Chapter 14 Greta
Greta
It was mid-morning at Grinstad, and Greta was standing in the grand atrium, waiting on the king.
She had been here for almost an hour already, and there was still no sign of him.
She regretted rushing in from the courtyard now, panting so hard she had to bend double by the banister just to catch her breath.
But when the maidservant had come outside to relay the king’s message – tell my wrangler to meet me in the atrium at noon – Greta had bolted inside like a skittish deer, afraid to be late, unwilling to give Alarik Felsing any reason to question her respect for him.
But now she found herself questioning the king’s respect for her.
Not to mention his beasts’ training. She could have worked through an entire defensive manoeuvre with the ice bears during the time she had been standing here.
It didn’t help that the guards were all staring at her, and when asked politely, had offered no clue as to where the king was.
To make matters worse, her head ached. Her slumber last night had been disturbed by dreams of a creature trapped in ancient rock.
Keening … calling to her. She woke, thinking of the mountains beyond the palace.
Sometimes, if she concentrated hard enough, listening over the howl of the wind, she swore she could sense the thrum of an anxious heart there.
Of a beast suffering just beyond her reach.
It left her feeling unsettled.
Greta slumped on to the stairwell and chewed her bottom lip, waiting … scowling. When a servant darted by, she leaped from the bottom step and grabbed his arm. ‘Wait!’
He spun around, wide-eyed, and she recognized him as the same servant who had brought her that divine miniature cake on the night of her birthday. ‘I’m looking for the king,’ she said, urgently. ‘I believe he’s looking for me, too. Do you know where he is?’
The young man frowned. ‘He’s in the dungeons.’
‘Please take me to him,’ said Greta, relieved to have a point of direction. ‘I can’t sit here for another minute.’
The servant hesitated. ‘His Majesty doesn’t like to be disturbed …’
‘That makes two of us,’ she said, with a huff of impatience. ‘But he’s the one that summoned me from a training session, and I do need to be getting back, so if you could …’ She rolled her hands in the general direction of the dungeons, which she knew were located somewhere underground. ‘Please.’
At her imploring look, the servant gave in with a sigh, turning back the way he had come.
Greta followed him across the atrium, and down a long corridor that ended in a large metal door.
There was a steep stone staircase on the other side.
Down, down, down they went, the air chilling as the steps grew rough and uneven.
Despite the warmth of her frock coat, her breath hung like clouds in the air, and she had to pull her hood up to keep from shivering.
The world got colder and deeper until the stairs flattened out and the dungeons unfurled in a series of burrowing tunnels filled with small dark cells.
The servant’s footsteps quickened, his blue tunic and leather trousers doing little to stave off the chill.
Greta felt bad for insisting he bring her to the king, but it was clear Alarik Felsing had forgotten about their meeting, and she was not about to waste an entire day up in that atrium waiting for him to remember her.
She kept her gaze forward as she walked, avoiding the prisoners that spat and cursed at her from their cells.
She hated the sight of those thick iron bars and all those bitter, wasted lives behind them.
At the end of the passage, they came to a narrow wooden door.
Grunting echoed from within, followed by a string of guttural swears so foul they made her cheeks redden.
The servant knocked. Steeled himself and knocked again.
After a long moment, the door flew open to reveal the king of Gevra, looking violently furious.
His pale hair was unkempt, and his eyes were wild.
His white shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, while the rest of the garment was spattered with blood.
‘What do you want, Johan?’ he barked. ‘I told you never to disturb—’ He stopped abruptly, his gaze falling on Greta, who had shrunk back from the doorway and was hovering uncertainly behind the servant. He cleared his throat, working to lower his voice. ‘Why have you brought her down here?’
Johan swallowed thickly, and Greta was overcome by a wave of guilt. She had not intended to unwittingly nudge him – or herself – into the storm of the king’s temper.
She stepped forward. ‘I made him take me down here,’ she said, noting with increasing discomfort the flecks of blood on his cheek. The bruises on his hand. ‘I heard you wanted to see me in the atrium … but you never came.’
She was embarrassed by the quiver in her voice, as though the king of Gevra had stood her up for some kind of date.
There was another string of curses from inside the chamber, and then the sound of a fist connecting with bone.
Greta quailed at the crack!
Alarik ignored it. ‘I said to meet me at noon.’
