Chapter 3
Kopa, íseldur
Hekla trailed a serving woman through Ashfall’s corridors, each turn revealing more opulence than the last. From the black stone archways to the shimmering brass doorplates and crimson tapestries bearing House Hakon’s dragon sigils—it all made Hekla’s face twist in distaste.
Her bones were weary, yet her blood ran hot in the wake of her confrontation with Jarl Hakon and Istré’s chieftain, Loftur.
She’d had enough of Loftur to last a lifetime.
To think he still thought himself in the right when he’d fallen for the mist’s trickery, and all of Istré’s citizens had nearly paid for it with their lives.
She supposed relaying the news to Rey and Jarl Hakon had gone about as well as she’d anticipated.
At the very least, Istré’s problems—íseldur’s problems, Hekla corrected—were out in the open.
The poisonous mist was a danger to every citizen in this kingdom.
If left unchecked, it would spread and grow more powerful; it would feast on every human and creature in this realm and Turn them draugur.
The serving woman paused before a door, drawing Hekla from her dark thoughts. “Your chambers, miss.”
With a nod, Hekla entered the room, then paused.
Her gaze bounced from the ornate chandelier, shimmering with dozens of candles, to the luxurious bed with crimson silk spilling from an utterly ridiculous canopy.
A fire burned in an enormous obsidian fireplace to her right, fur-lined benches and chairs arranged around it, and at the back of the room, glass-paned windows stretched nearly to the roof.
“I think there’s been a mistake.”
The serving woman looked about nervously. “No, miss, this is the room His Lordship ordered readied for you—”
“Which ‘Lordship,’ exactly?”
“Why, the second jarl-in-waiting. I’m sorry, miss, if ’tis not to your liking—”
Though her insides prickled with irritation, Hekla did not want the serving woman to get caught in this mess. She forced a smile to her face. “No, no. It is lovely. My thanks.”
But as the woman curtsied, it took every ounce of Hekla’s willpower not to snort.
Curtsied—to her? Thankfully, the woman departed, leaving Hekla alone in the monstrosity of a bedchamber.
So Eyvind bloody Hakonsson was behind this.
Did the fool truly think he could win her forgiveness with palatial living quarters?
A squeal from behind her had Hekla whirling toward the open doorway. And then, she was running; was wrapping the curly-haired figure in a single-armed embrace. Hekla wasn’t usually fond of hugs, but in the aftermath of everything, this one felt better than ever.
“You’re really here—” The muffled voice made Hekla realize her sooty lébrynja jacket was pressed against Silla’s fine gown.
Reluctantly, Hekla released her friend, but held her at arm’s length. “Look at you!”
Gone was the wild hair and homespun apron dress.
Silla’s glossy curls were interspersed with small, silver-cuffed braids, and her gown looked made of silk or some fine material like it.
Silla’s cheeks flushed pink, her emerald skirts rippling like water as she shifted.
“I feel like a child playing dress-up,” Silla whispered loudly.
“No, you look lovely. Gods, I am so glad you’re safe, Sil—er—Eis—”
“I’m still Silla, in private at the very least.” The fierceness in her friend’s voice made Hekla breathe a little easier.
She might look a little different, but some things, it seemed, remained the same.
And Silla’s warm reception told Hekla that beneath it all was the optimistic and caring woman she’d met on the Road of Bones.
Hekla grinned. “Silla, then.”
“Hekla, I’m so sorry—”
But Hekla only held up a hand. “Do not apologize, dúlla.”
She and Silla hadn’t parted on good terms. Ilías had been freshly buried and the truth of Silla’s situation brought to light.
Back then, Silla’s withholding of details had felt like a betrayal.
But time had given Hekla new perspective.
She knew what it was like to be a woman in a man’s world.
Safety was never a thing to be taken for granted, and trust was a hard-earned thing.
And it hadn’t escaped Hekla’s notice that the moment Jonas had learned Silla was Eisa Volsik, he’d handed her in for a reward.
It made complete sense why Silla would keep the name hidden, even from her friends.
“You were only trying to survive.” Hekla’s tone made it clear she would accept no argument.
Relief washed over Silla’s face, and a thousand questions sprang to Hekla’s mind—had Jonas truly drugged her and given her over to the Klaernar? How had Silla escaped from her cell? And did both she and Rey truly have Galdra powers? But it felt like too much for this moment—a thing to ease into.
