Chapter 8 Greta
Greta
Greta’s heart thundered as she bolted down the hallway, trying to put as much space between herself and the king as possible. But no matter how fast she ran, whizzing past bewildered-looking soldiers and startled beasts, she couldn’t outrun her own foolishness.
Why had she spoken to him like that? Why had she spoken at all?
For days, she had been preparing herself for the importance of this moment, the one upon which the fate of her family rested, and in a few short sentences, she had completely messed it up.
Instead of dropping her head in deference and introducing herself properly, she had snapped at Alarik Felsing over a damned lemon.
She had scolded the king of Gevra.
Stars above. If Tor was here, he’d wilt with disappointment.
If Hela found out, she would come down on Greta like a hurricane.
And then there was the king himself. Alarik Felsing had been wild-tempered, and yet when the suit of armour fell, revealing her hiding place, her surprised yelp had startled him into silence.
Greta was not foolish enough to consider that silence a reprieve. She had heard too much about the king to think he wouldn’t punish her for her insolence. After all, she had disrespected him in his own palace, in front of his steward and his war captain.
And then, to make matters worse, she had bolted from him like a frightened doe.
She was still bolting from him.
Greta’s manners were far from impeccable, but her survival instincts were second to none.
She reached the staircase and swung herself around the balustrade, nearly crashing into a maidservant.
She shouted an apology over her shoulder as she took the stairs two at a time, nearly barrel-rolling to the bottom.
It was not far enough from the glare of that icy gaze or the flash of those sharp canines, which, in the dim lighting of the war room, had made Alarik Felsing look more wolf than man.
And yet, in that interminable moment when she had found herself caught out by the king, she had felt the beast inside her rear up, not in deference but in defiance.
That stupid lemon.
It was a dangerous thing, Greta’s inborn sense of unbridled honesty.
Papa had warned her about it when she was a child, cautioning her to leash her words when she felt her temper rise.
Between all the hunting and wrangling, Greta had never quite learned to swallow her tongue.
All she could do now was run from the consequences of it.
Another staircase led her down to the atrium, where two stern-faced soldiers stood either side of the front door. She didn’t dare flee. That would only make matters worse, and despite her woeful first impression, she still needed this position. Badly.
She headed away from the eye-watering grandeur and priceless tapestries.
She needed to go somewhere she could blend in, a place to hide while the king worked through his anger.
She would return to find him later, bend her knee and apologize profusely for speaking to him in such a bold manner.
In no uncertain terms, she would pledge her support to the palace and its beasts.
Hell, she would even take a vow of silence if she had to.
She had come too far to return to Carrig empty-handed.
She was far more afraid of letting her family down than she was of the king and his diamond-bright gaze.
She followed the sound of growls to the back of the palace where she slipped outside into the chilled morning air. The north wind kissed her cheeks and cooled the fire of her panic. She inhaled the familiar scent of snow and pine and felt her shoulders loosen.
The courtyard sprawled before her in a patchwork of granite and weathered stone.
In the centre sat a grand arena hemmed in by a high wall that was gated on two sides.
Greta climbed the steps to peer over the wall and noted three separate tunnels leading out of the arena into the vast cedar forest behind the palace, where she could see hundreds of holding pens.
There were three young snow tigers in the arena and twice as many soldiers.
They were so frightened she could practically scent their fear as they pressed their backs against the wall, clutching their swords with both hands.
The tigers seemed not to notice them at all, and were instead lazing together in a shaft of morning sunlight, licking their paws.
Greta smiled, her heart lifting at the sight of the beasts who appeared to be well-kept and even-tempered.
The soldiers on the other hand … Captain Vine had her work cut out for her.
Greta rounded the arena until she came to a small hut, tucked away at the far edge of the courtyard. She guessed it was a resting post for soldiers.
She slipped inside, revelling in the delicious blast of heat as she pulled the door shut.
The hut was small and dimly lit, populated by a handful of threadbare armchairs, a low wooden table, and a crackling fireplace.