‘It’s past noon.’
He frowned, sweeping a rogue lock of hair from his face and smudging a drop of blood on his forehead. Greta’s eyes darted, searching for the source of it. ‘The time got away from me.’
She nodded slowly. That much was obvious. ‘What are you doing in there?’
‘Conversing.’
She frowned. ‘That’s not what it sounds like.’
‘I have a very particular conversation style.’ He offered the ghost of a smile as someone behind him swore in a heavy accent. Vask, thought Greta. Or perhaps Ryberg. ‘Go back upstairs, Iversen. I’ll come find you when I’m done.’
Ordinarily, Greta would have been rankled by his complete lack of apology for wasting her time, but she was distracted by all that blood. ‘Are you all right?’ she said, quietly.
He blinked. ‘What?’
She dared a step closer, until she had to tilt her chin up to look at him. ‘There’s blood …’ she said, tracing her finger over the streak on his collar. ‘You have blood on you.’
He peered down at her through a veil of dark lashes, an odd quirk to his mouth. ‘I often have blood on me,’ he said, just as quietly. ‘It is very rarely my own.’
‘Oh. I see.’ She was struck by a surge of embarrassment.
She took a step backwards, her arms coming around herself.
How painfully naive she must seem to him, thinking the king of Gevra was somehow injured in his own palace, that he might need her concern.
She felt foolish for even offering it, but that slight smirk remained, and at the very least, her question seemed not to have bothered him.
His gaze slid over her, narrowing on Johan. ‘Don’t bring her down here again. I know she’s bossy as hell, but as my personal steward, you should know better.’
‘Of course, Your Majesty. My mistake.’ Johan dipped his chin. ‘I’m sorry.’
Alarik closed the door with a determined thud, without looking at Greta again. She slumped against the wall, relieved to have navigated the encounter without another scolding. Though she couldn’t say the same for poor Johan.
‘Sorry,’ she said, sheepishly.
He sighed. ‘I’m used to it.’ He turned back towards the palace. ‘He’s usually angry with me about something. It’s been like that ever since his younger brother died. The war in Eana only made it worse. Sometimes, he blames the poor weather on me, too.’
Greta fell into step with him, feeling a pang of sympathy for Alarik Felsing.
She had heard of the loss of Prince Ansel over a year ago – like the rest of the kingdom, the people of Carrig had sent lanterns up to the sky to mourn him – but she had never stopped to wonder how deeply that unexpected loss had affected the king.
She wondered if the raw anger he so often wore might be cloaking something deeper and far more painful.
‘Are you really the king’s personal steward? ’
Johan nodded, somewhat glumly.
‘I thought you worked for the kitchens …’ she said, remembering the night he had brought her that tiny birthday cake, and wondering now if it truly had been the king all along who had sent it.
But no. It was an absurd thought … that a man who wore the blood of his enemies with such casual indifference, and whose scowl alone could frighten off a mountain lion, would ever do such a thing. And yet she couldn’t help but ask …
‘Do you remember the night you brought me that cake, Johan?’
He nodded, distantly.
‘Where did it come from?’
‘The kitchens,’ he said.
‘Yes, but from whom?’ she clarified. ‘Who wrote the note?’
He took a long time to answer. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, and though she didn’t know Johan very well, she sensed the lie in his words, read the caginess in his darting eyes.
A smile curled her lips as they returned to the stairwell.
Later that afternoon, Greta was in the arena, working on recall with a pack of unruly wolves, when the king came to find her. She didn’t notice him at first because she was busy scolding Tollo, who had rolled on to his back and was playing dead in the middle of her lesson.
‘Get up, you shameless drama king!’ She whistled through her teeth, and the other beasts stood to attention. She had made progress with them at least. ‘This isn’t funny, Tollo.’
Tollo kept his eyes shut, but snuffled as if to say, treats please.
‘He has the right idea, if you ask me.’ Alarik’s voice floated across the arena.
She startled at the sight of him striding towards her, dressed impeccably in a fitted blue frock coat, dark trousers and high black boots.
His hair was perfectly coiffed, and there was no sign of the blood she had seen on him earlier. ‘I could do with a nap, too.’
Greta dragged her hands through her hair. She hated the king seeing her like this, nagging a wolf, instead of wrangling it. ‘He’s learning, I swear. He’s just angling for lamb strips.’