Chapter 16 Greta
Greta
Greta replayed her trip to the grazing fields for days afterwards. It felt like a dream now, how the elk had responded so readily to her call, charging with her like wild things across the snow-kissed earth.
It reminded her of the first stag she ever wrangled on Carrig, back when she was no taller than a cedar sapling.
She still remembered the way her father had lulled the towering creature into submission with only the lilt of his song.
The stag had bent its head to the earth, its antlers gleaming in the falling light, and Greta had laid her small, trembling hand upon its muzzle, picking up the thread of her father’s song and letting her spirit sing to the beast before her.
It had watched her, doe-eyed and cautious, as Papa lifted her on to its back, careful – so very careful – and then all at once, she was astride the regal creature, riding headlong through the forest, as though all the trees and lakes and craggy hills were a kingdom of her own making.
The weaver elk was a stranger sort of beast, but its spirit had called to hers in much the same way, that same fire rearing to life in her chest the moment she mounted it. The rest – the riding and the wrangling – had been as simple as breathing.
The king had been pleased – so pleased he was grinning when she returned to him, the devastating beauty of his smile softening his chiselled jaw and making him appear even more handsome, though she tried not to notice.
He had jumped at her offer to join her atop the elk, and they had spent an entirely marvellous afternoon whooping and laughing as they charged through the grazing fields together.
And on the way back, he had spoken only to her, ignoring his beautiful bride-to-be as though Greta – and not the effervescent Princess Elva – was the most arresting person in that sled.
As though his thoughts were as far from his impending wedding as she was from Carrig, and he cared only for the same beasts that she did and the thrill of how they ran when they were truly free.
She knew it was dangerous to dwell on those moments and how important they had made her feel, but the searing sunlight of the king’s undivided attention had kindled a new warmth in her chest that she simply could not ignore.
Even so, she refused to let the memory distract her from her work.
Thanks to long, tireless hours in the courtyard, most of the beasts had been successfully wrangled, trained to heel and strike on her command.
Now, it was time to teach them their most important task: the protection of the king of Gevra at all times, and all costs.
It was this next, crucial stage of training that came to occupy Greta’s mind, sending her away from the courtyard early one morning in search of the king himself.
As she wandered through the palace, she came upon a flurry of activity, the servants milling to and fro with vases of fresh flowers, glittering ice sculptures and armfuls of pillar candles.
She watched them go, dread unfurling in her stomach as she realized what was approaching, as fast and thundering as a weaver elk: the king’s wedding.
A cloud of melancholy settled over her, snatching the smile from her face.
Shame nipped at her heels as she wandered down hallway after hallway in search of the king, wishing now she didn’t have to face him at all.
Of course, it shouldn’t matter if Alarik Felsing was getting married.
What did it have to do with her? The king’s heart was entirely his business, and beyond that, the alliance made sense, especially under the looming threat of war.
Still, she couldn’t help picturing the wedding. She tortured herself with images of Princess Elva gliding up the petal-strewn aisle in a trailing ivory gown, adorned with jewels and flowers and—
Stop it, Greta.
You’re a wrangler, not some lovelorn fool.
She was here to work, not daydream. She was a commoner, not a princess.
But Tor was a commoner when he won the heart of Queen Wren.
Greta nearly slapped the thought out of her head.
She was half raving. It was the exhaustion, she knew, her tired mind reaching for absurd notions.
She had spent too many long days and cold nights in the courtyard, running herself ragged.
She had run her mind ragged, too, and now it was toying with her, filling her with opinions and emotions she had no business feeling.
The sight of Johan scurrying towards her, carrying an elaborate centrepiece of branches and pine cones, jolted her from her spiral. She leaped into his path, almost causing him to trip.
‘Hi!’ she said, catching a tumbling pine cone and returning it to its perch. ‘Have you seen the king? I need to speak to him about the beasts.’
Johan glared at her over a gilded holly branch. ‘He’s in the sparring room.’
‘Great.’ She blew out a breath. ‘And … where is that?’
He sighed. ‘Follow me. I’ll show you on my way to the ballroom.’
They soon came to the sparring room, which was nestled in the east wing of the palace.
The chamber was grand enough to be a formal drawing room, the corniced ceilings and filigreed wallpaper suggesting it perhaps had been one once, but all the furniture had since been cleared away, save for a stately fireplace and a rack of sparring swords that occupied one wall.
A leather viewing bench spanned the other.
Johan didn’t announce her, and as he scurried off with his teetering centrepiece, she guessed he didn’t want to risk the king’s ire again after what had happened in the dungeons. She knocked as she eased the door open, then froze on the threshold, momentarily struck speechless.
The king was sparring with another man who, in the blur of movement, looked just like his double.
They circled one other, light-footed and quick, their swords clashing high and then low.
Greta marvelled at the grace with which they parried, twisting and lunging as though it wasn’t a fight at all, but a dance.
The other man, who appeared to be older than the king though not by much, wore his longer, silvered hair scraped back into a leather tie.
They were both dressed casually in loose white shirts and fitted leather trousers, their boots gleaming in the morning sunlight.
They were the same height and possessed the same lithe build, the king’s gaze an icier shade than his opponent’s, though both were keen and sharp.
Greta watched them, mesmerized by every measured clash and unmeasured curse that slipped through their gritted teeth.
It was the king’s opponent who spotted her fist. A quick glance, his brows lifting. He leaped backwards, out of the king’s reach, and pointed his sword towards the ceiling. A pause in play.
‘Well, well,’ he said between breaths, as he took in the sight of her dawdling, slack-jawed in the doorway.