There was a soldier reading beside it. He didn’t seem to be much older than her, and had a mop of curly black hair, olive skin and dark stubble.
He looked up from his book, a quizzical look in his brown eyes.
‘Sorry to interrupt your break,’ said Greta, offering an awkward wave. She pointed to the chair opposite him. ‘Do you mind if I just sit down for a bit?’
He shrugged, smiling. ‘Go ahead.’
She slumped into an armchair. ‘Thanks. I’m Greta by the way. The new wrangler.’
The soldier slammed his book shut, pitching towards her. ‘Thank the stars,’ he said, his pearly smile growing. ‘I’m Aren. The falconer.’
‘Oh.’ Greta smiled back. Not quite a wrangler, but another animal lover. An ally, she hoped. She was just about to pepper Aren with a hundred questions about Grinstad when the door to the hut swung open and the king stomped inside.
Aren’s eyes went wide, his mouth falling into a perfect O.
The king took one look at him and said, ‘Evaporate.’
Aren moved so fast he tripped over the door frame.
Greta stood up.
‘Not you,’ said Alarik, slamming the door behind him and sealing them inside.
Greta’s eyes darted, instinctively searching for an escape from his thunderous mood, but the only window was small and frosted shut, and the king was standing in front of the door, his broad shoulders and towering height filling the entire frame.
Since it made little difference whether Greta stood or sat, she sank back down into the battered armchair.
Alarik folded his arms as he looked down at her, a muscle working in his jaw. ‘So, you are my wrangler.’
Greta tried not to bristle at the possessiveness in his tone. She was no one’s wrangler. But she had already disrespected the king once today and was not about to test her luck. So, she swallowed her annoyance and nodded. ‘My name is Greta Iversen.’
Alarik frowned. ‘I was expecting Hela.’
‘You didn’t ask for Hela.’
His grimace sharpened. ‘How old are you?’
Greta blinked. She could feel the icy prickle of his gaze as he assessed her, no doubt cataloguing her diminutive height, her slight frame.
He lingered over the scars on her cheek, and her face flared.
She wished she had worn her hair down so she could use it as a curtain now.
‘Eighteen,’ she answered him, and then, feeling like she had something to prove, she jutted her chin out and added, ‘I’ll be nineteen a week from today. ’
A corner of his mouth lifted in a sneer. ‘So, you still celebrate your birthday?’
Her cheeks flared again. Damn him. She had meant to prove her maturity, but he was making her feel like a child. ‘Is it that unusual to note the passage of time?’ she parried, with more bite than she intended.
He cocked his head. ‘Are you this bold back on Carrig?’
She frowned. ‘No. Yes. I don’t know.’
‘And are you aware I am the king of Gevra?’
‘Of course, I am,’ she said, in surprise.
‘I just thought there might be some confusion,’ he remarked. ‘Since I am not in the habit of wearing my crown.’
She sensed he was toying with her. There was no confusing Alarik Felsing.
He was like a wolf, all feral grace and simmering brutality.
He spoke with such authority, it was hard not to cower beneath him, and even besides the sheer command of his presence, she recognized the sweep of his pale blond hair marred by that single streak of black, and those cruel blue eyes.
Then of course, there was the expensive sword and the finery of his outfit, which was worth more than everything Greta and her sisters owned.
‘I know you’re the king,’ she said, again.
He moved closer, the floorboards creaking with each lethal step. ‘Then why have you not yet bowed to me?’
Greta dropped her head. ‘Majesty,’ she muttered.
She could feel the heat of his gaze on the crown of her head, and when she raised it once more, it dropped to the scars on her cheek. He did not ask about them, and she was relieved. Until he opened his mouth again.
‘The way you spoke to me just now in the war room was unacceptable.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Greta, quietly. Though she regretted her actions, she could not bring herself to take back her words. ‘I should have held my tongue.’
He snorted. ‘Yes, I can see you’re positively ragged with regret.’
She rearranged her face to look more contrite, chewing a little on her bottom lip. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt your wedding fitting.’
His eyes flashed. ‘Are you attempting a joke, Iversen?’
