t let go. It left no space for hunger.
Inga laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I will return shortly.”
One by one, the daylight hours dragged by.
With each, Eadlyn prayed for the fever to break, but it remained high.
Aevar grew restless again at times, and at others he shivered uncontrollably.
Though various members of the family took turns sitting with him, Eadlyn only left his side to see to her most pressing needs.
She dreaded another long night but had no power to stop the day from passing.
When Inga left again for the evening meal, Eadlyn still declined food.
Alone once more, she slid her chair closer to the bed. She took his hand, threading her fingers through his, aching for a response. Even the slightest twitch.
None came.