Chapter twenty-six
Revna
“Explain to me again,” I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose, “how neither of you realized there was mistletoe in the wine?”
“Fuck’s sake, Rev, you don’t need to belabor the point,” Jorgen grumbled irritably as he drained his flagon of ale. He was back in his leathers, now that Branka had the extra set I’d brought, and I already missed the flowery apron. “We let our fucking guard down. We’re sorry.”
We were sitting in the dining room of the small inn, trying to decide what to do next.
If we returned to Ironholm, Eisa and Arik would be left without backup.
But since early this morning, Kindra had been unable to get through to either of their dragons.
I assumed Baldur was still under the influence of the mistletoe, but worry nagged at me about what might be keeping Idunn from reaching out to us.
If we couldn’t reach her, there was no way we could find her, either.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Branka murmured, giving Jorgen’s forearm a squeeze.
Jorgen sighed and placed his hand over Branka’s. His covered hers completely, and I felt an odd lurch of longing at the sight.
It will be soon, Kindra snapped irritably. Eat more food, please.
I’m trying. You’re a bottomless pit of need. I stuffed another roll in my mouth, earning a suggestive smirk from Ingmar. I shook my head at them, hoping my scowl conveyed what my full mouth could not. And what do you mean, ‘soon?’
The Norns are mysterious. It is a feeling. More soup now.
Hearthmother, save me. I attacked the soup viciously, uncertain how I felt about Kindra’s prediction. I decided ignoring it would be best. Any word from Idunn?
Kindra shook her head in my mind’s eye. Nothing. They must be somewhere with a great deal of iron. Unless Idunn has also succumbed to the mistletoe.
“Did Eisa drink any?” I asked aloud, interrupting Branka’s soothing of Jorgen’s bruised ego. Three sets of eyes turned to me in confusion, and I clarified, “The poisoned wine. Did Eisa drink it?”
Branka frowned. “No. Not that I saw anyway. Why?”
I shook my head, attempting to swallow the boiling soup. “Kindra still can’t reach Idunn.”
Branka’s scowl deepened, and her eyes went distant. I knew she must be asking Bryndis to confirm.
Ingmar cast me a wary look, their eyes glowing a faint orange as their dragon did the same. “Have you heard from the exiled reirhold? They should have made it to Kaldvik by now.”
“Not yet. They should have checked in this morning, though. Hold on.”
Can you reach out to Tormund and Vidar? I asked Kindra, trying to mollify her with an additional bite of soup. I know you hate being my messenger, but they are overdue to check in.
Kindra rolled her eyes, but did so without complaint.
I sighed, dropping my face into my hands. I fucking hated being in charge. I felt like I had dragons out in every direction, and I kept forgetting where.
Kindra came flapping back into my mind a moment later with a panicked screech. They are gone!
What?
“What is it?” Something must have shown in my face, because Ingmar grabbed my shoulder.
I held up a hand, trying to focus on Kindra. Calm down and tell me.
Their thread is gone, she repeated with a roar. Jorgen and Branka exchanged a look, and I knew Kindra must have told their dragons as well.
Gone like Baldur’s? I asked. What were the chances of the exiles stumbling upon mistletoe in the middle of the Odemark?
Kindra shook her head. I know not.
Check on Asger now! If something had happened, I needed to warn Viggo’s reirhold. They were still three days away.
Safe. Ulla and Serrilda, too. It is just the old ones. They are all gone. None of their dragons come when I call.
“Gods above,” Ingmar sat back in their chair. “They’re dead? We lost a whole reirhold?”
“Not much of a loss if it’s just Tormund’s,” Jorgen muttered, earning a smack in the chest from Branka.
“All drage deaths are to be mourned,” I reminded him sharply. I was far more concerned for Viggo and Geir, who might now be flying into danger. “And we don’t know for sure they’re dead.”
“Call them back,” Ingmar insisted, thumping their flagon of ale on the table in emphasis. “Call all the drage back to Ironholm.”
“We don’t know–”
Ingmar cut me off with a look. “Tormund and Aegir were assholes, but they were seasoned warriors. If they are dead, then there is something coming, and we cannot face it without the full force of all the drage.”
I grit my teeth, indecision clawing at me.
“Call them back.” Ingmar’s eyes flashed a bright orange, and I knew they were right.
I nodded and relayed the order to Kindra.
“You should go back to Ironholm,” I told Ingmar. “Tonight, if you’re able. Help Serrilda keep control.”
They nodded, rising to their feet. “What about the rest of you?”
I looked to Jorgen, who gave me a hard shake of his head. Agreed, then.
“We need to get to Arik and Eisa.” I stood, and Kindra was too agitated even to lament that I hadn’t finished the soup. “Now.”
I had no sooner said the words when the door to the inn crashed open.
Conversation in the dining room stopped as two human men appeared at the entrance.
The elder was dressed as a warrior, though slightly more finely attired than the usual mercenaries who roamed these parts.
The younger appeared to be a farmer, barely older than the boy we’d rescued when we found Eisa.
It was the younger who squeaked out a, “Help!” as both men collapsed to the floor.
Jorgen swore so colorfully, even I felt abashed by it. “Arne!”
“Arne?” I frowned as I helped the farm boy up from under the man’s—Arne’s—deadweight. “As in, Arik’s uncle?”
“Call a healer,” Jorgen shouted at the innkeeper as he and Branka rolled Arne onto his back. He turned his attention to the boy, who looked terrified, his eyes fixed on Jorgen’s pointed ears. “What happened?”
“Found him on the road, m’lord,” the farm boy said, shaking as he twisted a sodden cap between his hands. “‘Bout a day back. He looked mighty unwell, so I packed him in my wagon.”
“Fucking mistletoe.” Jorgen lifted Arne’s torso, leaving Branka and me to each grab a leg. “Let’s get him to a bed.”
“There’s no way he’ll live if he were poisoned when you were,” I argued as we struggled toward the stairs.
“I’ll fetch a healer,” Ingmar offered, heading for the door. “And scout to see if anyone followed him.”
He does not need a healer, Kindra intoned as Ingmar ran out. We carried Arne’s body up the stairs and into the first room we came to. He has you.
What is that supposed to mean? I snapped. The man was heavy. I can’t fix him. I don’t know anything about healing, and if he ingested mistletoe, there’s not much to be done except wait for death to take him.
He will not die. Kindra shivered, her energy pulsing with intensity as she flared gold in my mind. It is him. We will not let him die.
Him? Him who?
Arne groaned as Jorgen placed him onto the bed, and I saw that his brow was drenched with sweat, his tunic stained with vomit.
“Help me get this off him,” Jorgen grunted.
Our mate, Kindra said. This will be our mate.