Chapter 10 Greta
Greta
Greta Iversen never imagined she would be spending her nineteenth birthday in Grinstad Palace. Or any birthday, for that matter. Not that she felt much like celebrating.
She had only been at the palace for a week, but the work here was grinding and ceaseless.
There were over two hundred and fifty beasts to train and most of them were either half wild or entirely unused to behaving properly.
Greta had been rising each morning at dawn, shovelling down a quick breakfast of porridge heaped with honey in the dining hall before grabbing a flask of hot tea and hurrying out to the courtyard to see to the beasts.
She had spent the first two days introducing herself to the beasts, cautiously approaching their pens and coming to her haunches, removing her gloves and offering the back of her hand through the bars for them to sniff.
To show them she was a friend and not a foe.
For the most part, the beasts had acclimatized quickly to her presence. Those that were slow to trust received extra attention and meaty lamb chews. Food; the best persuasion for beasts and men.
Despite the long hours, Greta had already picked out her favourites.
She spent her mornings with the ice bears, the oldest of whom were a pair of sisters called Baldur and Nel.
Tor had told Greta about them some years ago and she had been delighted to find them still in residence at the palace when she arrived, if a little battle-scarred.
Baldur was missing her right ear and Nel had lost half of her teeth and all the claws on her left paw.
Then there was Saga, the heavily pregnant snow leopard, who was not yet trainable but particularly sweet-natured for her kind.
Greta visited her in the afternoons, often climbing into the holding pen and humming to the beast to set her at ease.
Earlier that day, as though sensing that Greta was missing home, Saga had curled up on the hay beside Greta and rested her large head in Greta’s lap, her snuffling breaths a warm comfort.
But it was the wolves that Greta loved the most. Tollo and Gale were favourites, a pair of greybacks with amber eyes, who reminded her of her own beloved Lupo.
Only these two were younger and far more prone to mischief.
Yesterday evening, she had been late to dinner having spent over an hour chasing after Tollo and wrestling a live chicken from his jaws.
She was making fine progress, training the king’s beasts to heel on her command. Soon, she would train them to snap and leap, and finally, to attack. Yes, the beasts here were easy. It was the soldiers she found tough.
Every evening, as the last of the guards trickled out of the courtyard, not a single one spared even a parting glance in her direction.
Greta tried to convince herself she didn’t care.
She hadn’t come here to make friends. And yet …
a basic modicum of respect – or even a shred of conversation here and there – might have been nice.
It seemed the soldiers at Grinstad were as icy as their king.
They weren’t interested in welcoming an interloper from Carrig, a girl with no discernible combat skills, who was barely taller than some of the beasts here.
No doubt they thought her a poor replacement for the mighty Captain Tor Iversen.
A poor wrangler, too. Not that they ever watched her training sessions long enough to see for themselves.
Of course they were wrong. But their frostiness still needled Greta. She was grateful, at least, for the kindness of Aren, who would come and visit her down by the pens whenever his schedule allowed. She had missed him today. Though not half as much as she missed her sisters.
Back on Carrig, Kindra always made Greta’s favourite butter cake on her birthday, jostling her awake at the crack of dawn so the three sisters could make the most of the day together. Greta had never spent her birthday alone before.
As she returned the last of the beasts to their pens in the forest to rest, the pang in her heart grew.
Sighing, she pocketed the keys to the arena in her fur-lined frock coat and turned for bed, reminding herself that she was doing important work here.
Work that would feed her family and make her mother well again.
She did not regret coming to Grinstad, and she did not want to go back yet, no matter how out of place she felt.
It was all right to feel lonely today. Tomorrow would be brighter.
It was late by the time Greta returned to her bedchamber, and the oil lamps were already lit.
Her stomach rumbled at the lingering smell of stew.
She had missed dinner, and although the soldiers’ dining hall was closed for the night, Nanna had left a bowl of food on her desk.
Although the curmudgeonly old maidservant would likely never admit it, still, she fretted over Greta like a reluctant mother hen.
On Greta’s second day at Grinstad, Nanna had insisted on altering her oversized uniform to fit her, taking up the hem of her trousers and the sleeves of her blue frock coat, even cinching the waist to keep it from swamping her.
Greta shrugged off her coat now, letting it fall to the floor with a satisfying thunk.
She undid the buttons on her trousers and kicked off her boots, then sank into her chair.
She devoured the stew in record time, revelling in every single mouthful of mashed potato, glazed carrot and tender lamb, all drowned in rich gravy.
The food at Grinstad alone was almost worth the sacrifice of being so far from home.
Despite the long days, Greta could feel herself getting stronger, the abundance of red meat and fresh vegetables doing wonders for her energy.
Already, the hollows in her cheeks had faded and there was colour in her face again.
