Chapter 7
Isweep a gloved finger over the serrated edge of my wooden dagger, then flip it over to feel the smooth edge. I check the handle next. Though slight and practically weightless in this form, once cast in silver, every particle will matter.
I grip my drawknife and drag it down the scoops of the hilt, creating little corkscrews that drop onto the worktable.
Once I’ve removed all I can, I file the grain down to a mirror polish and give my carving another thorough once-over.
I’m almost reluctant to reduce it to cinders, but silver is too soft to be forged in dragon-fire, so I’ll need to make a mold of my wooden masterpiece.
I decide it’s done, and that any more smoothing will happen after casting. As I stretch my arms and neck, reveling in the soft crack of my bones, I rise from my stool and traipse over to one of the shelves to gather my materials—pulverized sand, clay, and whale fat.
I warm the latter in a pan, careful not to let it boil. Beads of sweat glide down my brow as I stand beside the furnace, keeping an eye on the white cubes. The instant they’ve liquefied, I drizzle it over the mixture of fine sand and finer clay.
And then I stir. Pour more binding agent. Stir again. Once my paste is as smooth as warmed butter, I pour it into the readied drag. Unlike during summer, when molds take almost a whole night to harden, in winter, a few minutes exposed to the glacial air does the trick.
I hoist the drag into my arms just as a chill permeates the air, cooling the sweat on my skin.
Since Koppar—the master blacksmith who taught me everything I know about forging—mentioned taking two full weeks off to celebrate the holidays with Astrid and his newborn triplets, I assume my visitor must be Saga, or possibly Mor, with some food, since I often forget to eat when I’m working.
A sideways glance reveals I’m wrong. My jaw tightens, and so do my arms, which upsets the leveled casting sand. It was quixotic of me to think I wouldn’t cross paths with Nordin until my departure.
Without uttering a word, I trudge past him and out the forge’s door. Though loath to return inside, I left my cloak behind. I’m not cold yet, but since I’m not a shifter, my body temperature will plummet in minutes and stiffen my fingers, rendering them useless, so I stalk back inside.
“Don’t touch that,” I snap when I catch him inspecting my wooden dagger.
His imposing shape broadens and sharpens in the glow of the oil lanterns.
I lean against the wall of the forge and cross my arms in an attempt to seem unfazed by his visit. “If you came to commission a weapon for your future mate, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until the end of Myrknótt. Koppar would be much affronted not to make it himself.”
Nordin’s lids twitch. “How long will your tetchiness last?”
I give him a noncommittal shrug. “Who knows? If I were you, though, I’d keep my distance. Anyway, Koppar should be back after Myrk—”
“I didn’t come here to see him; I came here to see you.”
I plant my boot on the wall. “Well, you wasted your time. I’m not interested in salvaging our friendship.”
“Friendship?” He scoffs, taking a step toward me.
I narrow my gaze. “Stay where you are.”
He stops midstep, studying me as though this new version were wholly unfamiliar. “So what’s the plan, Zas? You’re going to throw away fifteen years of shared history because I can’t reciprocate your feelings?”
“I’m only following your lead.”
Irritation ripples across his features.
“If you came to smooth things over or to apologize, don’t bother.”
Nordin’s irises take on a fierce glow in the gloom. “Apologize?”
“You torched my fucking heart, Nord!”
His Adam’s apple judders in his corded throat. I’m glad to see he’s feeling a tad contrite.
“I’ll recover in time, but that time will not be today. Might not be this year. So please keep your distance until—”
“Here.” He digs something out of the pocket of his fur cloak. Something made of brown leather and trimmed in fur. “Merry Júl.” He keeps the gloves held aloft, waiting for me to step forward and relieve him of them.
I don’t push off the wall, the same way I don’t unbind my arms. “Mor already gave me a new pair.” It’s a lie, but I don’t want his pity present. “So I’m all set. But thanks.”
A nerve feathers his jaw as his gaze drops to the patchy leather presently ensconcing my fingers. “Well, now, you’ll have two new pairs.”
