Chapter 15
Kopa, íseldur
Silla’s knee bounced eagerly as she sat by the hearth.
She knew she’d drunk too much róa, but hadn’t been able to stop herself.
After the attempt on Eisa’s life, Jarl Hakon had appointed Eilif as her food taster, and Silla despised it.
This morning, she’d watched despondently as the poor handmaiden had sampled her morning pot of róa and deemed it free from poison.
Silla had wasted no time in consuming three full cups, desperate to keep her fatigue at bay.
But it seemed the energizing properties of the róabark had done her nerves no favors.
Or perhaps her nerves were due to the anticipation of what today would bring.
She would meet Jarl Hakon’s Weaver and have the threads of her fate read.
As Myrkur shifted inside her, Silla tried to keep her moods bright, but gods, it was getting hard.
Someone had tried to kill her. There was still no sign of Saga.
The feast of the Shortest Day neared; her etiquette training was ramping up.
And Silla could no longer deny that the god of chaos was growing more active.
Last night, she’d dreamed of what she hadn’t in so long—the little blond girl’s hand wrenching free from hers. “Don’t leave me!” Saga had screamed as Silla was hauled backward and Urkan warriors swarmed the room.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, the dream had soon shifted to Rokkur—the dragon Kraugeir waking from his slumber; the hot, orange lifeblood of the fire mountains spewing forth. Silla had woken drenched in sweat, the remnants of Myrkur’s excitement coursing through her veins.
In that moment, she missed Rey more than she could say.
There was no sleep to be found after that.
Instead, she’d pored over every book in the stack the magisters had sent her and had found no hint at a cure to her mother’s bargain.
Weeks, she’d been at this—as had her queensguard and Jarl Hakon’s magisters—and they were no better off than when they’d started.
A life for a life, her mother had promised Myrkur. The god had the power to take her life at any moment. So why was she still breathing?
At the very least, her daily hindrium doses blocked the god from her Ashbringer source. Yet He seemed unbothered. Instead, she felt Him prodding…as though He was searching for something.
Her desperation to rid herself of this god was growing by the day. And so she’d decided to take her search for a cure beyond books, to Jarl Hakon’s Weaver. Perhaps there was something to be discovered in Weaving the threads of Silla’s past, present, and future?
Now she sat with Liv and Kaeja in the Weaver’s sitting room, an unnatural silence stretching out among them.
Silla was so much more comfortable around Hild and the other fortress servants, but she supposed she must try with Kaeja and Liv, and so she blurted, “Ashes, but these dragons make me twitchy!”
Liv looked up from her embroidery in surprise, while Kaeja’s face twisted into a look of derision.
“I mean—” Silla gestured to the enormous tapestry strung above the fireplace. “—there are simply so many of them in this place.”
“Ashfall is built into a fire mountain,” said Kaeja, as though Silla were a simpleton. “And the dragon is symbolic of both the fire mountain and House Hakon’s might.”
Heat rose in Silla’s cheeks.
“They can be rather unsettling,” said Liv, voice lowered conspiratorially. “Sometimes it feels as though I’m being watched, but when I turn around, it’s only a tapestry.”
Silla was glad to hear the telltale sounds of approaching footfalls signaling the Weaver’s arrival, and her exit from this conversation.
The Weaver looked to have seen four decades, and she was trailed by a pair of acolytes.
The acolytes went to an enormous loom leaning against the wall and began untangling the warp threads, while the Weaver faced Silla with a demure smile.
“Your Highness,” said the Weaver, before dipping into a curtsy. “I’m honored to Weave for you today.”
Silla’s stomach knotted and twisted as she considered the precise wording of her question for the Weaver. She’d been warned to keep her affliction within a tight-knit circle, and glanced at Liv and Kaeja, searching her mind for the etiquette lesson that would allow her to kick them out politely.
But the Weaver must have read her dilemma, for she turned to the pair and said, “My Weavings are done strictly in private.”
Liv frowned. “But Lady Tala said—”
“You may wait in the antechamber,” said the Weaver, her crisp voice brooking no argument.
Kaeja eyed Silla suspiciously, then moved toward the door with Liv in tow. The acolytes, having completed their task, trailed silently after them.
Once they were alone in the room, Silla shot the Weaver a thankful look.
“Have you had your threads Woven before?”
Silla wiped her palms on her skirts. “Not formally, but I…Harpa Galtung once read my…aura?”
