Chapter 33 #2
While he’s distracted, I murmur to Koppar, “On the subject of House Thorn… What are your thoughts on Freyja’s Daughters?”
The smith master’s easygoing demeanor grows as callused as his large hands. “I think they’re dangerous and cruel. Not all of them, of course. I’m talking about the ruling families. I’ve heard rumors that they organize a yearly contest called the Ragnarok Trials. Can you imagine? Ragnarok.”
He shudders as he repeats the name of the fated day every creature on Isrike fears more than their own death—the end of the world.
Little does he realize he’s piqued my interest. “What do the trials consist of?”
“Combats against giants, trolls, and other monsters come straight from Jotunheimr.”
I reconsider my interest. “Why would anyone compete?”
“Winners become Empress-touched.”
All ambient noise fades as Koppar’s words take root, blossoming into a thing akin to hope. Empress-touched. One of my many dreams.
“So far, there’s never been a victor, only victims,” he murmurs. “Hundreds compete, Zaskja. Hundreds perish. Year after year. And it’s been held for several centuries. Can you imagine how many fools have perished for magic?”
“If you hadn’t been born with magic, then perhaps you too would foolishly find these trials alluring.”
He scrutinizes my expression, then my tapered ears. “You best swear to me that you will never compete, or help me, Fenrir, I will fashion you a cell next.” Under his breath, he adds, “If your mother doesn’t murder me for speaking about valkyries first, that is.”
As his words trickle between my temples, I say, “Don’t worry. I value living too much.”
Not a complete lie. Also, not the whole truth.
“Besides, I’m still convinced Fenrir will come around and give me magic.” That part’s a lie. Obviously.
“Well, if it isn’t my mate-to-be,” comes a slimy voice that makes every hair on my body stand on end. “Hello, my little Flower.”
His pet name broils my insides and makes me want to commit Jarlicide. Two Jarlicides. How na?ve I was to assume that Ulf would meet both my demands.
“Varganson,” Vanoo all but snarls the Ravine Alpha’s name.
“Oh, I wasn’t talking to you, big guy.” Havrik hoots.
I turn around, and although my massive guard blocks most of my view, I still see far too much of the loathed Ravine and his two devotees. The black-haired one sneers, while the towering blond peers at me with such scathing contempt, I bet he’s picturing peeling the skin off my bones with his teeth.
The meadow has gone so quiet that I can hear the roasting meat sizzle over the flames. I can also hear my mother’s hurried advance.
“My brother and I asked you to leave. We asked nicely. Yet you linger, Varganson.” Fury sets the golden flecks in Mor’s eyes ablaze.
“I only linger out of gallantry,” Havrik says. “It would be rude of me to leave without greeting my future mate.”
I stare hard at my uncle, who just stands there, observing the scene as though curious to see how it’ll play out.
“My daughter will never be your mate!” Mor plants herself beside Vanoo, blotting out more of the Jarl.
And then she whips out her hand and seizes Havrik’s throat, jostling the layered gold chains weighing down his neck.
“Lea-ve.” She decomposes her injunction into two clipped syllables.
His flunkies burst into fur and close in around their leader, forcing my mother to release Havrik and fall back a step. I catch Mor’s elbow to steady her.
“I see where my Flower gets her personality.” Havrik rubs his neck, a smarmy smirk toying at the corner of his lips. Mor opens her mouth, surely to reiterate her directive, when Havrik all but purrs, “If it isn’t the prodigal son returning from his hunt.”
I spin around so fast I almost lose my footing.
Nordin’s home!
I want to run to him and jump into his arms.
But I can’t.
Not yet.
His stare drinks in my face, my throat, my chest, my slung arm before swerving toward his father. After a very long beat, he finally gives the enemy Jarl his full attention and closes the distance with measured strides.
“Did Skarnir and his pets give you a hard time, Stormsson?” Havrik taunts as his two wolves bleed back into skin.
Nordin reaches me, his hand skimming my waist before curling around it. My pulse scatters like the opals on my desk, the day he kissed me. He drags me behind him, then lets go.
“Isn’t crashing parties beneath a Jarl, Varganson?” Nordin’s tone is so flat it could drive a screw through metal.
Heinous Havrik’s thin face puffs with a smile that creeps into his muddy-green eyes. “I came to check on who’d volunteered to become my bride. I suppose I did give Ulf a month, and there are still two days left until the deadline. What can I say? I’m an impatient man.”
“Like we’ve told you—more than once—you will never marry into our family,” Mor snipes.
“Except I always get what I want. Since I prefer blonds—no offense, Eira—I’ll take Zaskja.”
Nordin cracks his knuckles. “Try to, and it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.”
Havrik tilts his head. “I suppose I could be persuaded to swap marriage for a lock of your hair, shorn at the root with a silver blade.”
“No!” I shrill in time with Sigrid. At least we can agree on something.
Havrik sweeps his tongue over his teeth. “Then marriage, it’ll be.”
“She’s not even of age, you vile hog,” Mor snaps.
“Wolf. I’m not of the porcine species. As for her age… I expected you’d try to use it to dissuade me, so I took the liberty of sending Karn to your longhouse to check the Vales’ beam of life. I wanted to understand how long you all expected me to wait.”
The blood deserts my veins, and I swing my attention toward Ulf. This can’t be the reason he changed my birth year, can it? I give my head a firm shake, refusing to believe my uncle could be that twisted.
A small voice reminds me: He tried to kill you.
My chaotic pulse prevents me from hearing the rest of what the Ravine Alpha has to say. It doesn’t stop me from spotting the absolute horror whitewashing Mor’s face, or the anger vibrating Nordin’s shoulders.
“Home, Zaskja. Go home now.” Mor’s tone is so icy that it freezes my squirming insides.
I back away from her, from the grinning Jarl, from my gaping pack. Pinning my arm to my chest to keep it from jostling, I run. My legs take me beyond my house and halfway up the flank of the valley, to my opal cave.
Funny that this is the place my consciousness chooses to wait out the brewing storm below. Then again, mining has always taken my mind off the world in the past.
I slip inside and sidle against the rough stone, then sink to the cold ground and let my head fall back. When Havrik’s gleeful stare develops against my clasped lids, I pry my eyes wide and watch the cavern’s entrance, wondering which werewolf will come for me. Nordin? My mother? Saga? All three?
I get my answer a long while later when a mammoth male fades the moonless world beyond.