“That would be wasteful. I’m sure someone else in the pack needs gloves. Especially since this winter is of the utmost brutality.”
That snaps whatever restraint Nordin had been clinging to. “Fucking set down your pride and take the gloves!”
Fine. I walk over and pinch them from his fingers, and then I stride toward the fire and toss them inside, giving them the same fate as my journals.
The treacly scent of burning pelt punches up my nose and turns my stomach. I concentrate on breathing solely through my mouth until the dragon-fire finishes consuming them.
Fury carves up Nordin’s expression, not only harshening his temper but also his scent. Both lash at me. Instead of nauseating or frightening, though, the ability to cause him any sort of frustration fills me with horrid delight.
Who is this woman I’m becoming? This vengeful, petty harridan?
As I travel back toward the door to grab my mold, I think of the valkyrie tales spoken around the firepit in the longhouse. The elders had described the Empresses—the Twelve—as coldhearted furies. Was my act of retaliation spurred by some inherited trait?
What am I going on about? Nordin has made me this way, not these ancestors I’ve yet to meet.
“That was extraordinarily childish, Zas,” he erupts, stalking out of the forge after me.
“Were you expecting anything else from a child?” I press a finger against the packed sand, testing its consistency.
The distinct crack of bones resounds in the inert evening air. I don’t look away from the metal drag I’ve scooped up to check if Nordin has shape-shifted or is merely popping his knuckles. I don’t care how he feels at the moment.
He doesn’t trail me back inside, but he also doesn’t leave. I can feel him linger on the threshold.
I can smell him.
I might not be a wolf, but my senses are almost as keen as one.
With surprisingly steady fingers, I place my whittled dagger on the soggy surface, then fit the cope atop. Through a narrow opening, I siphon in the remaining casting material.
Once no more penetrates, I seize the hammer and wallop the mold. My strokes are brisk and powerful, fueled by the destruction of my journals and the demise of my first crush. Soon, the mold is in place, and I carry it to the kiln.
Although it needs to bake overnight, I dally in the forge, working on bits and baubles of a bracelet I’m fashioning for Mor and a necklace I’m making Saga, mementos that I hope will soften the blow of my departure.
In addition to the jewelry, I’ve drafted a letter to explain my reason for leaving, as well as a promise to return. I intend to hide my farewell package inside Saga’s trunk, so no one comes across it until after Myrknótt.
As I shape miniature prongs to set the Isriken opals I collected with her yesterday, I go over the list of all I need for a successful getaway:
a map of Isrike (I copied the one hanging in the longhouse into my new journal)
a bunch of arrows tipped in gold (to keep the vampyrs away. And the dragons, even though any metal can pierce their underbelly)
my gold-and-silver dagger
flint and steel to start fires
smoked whale meat and dry porridge (which, if rationed accurately, should last me until I reach Ljosam?r)
gold jewels and opals to trade (all already sewn inside the lining of my fur cloak)
a needle and much thread for repairs
twine
a canteen full of clean water to drink
a bladder of deer urine to camouflage my scent from shifter noses
I’m ready.
When I get home, I find Mor fixing a tear in my wool stockings. I’d left them out on my bed, intending to patch them up before slumber.
“You didn’t have to do that.” I pluck my soiled gloves off my fingers, realizing they too will need much mending before my voyage. “But I appreciate it.”
Her eyes come to rest on my cheeks, which are surely streaked with soot, before lowering to my gloves. “I feel like I never have any time to take care of you these days.”
“Your guilt is entirely unfounded.” As I hang my coat on the peg by the door and toe off my boots, I paste on a smile that’ll, hopefully, soften her irrational self-reproach.
“I went to the well and filled the bath, and then to the longhouse for food.” She nods to a metal plate heaped with roasted meat and root vegetables.
My stomach gurgles violently. Before eating, though, I make my way to the bath, already unfastening my belt.
