Interlude
PRINCESS THYRA FALK, HOUSE OF THE WHITE HAWK
The day had been a long one, full of highs and lows.
Thyra and Isolde had worked for hours, and after dinner Thyra worked some more.
Alone in her suite, she tried to create another shadow figure.
And finally she had succeeded. Twice! On the second attempt, she’d been calm enough to sense a tether to the shadow figure, something she had not really noticed before.
Once she could put into words how she’d done it, she would help Isolde.
But that was a matter for another day.
Exhaustion penetrated so deep into Thyra’s bones that she considered not sleeping with the Fr?r Crown on her head, as she’d done every night since Saga told them of the Crown’s powers.
But no, she couldn’t. Dreamer magic was unpredictable.
Double that with the unpredictability of the Hallow, and Thyra would never forgive herself if this turned out to be the one night when her magic chose to be accessible and she wasn’t wearing the Hallow.
She could not let her sister down. Nor herself.
Sighing, she changed into her sleeping dress and slipped the band of amethyst, diamond, and silver atop her head.
Adjusting her pillow to make the circlet more bearable to wear, Thyra burrowed into bed.
Even with the discomfort of the headdress, her tired body relaxed, and Thyra knew it wouldn’t be long until sleep claimed her.
And it did, like a shooting star in the night sky, sleep came, plunging the raven-haired princess into a world to which she once belonged.
Thyra stood right inside the doorway and stared at her mother and father, recognizable from the portrait locket Brynhild had taken from the castle two decades ago. The queen rested on her knees before the king, laying on a settee by a window, a muscle fluttering in his strong jawline.
The princess scanned the rest of the room and concluded they had to be in the queen’s bedchambers.
Everything was so luxurious and feminine.
She twisted and found a sitting area outside the bedroom, likely where the queen would take visitors.
Most importantly, everything in the suite possessed a telltale shimmer.
This was a vision. A dream. The Fr?r Crown was working.
Two other male faeries lingered in the bedchamber. Both had short black hair and silvery-blue wings. One boasted a muscular frame, while the other was taller and slimmer.
“Aksel,” her mother spoke softly to one of the males. “Go to my workshop and retrieve the brown bottle labeled Aconia tonic.”
“Yes, Mother,” the taller, reedier male replied and approached Thyra. She inhaled his scent of something herbaceous and metal as he walked by her, pushing her to the side as he did so and sweeping from the room. Thyra’s throat tightened.
Aksel Falk—her eldest brother. She wanted to follow him and see more of the male she’d never meet again, but when she tried, the Crown rooted the princess in place. What she was meant to see would be in this room.
“I don’t need a tonic. What I need is more bleeding swords!” The king grumbled. “Kalan, debrief me on the mage attack.”
Kalan, the second oldest Falk male. Brynhild had called him a great warrior. He’d been an adult when he died in the Rebellion—a turn or two older than Vale was now. Around thirty.
“You’re too scattered to deal with that,” Queen Revna hissed. “You’re pushing yourself too hard, Harald.”
“Why is Kalan here if not to tell me how my forces are faring?”
“He’s worried about his father.” The queen stroked the king’s long, silver hair. “We all worry for you, my love.”
“You should take him to the White Tower.” Kalan’s tone was so deep, much like the king’s voice.
“I have, darling,” Thyra’s mother replied. “No one knows what’s happening.”
“I do!” the princess shouted from the doorway she was trapped in. “It’s a whisperer messing with his head! Inga Aaberg!”
Of course, they didn’t hear her. No one had paid her appearance any mind because she wasn’t actually there.
Frustration surged within Thyra, but she pushed the annoyance aside and reached into the recesses of her memory.
The mages had been a nuisance preceding the White Bear’s Rebellion.
Did that nuisance extend into the Rebellion?
She tried to remember as Aksel returned, and her mother convinced her father to drink the tonic. All the while, Kalan spoke of the battles with the mages, but when a knock came at the suite door, everyone in the room stopped what they were doing.
“Inga? Is that you?” Revna called out loudly.
“It is. And young Lady Polia with the tea.”
“Enter.”
Though Thyra was not physically present in the vision of the past, somehow every part of her burned hot as Inga, the current Queen of Winter’s Realm, entered and smiled at her parents.
“My queen,” Lady Inga demanded such a presence that Thyra barely noticed the younger lady-in-waiting moving to the table carrying a tea set, presumably ordered by the queen.
Odd that a lady-in-waiting carried the tray and not a servant, but maybe that was what Queen Revna had preferred?