The Weaver’s eyes flared. “Harpa Galtung? She’s not been seen in an age.” She paused. “Well. I shall require a few drops of your blood to activate my galdur. Then I’ll be able to sense your threads and Weave them into a tapestry.” She gestured to the loom.
“I have…questions,” Silla said apprehensively. The Weaver nodded, and she continued. “I would like to know what has befallen my sister, and where she might be. I would know who tried to poison me. And I would know if there is a cure for the bargain my mother made.”
The Weaver’s gaze drifted around her face.
“It is a lot, I know.” Silla laughed bitterly.
“There is no guarantee I will find the answers,” said the Weaver after a beat, “but I will keep my eyes and ears open while I Weave.”
Silla nodded. The Weaver handed her a dagger, and with a quick breath, Silla slashed a shallow cut across her palm. As she watched the blood pool, she couldn’t help but recall the vision of her mother slashing her own palm before summoning the dark god.
As though He were listening, Myrkur cracked an eye open.
The Weaver dipped her fingers in Silla’s blood, rubbing it between forefinger and thumb. Silla had witnessed Harpa in her Weaving trance, and she knew to expect the milky-white sheen the Weaver’s eyes would take on.
“I see your threads,” murmured the woman, before turning to her loom. “I see…another. I see your sister.”
Silla’s pulse throbbed with excitement. “Where is she?”
The Weaver did not seem to hear her. “I see two bright threads, woven tightly together before splitting. Your sister’s thread has diverged greatly from your own…”
Diverged greatly. Silla’s mind raced. Where could she be? But the fact that Saga’s thread was not yet cut surely meant she was alive. Silla clung to this fact with everything she had.
“I see threads of darkness woven in with each.” There was a note of worry in the Weaver’s voice. “I see…a battle.”
The Weaver’s magic thrummed in the air, while Silla’s pulse kicked up with excitement. Myrkur yawned and arched His back. “A battle?” pressed Silla.
The stones weighing the warp thread knocked together as the Weaver worked at her loom. “Beneath a great tree—”
“And a cure?” she asked, leaning forward. “For my mother’s bargain?” Hope and anticipation built inside her. Silla sensed she was on the precipice of a great discovery—
I think not, rasped a voice of sharp edges inside her skull, sending a prickle of alarm down Silla’s spine.
At her loom, the Weaver inhaled sharply, then clutched at her throat.
“What—” Silla rushed toward the woman, then stumbled back.
Turning toward her, the Weaver’s eyes were wide and completely black.
I’m not done with you, Eisa, purred Myrkur as the Weaver fell to her knees with a keening moan.
“No!” pleaded Silla.
Tremors shook the Weaver, spittle foaming at the corners of her mouth.
Yes, said Myrkur.
And as the Weaver toppled to the side and began to convulse, Silla’s scream finally broke free.
Hours later, she sat at the long table in Ashfall’s great hall, staring blankly at her plate.
Silla was clad in a rich indigo gown, her hair woven into a sophisticated series of braids that bared her neck and showcased the ornate golden necklace she wore.
The great hall was filled with Kopa’s most important, gathered to greet the first of many jarls, who’d arrived ten days early for the feast of the Shortest Day.
Preparations for the feast were already under way. The hearth was being cleaned in preparation for the ceremonial log. And sprigs of pine and juniper had been strung from the antler chandeliers, scenting the air with their evergreen fragrance.
Tonight, they dined at a solitary table arranged in the middle of the great hall.
Atli Hakonsson sat to her left while the visiting jarl’s heir—whose name Silla had already forgotten—sat to her right.
Across the table, Lady Tala was deep in conversation with the visiting jarl’s wife, while Ladies Liv and Kaeja engaged his heirs-to-be.
But though she was there in body, Silla’s mind was leagues away.
After the Weaver had fallen, everything had happened so quickly—the acolytes rushing in, Silla’s queensguard ushering her away, and Myrkur cackling inside her skull all the while.
Distraught, Silla had canceled her afternoon etiquette session with Lady Tala.
But a message had returned explaining that one of the jarls had arrived early; that Eisa Volsik was expected at the evening meal.
Before departing for the meal, Silla had sent Kálf to inquire about the Weaver’s health and was relieved to hear she was expected to make a full recovery. Apparently, Ashfall’s healer had attributed the Weaver’s symptoms to a “falling sickness” she’d been known to suffer from.
Only Silla knew the full truth.