I pull off my brown dress, then the linen sheath beneath, and heap them into the laundry pot, giving them a quick stir with our giant wooden spoon, then stuff my stockings and knickers on top and close the lid.
Although the hides draped along the walls and fanned across the floor usually work wonders on keeping our home toasty, even they are powerless in the dead of winter. Crossing my arms over my chest for warmth, I hurry into the tub that steams thanks to the stones carried from the hearth.
“When did you eat last?” Mor asks, setting down her sewing.
“This morning.” When consternation strikes her features, I hurry to add, “But I had an extra serving of porridge.”
Her remorse deepens the puckered lines framing her eyes and mouth.
“Stop, Mor. You’re not failing me. You’re the absolute best mother I could ever have wished for.” I lay my head back on the brim and sigh with contentment. Gods, I will miss warm baths during my trek to the South. “I’m just terrible at remembering to feed myself when I’m working on a project.”
“What project are you working on now?”
“A dagger,” I say. I don’t volunteer that it’s made of silver, since forging silver requires a permit delivered by one’s Alpha. I don’t have one.
“Who makes you feel like you need a dagger?”
“No one.” I keep my lids sealed to avoid eye contact. “It’s to trade for some new gloves and anything else we might need. Like soap. I meant to get a fresh bar.”
When I hear the bench legs creak, I unseal my lids.
“I took care of that on the way home, since I imagined Klaudia’s shelves would be looted come morning.” Mor is walking over to me, her fingers working the paper off a small package.
“Looted? Are we expecting a delegation of Ravines to visit?” I ask, reaching out for the thick bar Mor extends.
She rumples her nose. “Hopefully not, but seeing as Nordin has officially agreed to marry Nika, I’m assuming many will visit Klaudia’s store to rub their hides with more than pine cones for your cousin’s nuptials.”
My heart lodges itself inside my throat, pounding against my leather choker and making my opal pendant tremble. “When did he decide?”
“He told Ulf tonight, right as I was leaving the longhouse.”
Intent on keeping my mother from witnessing the last fragments of my heart shattering, I move my gaze to the soap that bobs in my shaking fingers.
I submerge my hands and rub the creamy stick against my body.
I will her stare to stop pacing over my face.
Will her body to pivot and return to her sewing.
“Are you all right, darling?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” My reply escapes in too much of a rush. “I’m just surprised.”
I’m not. Not really. What I am is devastated and disheartened. I expected it, but expecting and accepting are two very different things.
I smooth the hurt from my features. “I mean, who in their right mind wants Havrik as their enemy?”
“Nika rejected him, Zaskja. When one rejects their true mate, it destroys the bond.” She exhales deeply. “Don’t fret. There’s no reason for Havrik to take it out on Nordin.”
“Guess we’ll find out soon enough. When are they—” I swallow, incapable of getting the words out. “When?”
“The celebration will take place on the first day of Second Moon.”
Next month.
I rub the bar vigorously against my collarbone.
Celebration.
Fucking celebration.
I’ve never hated a word more. At least I’ll be long gone by then.
I toss the bar onto the little stool beside the tub, then sluice water over my sudsy skin. “Is he waiting until after Myrknótt in case Fenrir decides to give him a last-minute mate?”
“Possibly.” She shrugs. “Though he hasn’t attended Myrknótt in a couple of years, so who knows?”
He does.
“I stopped going around his age as well. It becomes tiresome and a little disheartening to come home unmated year after year.” Her eyes glaze over, like when Ulf taps into the pack link to speak to all his wolves at once.
Except I don’t think it’s her brother’s voice that stole her away at the moment.
“Not something I’ll ever know…” I drone.
She pulls in a deep breath, clicks her lashes, then bends her lips. “Be glad for it.”
Someday, maybe. But tonight, all I feel is encroaching dejection.
“Anyway, Ulf and Nordin planned on announcing the joyous news to the pack tomorrow night.”
There’s a bucking behind my ribs. “Will Nika be present for the grand reveal?”
“I presume she’ll return, but I’m not certain.”
If only I could leave tonight.