“Sten Armenil and Lady Orla have arrived. The High Lady of the Northlands wishes to see you.”
The queen pressed two fingers to her right temple and rubbed the tender area. “I forgot they were due today along with those of House Qiren. I—”
The king shot up from where he lay. “I must take care of the Qirens! Kill their lord. The heir too.”
A clatter arose as Lady Polia dropped the tea set and the glass shattered.
The princes’ faces paled, and the queen spun to face her husband, her hand outstretched as though to slap it over his mouth.
Little did she know, the outburst originated from one of the two ladies. The one pretending to be appalled.
Finally, Thyra understood why a lady-in-waiting had been carrying the tea. House Polia was a lesser house, one deeply tied to House Qiren. Inga had orchestrated this. Perhaps Lady Polia was under her powers too, and Inga coerced Lady Polia into coming here to see the king’s outburst.
“I apologize.” The queen settled for rubbing her husband’s shoulder as he fumed over some perceived slight by House Qiren. “He has a fever and is hallucinating.”
“I do not,” the king shouted. “Kalan, take me to the docks. I wish to slaughter mages.”
Thyra’s stomach sank to her knees. If scenes like this one had happened in public, it was no wonder that Magnus Aaberg had not had issue with organizing a rebellion.
“I need to find someone to clean this up.” Lady Polia gestured to the shattered glass and spilled tea before rushing from the room.
Inga, however, remained, concern etched on her face. “Have you tried Helska’s Milk, my queen?”
Even Thyra, with her limited healing knowledge, recognized that name. Helska’s Milk was a tonic that would cause a person to sleep as if they’d been sent to the afterworld.
“Bah!” the king growled. “All of you, out of my way.”
Queen Revna tried to stop him, as did her sons, but while King Harald was not strong in his own mind, he remained very strong in body. He shoved those he loved aside and stormed through Thyra, out of the queen’s rooms.
Thyra watched her father go, sure that he was about to enter a public part of the castle and embarrass himself. Or worse, create more enemies who would soon join the rebellion to take him down.
The princess’s fists clenched, and once again, she tried to pull her feet from the ground, tried to make it to Inga. What she would do had the vision allowed her to move, she wasn’t sure.
As it were, she did nothing because the vision suddenly lifted and Thyra awoke. In her room, in Ramshold, once more.
Her cheeks were wet. Her body trembled. Thyra swallowed, and with shaking hands removed the Crown and tossed it to the foot of the bed.
They’d known what Inga had done but seeing it was different. Hearing her father’s madness made her ache.
She rose from the bed, slid her feet into slippers, and pulled on a robe. Before Thyra knew what she was doing, she was at her door.
Astril awaited outside. The vampires needed little to no sleep, making them ideal night guards.
“Is all well?” the vampire asked.
“I need to speak with my sister.”
Astril’s eyebrows shot up. Never had Thyra gone to Isolde so late.
“I want to share something with her.” She felt like a small child, explaining herself in this way, but the need to tell Isolde what she’d seen overpowered any shame that might bring.
“They’re asleep,” Freyia said from where she stood before Isolde’s door. “I can knock. See if they wake?”
“Please.”
Freyia gave a single nod, and her fist fell on the door across the hall three times. Her eyes widened. “Someone is coming.”
Thyra held her breath and exhaled it only when Isolde opened the door. Loud snores came from beyond. “I need to talk to you.”
“Oh,” Isolde said, clearly surprised. “Did something bad happen? Shall I get a sword? And Vale?”
“Nothing like that. I want to talk.”
Her twin’s face softened, and Thyra cursed all the times she’d been cruel and cold to her twin. Thank the dead gods they were mending their past, becoming closer every day.
“Let me get slippers and my robe.” Isolde darted into the room and was back again in seconds. “Tell Vale if he wakes.”
“Judging by the snoring, he won’t,” Freyia said with a smirk.
“Fates alive, tell me about it,” Isolde joked and shut the door softly behind her. “To your room?”
Thyra returned to her suite, holding the door open for her sister. Isolde’s gaze landed on the Crown, still sitting where Thyra had tossed it at the foot of the bed.
“I saw our parents, our eldest brothers too.” Thyra swallowed through the tightness in her throat. “The vision made our father look like a monster, but I wanted to tell you about it. I couldn’t stop myself from coming to you, even if it is late and—”
Isolde slipped her hand into Thyra’s. “Don’t apologize. I want to listen.”