She felt his gaze move over her like a trickle of ice-water, from the scuffed collar of her blue coat to the wayward strands that had slipped free of her braid, and finally, those three pale scars on her left cheek.
‘It seems you have a visitor, Your Majesty.’
‘If you’re trying to distract me, Elias, it’s not going to work,’ said Alarik, keeping his stance low, his sword engaged.
But Elias’s eyes remained on Greta. ‘You’re new,’ he said to her.
‘Well, sort of,’ she said, thinking it might be a good idea to speak at some point.
At the sound of her voice, Alarik whirled. He cast his sword aside, raking the sweat-slick hair from his face and said, ‘Iversen.’
Elias grinned. ‘Tor’s sister.’
‘Among many other things,’ she said, eager to claim her own identity, and climb out of the box he had so neatly placed her in. ‘My name is Greta.’
‘He already knows that,’ said Alarik, reaching for a cloth to wipe his face and the back of his neck. It was an effort for her to tear her gaze from the golden sheen of his skin and the way the charcoal streak in his hair flopped across his eyes. He raked it back again. ‘Elias is my spymaster.’
Greta raised her brows. ‘You must know a great many things, then.’
‘Almost everything, wrangler,’ he said, with a silky laugh. ‘Or should I say, elk tamer?’
‘I make a mean cup of tea, too. You can add that to your notes.’
Alarik laughed, setting the ember in Greta’s chest aglow.
Elias smirked like he could see it. ‘Have you come to spar with us, Iversen?’ he said, swirling the point of his sword at her. ‘Are you as good as your brother? If so, I insist—’
‘My wrangler abhors violence,’ said Alarik. ‘Raise that sword to her, and I’ll take the hand that wields it.’
Elias quirked a silvered brow, but said no more, trudging over to the bench to stretch out his legs.
‘Is something wrong?’ said Alarik, facing her now. She felt his gaze drift over her like a warm breeze, and knew he was searching for scrapes, marks, new injuries.
‘It’s the beasts. I need something for the next stage of their training.
’ She edged into the room. ‘They have to learn your scent, so they’ll know who to protect in battle.
The older ones might remember it, but I’d rather not bet on it.
And the younger ones don’t know you well at all.
An item of your clothing should do it. Or a pillowcase. Something that smells like you.’
Her skin prickled at her own words. Or perhaps it was the sharpened point of his attention, so like the blade he had just discarded. Why was the king looking at her like she had made an indecent proposal? Why did it feel like she had just made one?
He cocked his head. ‘So, you want my shirt?’
‘I— No. Not right— Oh.’ He pulled off his shirt in one fluid movement, revealing the corded muscles of his arms and the glistening planes of his chest.
Greta gasped, her hand shooting up to cover her eyes. But the devastating image was burned into her mind: the king standing before her, half naked and smirking, as if he were her lover. Her cheeks burned at the thought, the same heat spiralling deep in her core.
Oh no.
‘Iversen?’
‘Yes?’ she said, still shielded.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I am somewhat uncomfortable.’
I am a living flame, Your Majesty.
Press your lips against me and put me out.
Greta crushed her nails into her palm in a desperate attempt to regain control of herself.
The floorboards creaked and then he was before her, the broadness of him casting her in shadow. His hand came to her wrist, his fingers gently circling it. He tugged her self-made blindfold from her eyes with a low chuckle. ‘Am I so hideous that you can’t even bear to look at me now?’
‘Of course not,’ she said, far too swiftly. ‘It’s the opposite.’
His brows lifted, his gaze taking on a strange new intensity. She realized too late that he had been teasing her, and she had shown her hand, revealing her embarrassing crush. She took a step back, clearing her throat. ‘I didn’t mean to make you undress, Your Majesty.’
He wasn’t blinking.
Why wasn’t he blinking?
‘That was not what I meant,’ she went on. ‘Or my intention.’
He offered her a wan smile. ‘I apologize for my indecency but I’m nothing if not efficient.’ He held his shirt out. ‘You may take this with you. Use it however you like.’
‘Thank you.’
She clutched the shirt to her chest, her lids growing heavy at the heady scent of him, a mix of woodsmoke and pine, like the first flush of winter.
He was still staring at her, and she had the absurd fear that he could hear the sudden rattle of her heart. ‘If you want me for your training exercises, you need only ask,’ he said, quietly. ‘It’s no trouble.’
She stalled in the doorway, half thinking about taking him up on his offer just so she could see more of him, so they could continue to share in that simmering passion for all things wild and unfettered, to talk more about the beast in the mountain, but then a scurrying servant carrying a vase of lilies bumbled past her. And she remembered—
‘I’ll leave you to your wedding preparations, Your Majesty,’ she said, vaguely gesturing towards the stately ballroom. ‘I’m sure I’ll manage.’
He surprised her with a snort. ‘This unseemly chaos has nothing to do with my wedding, Iversen. It’s for tonight’s welcome ball.’
‘Oh.’ She slammed her teeth into her bottom lip to keep from smiling in relief. ‘My mistake.’
He frowned. ‘Hasn’t anyone mentioned the ball to you?’
‘I don’t see why they would.’ She shrugged, as she stepped back into the corridor. ‘I hope it all goes well, Your Majesty.’
‘You’ll see for yourself.’ He braced his hands on the door frame as he leaned out after her. ‘I expect you to be there.’
And then he was gone. Greta stood alone in the hallway, the stir of her relief quickly turning to panic. The king was insisting she attend his ball.
And she did not have a single dress to her name.