After eating, she unbraided her hair and went to wash up in the bathing chamber, scrubbing the day’s dirt from her skin and washing her hair with scented soap until she no longer smelled like a beast herself.
When she finished getting ready for bed, she had to fight the urge to bury herself in the warm furs and instead returned to her desk.
She had promised her father she would write and had already let a week pass without so much as a single word to her family.
With guilt prickling inside her, she set aside her exhaustion and fished out her journal.
For a long time, the only sound was the light scratching of her pen and the echo of a restless wolf howling at the moon.
Greta smiled as she wrote, the distant chorus reminding her of Carrig.
Perhaps she was not so far from home after all.
She began by telling her father about the palace, describing the towering fortress of glass and stone, the mountains that moved as though they were drawing breath.
Then she spoke of the beasts, the ice bears and the wolves, pregnant Saga who would give birth any day now.
She mentioned the people who had been kind to her.
Nanna, in her own quiet, busy way and Aren, the falconer, who, when time allowed, would make Greta a mint tea to warm her hands between training sessions.
She wrote of Astrid Vine, the king’s formidable yet kind war captain, knowing her family would be interested to know about Tor’s replacement.
But her pen slowed when her thoughts turned to the king himself, how angry he had been that day in the hut with her, how he had loomed over her like an ice bear, nothing but frost in those pale blue eyes.
Greta did not dare mention that particular incident in her letter.
For one thing, she didn’t want Papa to worry about her.
But more pressingly, she didn’t want to be scolded for making such a terrible first impression on the most important man in Gevra.
And besides, what if the king intercepted all outgoing post from Grinstad and didn’t like the way she wrote about him?
That would constitute a most unfortunate second impression.
No, Greta would stick to the beasts and say nothing of the raging king, his rude soldiers, or the prospect of war creeping towards them like a dark mist.
She had almost finished her letter when a knock at the door made her jolt. A glance at the clock on the wall told her it was almost midnight. She rose from her chair, suddenly conscious of her nightgown as she eased the door open.
It was a night servant, a young man with pale skin and wide grey eyes. He was carrying what looked like a miniature cake, adorned with purple flowers and a single flickering candle. He held it out in offering.
‘For you,’ he said, clearing his throat.
Greta looked from the man’s face to the candle and back again, blinking in utter confusion. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear this was a birthday cake, but nobody here knew it was her birthday. She hadn’t made mention of it all day. ‘From whom?’ she inquired, politely.
The servant looked at his boots. ‘The kitchen sent it up.’
Greta stared at him a moment longer, and then sensing his discomfort, or perhaps disinterest in this particular mystery, thanked him and took the cake. He left at once, and she eased the door shut. She set the cake on her desk, marvelling at the delicate flowers and gold-dusted icing.
There was a notecard on the side of the plate.
She snatched it up to find two words, scrawled in haste.
Happy Birthday
Had her family sent it, somehow? She shook the thought off, embarrassed to have considered it. What a selfish notion. There was barely enough money back on Carrig to purchase a bale of hay, let alone the fanciest cake Greta had ever seen. The cost of delivery alone would bankrupt her family.
She sat and stared at the tiny cake, as though it might reveal the mystery of itself if she waited long enough. The flame flickered, taunting her.
She frowned. There was no sense in wasting a perfectly good wish. It was her birthday, after all. Wherever this cake had come from, it meant that someone, somewhere, was thinking of her. The thought warmed her heart and chased the sadness from her bones.
She smiled and closed her eyes.
I wish for things to get better.
She pictured Carrig in those better days, the verdant hills bursting with flowers, the wild beasts running through the sun-dappled trees, the colourful fishing boats creaking under the weight of their hauls, and the sound of laughter mingling with birdsong in the wind.
She blew out the candle and sent her wish up to the stars, hoping for those better days. For something to truly celebrate. When she opened her eyes to a faint plume of smoke, a memory curled up with it, and she stiffened as she recalled her conversation with the king last week.
I’ll be nineteen a week from today.
She had told him her birthday was approaching, and he had sneered at her.
So, you still celebrate your birthday?
She frowned at the gold-dusted cake.
No. There was no way it had come from Alarik Felsing.
She doubted he even remembered her saying that, or cared enough to keep track of the days since.
The thought alone was laughable. Why would the king of Gevra send her a cake?
Why would he send anyone a cake? She snorted at her own absurdity.
There was obviously another, simpler explanation, but right now she didn’t need one.
She jabbed her fork into the cake and devoured her first mouthful, groaning in pleasure.
Gold dust coated her lips as she chewed, her mouth watering as white chocolate danced on her tongue. She detected sugary buttercream and fresh sponge, and the sweet and sour tang of a fruit she had never tasted before. It was so divine she smiled through every single bite.
Happy birthday indeed, she thought, welcoming the fizz of sugar in her bloodstream as she crawled into bed. She was still smiling when she fell asleep.