Chapter 38
Iawaken to rhythmic plinking.
It takes my eyesight a moment to adjust and grasp the source of the noise—not a scurrying rodent, but unrelenting raindrops.
Rain means spring, and spring means calmer seas, and calmer seas mean that Mor and I might soon set sail for Ljosam?r on the drakkar gifted to her by a jubilant new Fjord father. If Ulf lifts his little blockade.
My uncle has strictly forbidden Nika’s father from granting us access to his waterways. I’m surprised Ulf is so against our voyage, seeing as he’d get rid of me for good.
I suppose he objects because he’s not ready to part with his beloved sister. Or is it because Saga is so strongly opposed to it, and he doesn’t want to alienate his daughter? Especially considering his mate’s rocky relationship with both their children.
At least, Saga and Sigrid are on speaking terms. Unlike Nordin and Mor, who haven’t addressed my aunt since the night she cleared the dust on a buried secret.
It strikes me that I should probably be grateful.
Even if I didn’t appreciate her manner or my new reality, I prefer it to the dark of the last fifteen years.
As I ponder my dilapidated family tree, I roll my wrist, which is only slightly sore, thanks to Mor’s care and ointments. Unless I’ve healed faster than humans, thanks to my ancestry. Food for thought.
When the sky splashing Saga’s skylight silvers with dawn, I creep out from under the furs that have kept me warm for the past fortnight.
I might’ve forgiven my mother, but I haven’t gone home yet. I will. Eventually.
The only place I have gone to is the forge. I’ve started to gather supplies to build a new stinger. The thought of my old one has me throwing a wool overdress over my rumpled linen sheath, planting my feet in my worn boots, and draping a hooded, wool cloak over my shoulders.
Though little can rouse Saga from slumber, I gently unlatch her door and steal past it. For a long moment, I remain on her threshold, breathing in the world that I’ve shunned. Like me, it’s changed yet remained the same.
The wide, winding roads are still the same roads, but they’re now brown with mud instead of white with snow. Ochre grass dapples the narrow crop beds, and sap flushes the boughs of the millennial firs.
I tread down the quiet streets, gazing around me as though it were the first time and the last.
My fingers, which I’ve left bare, grow clammy from the damp air, my hair heavy with moisture, and my clothes sticky with rain. I drink in the crispness of the morning in great gulps, hoping to clear the stale darkness from more than my lungs.
When I reach the forge, I find Koppar already hunched over his workstation, hammering a blade that gleams like molten honey. I’m guessing a weapon for Nordin’s war.
I’m about to announce my presence when a soft wail resounds through the muggy air. Koppar sets down his tools and crouches to rock a crib from which peeks a single tiny face.
“What now, Julialill?” When his daughter doesn’t settle, he lifts her to his shoulder and strokes her back.
Julia’s face scrunches as though she were in great pain.
“What’s wrong, my little love?” he murmurs into her delicate peaked ear, bouncing her gently.
His daughter’s cries turn into strangled sobs.
He must finally sense me, for his head swivels. “Zaskja, hey.” His voice sounds the same way he looks—drained, like he hasn’t hit his cot in days.
“Morning, Koppar.” At the sound of my voice, little Julia stops crying and blinks wet, green eyes.
“Ah, the sound of silence… Astrid and I haven’t heard it in days.”
“Because of the pups?” I ask, approaching the father and daughter.
“Because of this little miss. I took her to work so that Astrid could rest.”
Julia swings one arm my way and emits a shrill squeal, which I assume must be excitement, judging by the fervent wiggling that follows. I grin and reach for her. Koppar hands his daughter over without hesitation.
“Hello, Julialill.” I press a kiss to her velvety brow. “I missed you.”
She coos as though she too had missed me and was thrilled to be back in my arms. Her enthusiasm draws a laugh from my lips. The first in weeks. The first since…
“Astrid might object to this in a few years,” Koppar says, “but if you want this one, then by all means, keep her. She’s yours.”
His offer, or rather, jest, pinches my heart, reminding me that once upon a time, I’d belonged to another before belonging to Mor. Not for the first time, I wonder if my true mother gave me up to save me from the vampyrs’ wrath or if I got lost.
I spy the length of fabric he uses to swaddle Julia. “Can I take her for a little walk?”
“Would you?” He sounds so desperate, I decide to make it a long one.
After wrapping her against me and tucking her underneath my coat, I venture out of the forge. As we stroll, I tell her story after story. The sight of a squirrel prompts me to recount the time I was bitten by one when I was trying to feed it an acorn.
“Saga laughed so hard she nearly toppled over.” Julia’s head tips back as she trails the squirrel’s ascent into one of the tall pines. “I was very salty about her lack of empathy.”
I slow at the fork in the road and pivot in the direction of Nordin’s home. I’d be remiss to pretend I don’t yearn to glance past his walls and learn whether he’s out riling up wolves for his big war or lying in bed. With Nika, perhaps?
Some masochistic part of me wishes this to be the case, for it would fan the flames of my disillusionment. Ironic that a burn victim would prefer fire over ash. What does that say about me? That my common sense went the way of my magic?
