Chapter 12 #2
“What are you—this is meant to be an opportunity for the public to—” Flustered, she looked at Tala, who merely raised her brows, as if to say, Keep an open mind.
Atli strolled past the guards, who dared not challenge the jarl-in-waiting, and climbed the dais steps with all the confidence of a man who’d never been told no. But rather than approaching Silla, he plucked two flowers from the bunch, handing them to Liv and Kaeja.
Liv seemed delighted by the gift, while Kaeja sent the man a cutting look that Silla did not quite understand.
Atli ignored it, strolling to Lady Tala. “I saw these flowers on my morning ride and could not resist.”
At last, he reached Silla, handing her the largest flower in the bunch.
“That was…thoughtful of you, Atli.” Silla smelled it, because what else did one do when presented with a flower?
“I shan’t take any more of your time.” Atli’s gaze lingered on hers for a disorienting second before he winked. And before Silla could think of any good, smart reply, Atli was already striding for the exit.
“Did he have something in his eye?” she asked Tala, watching his retreating form.
Tala sent her a speaking glance, and Silla had to press her lips tightly together to stifle her laugh.
Gods, she could not wait to tell Hekla…though perhaps, for the sake of Atli’s pretty face, she would keep this incident from Rey.
But before Silla could dwell on Atli’s curious behavior, the next guest was entering the hall.
Deep inside her, Myrkur shifted.
It was an old man, stooped with age, and yet Silla could tell he had a warrior’s build.
As the man hobbled down the walkway, her brows drew together.
There was something familiar about this man, something she could not quite put her finger on.
With a grizzled beard that reached mid-chest and eyes bluer than clear skies, surely she’d have remembered him.
Myrkur’s eyelids fluttered.
“Well met.” Silla smiled, but as the man’s gaze met hers, it faltered. “Have we met before?”
The dark god peered upward, preternaturally still.
The old man shook his head. “I’ve never had the honor, Your Highness. But I once knew your great-grandfather. I was a member of King Hrolf’s retinue.”
Her stomach gave a sudden, unsettling swoop. “Might I ask for your name?”
Deceiver, hissed Myrkur.
Silla blinked at the god’s outburst, then refocused on the old man.
“I am Fallgerd, Your Highness.”
And at last, Silla understood why she recognized him. In Kalasgarde, she’d seen him in a venom-induced fever dream. Her mind supplied her with the vision—a far younger Fallgerd, saving Princess Svalla from King Hrolf’s dagger. Myrkur growled low inside her.
“You saved my mother.” Before she knew it, Silla was on her feet, striding toward Fallgerd. Her guards closed around her, but Silla stepped through them.
Fallgerd’s white brows lifted in surprise. “I—how did you know?” He swallowed, glancing around, and Silla realized her mistake—the attempt on Svalla Volsik’s life had been covered up. No one should know about it.
Slayer of kings, growled Myrkur.
“I’m glad to meet you,” said Silla, flustered.
She accepted Fallgerd’s hand and shook it firmly. But the moment her palm slid into his, Myrkur shrieked inside her skull. Dark, membranous wings beat violently against her chest, and anger seethed through her blood with startling force. Fallgerd jerked his hand back as though he’d been burnt.
Staring down at his hand, the old warrior backed away. “I—I must go—” Turning on his heel, the man made a hasty exit.
But Silla scarcely noticed with the dark thing thrashing about within her. Desperately, she tried to subdue the god’s hold on her.
Deceiver! hissed Myrkur. Murderer!
She was dimly aware of the guards closing back around her; of their murmured confusion as she clutched at her head.
But her mind was a war field as the god of chaos rampaged inside her.
Images flashed in her mind. A shadow on a wall.
A bloodstained dagger. Little Svalla, clutching a wound on her neck—delivered by her great-grandfather, yet not deep enough.
King Hrolf, felled by that meddlesome Fallgerd, thwarting their plans.
But the god’s anger was a finite thing, and Silla could feel His grip on her waning. She forced her thoughts to butterflies; to feeding Dawn treats. She thought of the iridescent gleam of a black sand beach and cool salt gales rustling her hair.
With a last, pitiful thrash, Myrkur slithered back into His deep crevice, leaving Silla’s mind completely to herself. She glanced at her guards, surprised to find them parted and Lady Tala at her elbow.
“Did that man say something unseemly to you?” Tala leaned closer.
“Say?” Silla tried to rub the goosebumps from her skin; tried to shake the echoes of Myrkur’s screams from her mind. “N-no. It is—I’ve a sudden headache.” She hated the lie, yet knew she must play the ruse. After a deep breath, she climbed the dais steps and sank into her chair.
“There’s no shame in resuming tomorrow,” murmured Tala, joining her.
“No.” Saga would certainly not let a headache keep her from her duties, and neither would Silla. “These people have waited hours. I shall not have them wait any longer.”
“Are you certain?” asked Tala.
“Quite.”
And so the next guest was led into the hall, and for the next several hours, Eisa Volsik met the people of Kopa.
She saw their disbelief shift to hope—saw the faces of those who suffered most in this kingdom.