“I hope you can learn to trust me with your secrets,” Hekla said instead. “Istré…put a lot of things into new light for me.” Such as the fact that Galdra, including Silla, Rey, and Eyvind bloody Hakonsson, existed in far greater numbers than she’d ever thought.
Silla nodded, then drew her to the benches near the fireplace and grinned like a cat. “I cannot believe you’re sitting across from me. Tell me everything, Hekla. What happened in Istré? Why did Loftur—what an absolute arse—take a swing at you? And Hekla…who is Eyvind?”
Hekla did not like the way Silla had spoken the name “Eyvind,” nor the mischievous glint in her dark eyes. Inwardly, she cursed Hakonsson for playing the protector when Loftur had come at her. Had Hekla not proven to him already that she was no damsel?
“Where do I start?” Hekla ran a hand down her face. “The part where Istré’s chieftain, Loftur, blocked my every attempt to investigate the mist? The part where he kept his kin—kin Turned draugur by the mist, might I add—chained up in a barn? The part where I took Axe Eyes’ replacement to bed—”
“What?” Silla leaned forward eagerly. “That part!”
The serving woman returned to the chambers, setting a tray of refreshments down before them.
“Our thanks, Eilif,” Silla said to the woman. “How fares your sister?”
“Oh, far better, Your Highness,” replied Eilif, bowing low. “She’s sewing a token of her appreciation for you.”
Silla waved a hand. “It is not needed. To know her condition is improving is enough for me.”
Eilif ducked her head once more, then departed the room. Hekla quirked a brow. “What was that?”
A flush stained Silla’s cheeks. “I had some medicinal herbs prepared by Ashfall’s healer for Eilif’s sister.” She folded her arms over her chest. “Do you know, I’ve been told it’s unseemly for me to know the names of those serving me?”
Warmth suffused Hekla as she stared at her old friend. “Gods, but I missed you, Silla.”
Silla’s smile was warm and wide, and for a moment, the two simply grinned like fools.
But the scent of róa called to her, and Hekla poured a steaming cup for them each. When she handed one to Silla, there was a mischievous look in her friend’s eye. “I believe you owe me a salacious story, Rib Smasher.”
Leaning back on the bench, Hekla sighed. “I took Eyvind bloody Hakonsson into my bed, but I swear to you, Silla, had I known who he was, I’d have stayed far away. The man wasn’t due to arrive for three more days!”
Silla quirked a brow. “And?”
An exasperated breath escaped Hekla. “And then I had to pretend I did not know him, lest his warriors think I was trying to earn some sort of favor. Taking the crew leader to bed is a quick way to lose the respect of your fellow warriors.”
Silla looked ready to protest, but Hekla continued.
“Do not think too much of it, Eyvind is a serpent. As it turns out, he’s betrothed to some woman named Liv—”
“Liv?”
At the note of recognition, Hekla eyed her friend. “Do you know her?”
“Liv is one of my so-called ladies-in-waiting but—” Silla chewed her lip, clearly perplexed. “She’s never once mentioned a betrothal.”
Hekla mulled this over for a moment, then swiftly changed the subject. “And Gunnar must have knocked the wits from his skull, because the eelhead asked for my hand in marriage!”
“What?” Silla sat forward, róa sloshing onto her fine emerald gown. “Porridge,” she muttered, blotting it with her sleeve, then giving up. “And what did you say to Gunnar?”
“I am not proud of this.” Hekla stared at her steaming cup, unable to meet Silla’s gaze. “I asked for time.” She ran an irritated hand along her braid. “Gunnar suffered from dark moods after Ilías’s death and had only just returned to himself. I cannot be the one to send him back to the gloom.”
Silla’s eyes shone with compassion. “I see.”
Hekla sighed. “Istré was a complete, utter mess.” And then she told Silla everything—how she’d grown frustrated with Loftur blocking her investigation and Eyvind’s restrictive rules.
How she’d stormed into the woods and been caught in the mist. How a squirrel-turned-grimwolf had rescued her and had then taken to pestering her to “free his mistress.”
And Silla, in turn, told Hekla of Kalasgarde—how she’d learned how to express her galdur and had battled a giant serpent.
How Jonas and a battalion of Klaernar had showed up and trapped them with an avalanche.
Silla’s voice faltered when she reached the part about her mother’s bargain, and how a fragment of the god of chaos now lurked within her.
A month ago, gods and bargains gone awry were merely things of myth and story. But Hekla had seen too much in Istré. Now she didn’t question a single word that came from her friend’s mouth.