She shook her head. ‘Definitely not.’
‘That was not a wedding fitting.’
What it was, was a terrible waste of fine clothes. But this time, she kept her mouth shut. She knitted her hands, pinching at the soft space between her forefinger and thumb. Be good. Be polite. Be quiet.
But Greta was none of those things by nature, and in the king’s icy presence, she found she wished to rebel against them even harder. Fighting the instinct, she bit down on her tongue.
‘Are you frightened of me?’
She frowned again, thinking about it. ‘I don’t know.’
His voice darkened. ‘You should be.’
‘Then I am,’ she said, looking up at him. She would be whatever he needed her to be. He must have read the thought on her face because he drew back then, huffing a mirthless laugh.
‘You are not at all like your brother.’
Greta was not at all like anyone. And that was more the truth of it.
‘I’m … not very good with people,’ she admitted. She didn’t know very many people beyond her family and Mikkel. She liked it that way, had always preferred the company of animals. They were simpler creatures, easily understood and easily pleased.
‘I’m not people,’ said Alarik. ‘I’m a king.’ A pause. ‘The king.’ Another pause. ‘Your king.’
Greta nodded. Yes, of course. Yes, she understood. Be good. Be quiet. Even if it rankles you. It was hard not to squirm under the penetrating light of that frosted glare, but harder still to tear her own gaze from it. Hard not to speak again and say, ‘I suppose I’m just … more of a beast person.’
‘Then think of me as a beast.’ She didn’t need to hear the growl in the king’s voice to know he meant it as a threat.
She decided not to tell him she already thought of him that way.
He went on. ‘Out of respect for my enduring friendship with your brother and the years of loyalty he has shown to the Crown, I will forgive your impertinence this morning and refrain from flinging you into the dungeons.’ He flashed his canines. ‘Just this once.’
Greta closed her eyes, a whimper of relief catching in her throat. She had not forfeited her position here, after all. She had not dishonoured her family and thrown their future to the wolves.
‘Thank you,’ she said, opening her eyes and finding herself again snared in his gaze.
Only now, she couldn’t quite read it, or perhaps understand the curiosity there.
The fire crackled in the silence, and she decided it was far too hot inside the little hut.
She would give anything to be outside in the wind-whipped arena, sparring with beasts who did not unsettle her so easily.
Alarik looked to the window, his attention turning to the world beyond them. When he spoke again, his words were quick and low. ‘You will begin your duties at once. I expect you to attend the next war council. On time and in uniform.’
‘And in the orangery?’
He whipped his head towards her. ‘Is this funny to you?’
‘Not at all.’ Greta swallowed her smile. Bad joke. Bad timing. Big mouth. She cleared her throat. ‘I don’t know anything about war.’
‘You are a Gevran. Whether you like it or not, war is in your blood.’ Greta didn’t like it at all, but she could see no way around that now.
‘I expect you to train my beasts to heed my commands. You will attend my war councils and learn the art of war, just as your brother did.’ He took a step back, and Greta welcomed the cool whip of air that came between them.
‘War is coming to Gevra, and as my wrangler, you will have a part to play in it. That part begins today. Don’t let me down, Iversen. ’
‘I won’t,’ she said, raising her chin to meet his challenge. Letting down the king meant letting down her family, and she would not damn them to an endless winter of starvation. Not when she had the means to save them.
He nodded in approval. ‘Captain Vine will show you around the arena. Today, you will meet the beasts. Tomorrow, you will begin training them.’
He turned to leave, and Greta stood, the words springing from her before she could stop them. ‘What about the beast in the mountains?’
The king froze. She watched his shoulders tense, his hands twitching at his sides. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything at all, but she could hear him breathing too quickly in the silence.
Slowly, almost cautiously, he turned to look at her, that spark of curiosity returning to his pale blue eyes. They lingered on hers for a beat too long. ‘Leave the mountains for now, Iversen.’
‘Very well,’ she said, on a shallow breath.
He left in a rush of cold wind. Greta slumped into her chair, feeling like she had just faced a blizzard, and only narrowly survived.