Before my feet can lead me down the path of ruin, I whirl and head into the forest, down trails trodden by so many paws and feet that moss no longer grows. The rain has thinned to a misty drizzle. Although my clothes are damp and my stomach growls with hunger, I feel better than I have all week.
Julia too must feel better, for she’s calm. So calm that I think she’s sleeping, but she’s watching the world with boundless interest. I point out a bird with feathers that are the same deep navy as Nord—as Saga’s eyes.
We emerge from the woods at the same time as the sun, which tears through the heavy cloud cover and jewels the lake.
At the shore, I crouch and scoop some water.
Although it is still frigid, the ice has melted.
Julia slaps her palm into mine, aiming to snatch what I hold, and ends up splashing herself in the face.
After a few brisk blinks, she releases an energetic wail that makes me huff out a laugh.
Koppar’s daughter side-eyes me, clearly unimpressed by my reaction to her accidental shower.
Still chuckling, I mop her face on my coat sleeve, then start walking again, telling her how I once managed to shoot a trout with an arrow, unlike Saga, who emptied an entire quiver without hitting a single scaly target.
“How about we try to spot some fish?” I ask when we reach the tumble of boulders.
Though this site reminds me of Bjorn and Lenora—and now, of Tyron—it also reminds me of hot summer days spent diving off the rocky outcroppings and swimming in the vast expanse. How strange that the same place can birth both joy and despair.
I don’t climb quite as high as I did the night of Crescent Quest, but high enough to realize I was wrong about the full thaw. Thin ice still fringes the lake’s shores. A few more weeks, and the frost will be gone. Will I be as well?
As I scan the bolt of liquid blue for the glimmer of scales, I think of Bjorn.
But not of him dead this time; I think of him alive, standing at Nordin’s side the day of my magic’s demise.
Did he encourage his brother’s plan, or did he wish to cast me back into the Wilds like Ulf and the Council? What of Lenora?
I file the questions away for Mor. Though reluctant to speak of that fateful day, she no longer keeps secrets from me.
A strong gust risen from Fenrir only knows where snatches my hair and flings it into Julia’s face. She swings her arms, gripping fistfuls of my blond locks. I wrest them from her tiny fingers and roll the lengths into a rope just as a large shadow disturbs the depths of the lake.
I’m about to point out the shoal of trout to my companion, when I’m hit by the memory of the night I stood on the same ledge and watched fish swirl in the same spot.
The sweat drying along my spine turns to frost.
I squint at the shadow blunting the lake floor before lifting my gaze toward the village.
I could be wrong, but something, some instinct, tells me that I’m not.
On legs that feel all at once woolen and wooden, I climb down the rocks and retrace my steps. My pace is so hurried that I can barely breathe, much less talk. I reach over and hold Julia’s hands tight, praying she won’t notice the tremors zipping through my palms.
I return Julia to her father, who showers me with gratitude for the reprieve I’ve afforded him.
I tell him the pleasure was entirely mine.
He’s so enchanted to be reunited with his now-sleepy infant that he doesn’t spot the anxiety roiling through me.
I tell him I’ll be by later, then dash back to Saga’s and burst through the door.
She startles awake. “What time is it? And why are your cheeks so flushed? Were you out running?”
Instead, I say, “I went for a walk with Julia.”
“She can walk?”
I arch a brow.
Her lips scoot sideways. “Fine. That wasn’t my best joke.”
“Wasn’t your worst,” I deadpan, which makes her crooked smile expand. “Anyway, I went to the lake and—” I lick my lips.
“And…?”
I give my lips another swipe. No wonder Ulf was unable to find the vampyr. There’s nothing like water to steal scents and bury secrets.
“Zas, are you all right?” Saga sits up in bed. “You look…spooked.”
Even though I owe her father for changing my birth year, since Nordin and I are no longer together, do I truly have an obligation to tell him what I think I found…who I think I found? What if Ulf and Sigrid set Kjell free and sent him after me instead of repudiating him from the valley?
Kjell Blaka… I can’t believe I might’ve found him.
Is he unconscious? Is it odd that I hope he is?
The man attacked me. He wanted me dead. Why, oh why, must I feel any empathy toward yet another monster? But more importantly, what do I do with this secret?
“Kjell is key to Nordin’s war, right?”
“Yes.” She yawns. “To his strategy.”
“If the vampyr were to be freed, would Nordin still go to war?”
“Why?”
“Would he?” My tone is so sharp that it bunches Saga’s eyebrows.
“I don’t believe anything could sway my brother off his warpath at the moment. But it’d probably keep him from charging the Sons of Odin half-cocked. Which would be better for all.” After a beat, she asks, “Is there a reason for all these questions?”
“Yes.” I shed my boots and coat before walking over to her bed. “My birth year… Your father altered it after we struck a bargain.”
Saga blinks as hard as Julia had when she’d doused her face.
“He asked me to help him find Kjell. I asked him to make me a year older—and to get Havrik off my back.”
“I thought it was so that Nordin wouldn’t get into trouble?”
“On my part, yes. I can’t speak for your father, but I’d hope that Nordin was at the heart of his decision.” And not desperation. I keep the latter to myself. “Anyway, I think I found Kjell.”
She gapes like the trout I never ended up showing Julia.
I reach out and clasp one of her hands. “What should I do, Saga?”