And though she tried desperately to keep it at bay, gradually Silla’s imagination ran wild with thoughts of all the good she might do as leader of this kingdom.
No, she chastised herself. That was for Saga. For the oldest sister.
But as she met the everyday people of Kopa, she also saw hollow cheeks and famished eyes staring at the spread on their table. By the second hour, Silla ordered her guards to gather the food up and distribute it among those waiting in line.
“Such a martyr,” Kaeja muttered, too quietly for Lady Tala to hear. Silla gritted her teeth and turned to Tala.
“Is there no grain in Jarl Hakon’s stores?”
“I’m told there’s none to spare.”
“But surely there is!” Silla chewed on her cheek. “Each meal served to me has had an abundance of breads.” As Tala shook her head, Silla made a mental note to ask Hild and Eilif if they had insight into the kitchen stores.
In the third hour, a short woman entered the great hall. Dimples grooved her gaunt cheeks, and she twisted her auburn braid between fingers as she looked wide-eyed around the room. And as the woman’s eyes landed on Eisa Volsik, they somehow widened further.
Then they rolled back in her head.
She collapsed to the floor with a thud that echoed off the high ceilings. For a moment, silence hung in the air. Then Silla was on her feet, racing down the dais and falling to her knees beside the woman. A guard’s hand landed on her shoulder, voices urging her to hang back.
“It could be a ruse,” grumbled Ingvarr, trying to pull her to her feet.
But the woman was now blinking up at Silla with fear and confusion in her eyes.
“You’re safe,” said Silla, shaking Ingvarr off. “What is your name?”
“ástrid,” the woman managed, slightly slurred.
“You’re in Ashfall Fortress, ástrid. You’ve had a dizzy spell. Come to the dais. A drink shall restore you.”
Silla called for her guards to assist ástrid and was glad when they did so unquestioningly. And despite a disapproving look sent Silla’s way, Lady Tala vacated her chair, allowing the guards to settle ástrid into it.
Silla snatched her untouched cup of róa and offered it to ástrid.
ástrid sipped from the cup, her gaze growing more focused. When at last she handed the cup back to Silla, her cheeks were flushed a bright shade of pink. “My thanks, Your Highness.” ástrid squeezed her eyes shut. “I’ve made a fool of myself, haven’t I?”
Silla pressed her lips together. “Not one bit. I’ve been caught apologizing to a rock. I imagine that’s far worse than a simple fainting spell.”
ástrid’s eyes flew open, an incredulous laugh bursting from her. “Truly?”
“Truly.”
But ástrid’s smile faltered, the vivid pink of her cheeks now spreading down her neck. As she fluttered a hand to her throat, concern slithered in Silla’s belly.
“Perhaps some water—”
With a sudden gasp, ástrid’s spine arched off the chair and her eyes rolled back in her head. Before Silla could understand what was happening, ástrid convulsed.
Panic broke out in the hall. Hands grasped Silla’s arms, and she was yanked away from ástrid’s spasming body. Screams echoed off the vaulted ceiling, chairs and goblets knocked aside as her ladies-in-waiting fled the dais.
“Wait!” Silla cried, struggling. “Wait—”
Guards rushed from all corners of the room, and Silla tried to glimpse what, precisely was happening around ástrid’s prone form, but it was impossible to see.
“It’s not safe,” came Runny’s voice, low in Silla’s ear. “We must get you away from here.”
“What do you mean? She’s only fainted!”
Runny sent her a harsh look as she hauled Silla toward the exit. “I do not think she fainted. I believe that woman was poisoned after drinking from your cup.”
Runny’s words landed with jarring impact, and Silla grew pliant at once. As her queensquard fell around her, Silla’s mind spun, landing on a single image—that cup of róa that she’d ignored all morning.
Had it been poisoned?
Silla was whisked back to her bedchambers in terse silence, her mind hazed with disbelief. Surely it was all a mistake. Surely they’d overreacted and would soon learn that ástrid had only fainted again.
Runny ushered her into her chambers, then sat Silla down on a bench before her hearth. Turning to the queensguard, Runny ordered them all into position. But the door burst open and Ingvarr strode inside with the rest of Silla’s Hakon-appointed guards.
Silla shot to her feet. “What news—”
“Dead,” he said coldly. “She’s dead.”
Silence stretched through the room for a long, measured minute. Then her guards burst into action. Weapons were drawn, positions taken around the door, the window, any point of entry.
“It seems,” said Runny, “that someone wants Eisa Volsik dead.”
Silla’s hand went to her throat, her thoughts jumping about wildly. Someone had tried to kill Eisa, but who? There’d been dozens of people in the room with her and hundreds of citizens who’d cycled through. It could have been any one of them.
But then her mind settled on the figure who’d darkened her window so recently. A dry, brittle laugh broke free.
“What is it?” asked Runny, eyeing her carefully.
“The black hawk,” whispered Silla. Her gaze darted to the offerings plate secured outside the window. “The gods were trying to warn me.” She swallowed.
“I should have listened.”