Chapter 18
Kopa, íseldur
Silla stole from Ashfall Fortress under full sun, shocked that the guardsmen hadn’t stopped her from leaving.
With her queensguard flanking her on all sides, she was certain they’d be stopped—especially when they saw the bags of grain she’d commandeered from Jarl Hakon’s personal stores.
Yet with a quick word from Ingvarr, the guards had let her through.
Despite her exhaustion, Silla was exhilarated to feel the sun on her brow and wind on her cheeks, to see the beauty of Kopa up close.
From her bedroom window, she could not see the iridescent sheen of minerals in the black stones, nor could she marvel at the intricate masonry.
Now she gaped at the tall buildings and archways that defied nature—possible only thanks to the class of Galdra known as the Smiths.
These specialized Galdra could forge and break the bonds of this world, allowing them to create stone cities and panes of glass, specialized textiles and so much more.
Despite Silla’s constant stops to fawn over the marvels of Kopa, they eventually arrived at Frida’s shelter home.
She had no doubt that Lady Tala would frown upon Eisa Volsik coming to the shelter home—that she’d probably get an earful about how a queen doesn’t go to her subjects, but waits for them to come to her.
But she wasn’t truly a queen, was she? And sometime in the darkest hours of the night, as Silla flipped through yet another tome, she’d come to a sleep-addled negotiation of sorts.
Today, she visited ástrid and the shelter home as Silla, not Eisa.
She smothered one last jaw-cracking yawn before entering. The children were a balm to her heart, refilling her bank of hearthfire thoughts and making Myrkur cringe deeper inside her. And Silla shed more than a few tears when Hef and Kálf handed bags of grain over to Frida.
She tried not to wonder how Jarl Hakon would respond when her raiding of his stores was brought to light.
She hoped that his hoarding of grains while his people went hungry would bring so much shame upon the jarl that he simply would not broach the topic.
And as Silla watched Frida wipe tears of relief from her cheeks, she didn’t much care about any consequences she’d suffer.
The children crawled all over Silla—Ingvarr quickly gave up on trying to keep them off her—and squealed with delight when Silla provided them with gifts of her own.
They were trinkets, really. Winter-blooming flowers from Ashfall’s great hall; hairpins that had been lost beneath the bed.
Then there were the charcoal sticks and bundles of parchment Atli had provided.
Based on the conspiratorial wink he’d sent her while handing them over, she suspected he knew precisely who they were for.
Eventually, the winter sun reached its pinnacle in the sky and Silla knew it was time to move on. Her visit with the children had rather exhausted her limited energy, but a frazzled excitement buzzed in her veins. Next, she would visit Fallgerd.
Silla tried to keep her thoughts away from the old warrior.
Tried not to divulge to Myrkur that she had not given up on finding a cure.
Fallgerd had served King Hrolf during his darkest days—when the king had foolishly made his own bargain with Myrkur.
If anyone in this realm might know of a cure, surely it would be Fallgerd.
As Myrkur ruffled His leathery wings inside her, Silla shoved her mind back to the children at the shelter home and her fresh hearthfire thoughts.
She thought of the gap-toothed smiles and delight in their eyes as she’d told them the tale of hiding in the Bloodaxe Crew’s wagon and tricking Axe Eyes into taking her to Kopa.
With a hiss at her bright thoughts, Myrkur tucked His wings in tight and settled back down.
At the head of their procession, Ingvarr held up a hand, and they drew to a stop outside a small, nondescript home. Through the throng of guards, Silla could just make out Fallgerd’s form filling the doorway.
“I would speak to Eisa alone,” came the old warrior’s voice.
Ingvarr laughed, shaking his head. “Not a chance, old man.”
With an exasperated sigh, Silla wove through the crowd of guards to greet the former chief of her great-grandfather’s retinue, Runny right on her heels. With a bright smile, Silla was careful not to extend a hand—she did not want a repeat of whatever had happened in the great hall.
“Well met, Fallgerd.”
“Your Highness,” said Fallgerd, glancing warily at Ingvarr. “There are matters we must speak of in private.”
Silla examined the old man’s face, searching for any hint of ill intent.
Yes, someone had tried to poison her the day she’d met Fallgerd, but he hadn’t gone anywhere near her cup.
And besides, Silla couldn’t help but see Fallgerd’s much younger face, filled with worry as he’d applied pressure to Princess Svalla’s neck wound.
She sensed good in this man, and strong integrity.
Silla sent Runny a pleading look. Flicking her braids over her shoulder, Runny gave a long-suffering sigh. “We’ll need to sweep your room,” she told Fallgerd.
“Your Highness, I cannot allow this,” Ingvarr interjected.
“Well, I do allow it!” Gods, but she was growing tired of the constant obstacles. Could nothing be easy? She breathed deeply, trying to temper her anger. “It is important I speak with Fallgerd alone. How can you best facilitate this?”
With a weary sigh, Ingvarr regarded Fallgerd. “Have you any weapons in your home?”
“Aye,” the old man replied, but he moved aside to allow her guards entry. It wasn’t long before Ingvarr and his soldiers emerged, carrying an assortment of blades.
“The home is clear,” said Runny, leaving last. She paused near Silla and handed her a long-bladed hevrít. “Don’t forget how to use this.”
Silla accepted the weapon, then followed the old warrior into his home.
“I’ll admit I relate to your young guardsman’s position rather well,” said Fallgerd, closing the door behind her. “Your great-grandfather could not stand his guards’ fussing about, either. But it was my duty to ensure his safety.”
His casual mention of her kin made Silla’s heart crack open and spill warmth all through her. “Will you tell me of him?” she begged, following him to the hearth. “My—King Hrolf?” Silla settled on a bench, laying the hevrít across her lap.
A wistful smile spread across Fallgerd’s face as he took his place on the bench across from her. “He was a good and just leader. One who put his people first.”
Something flickered inside Silla at Fallgerd’s words—a longing to sit in the seat of power.
To bring true change to this realm. She, better than anyone, knew how the working people of this kingdom lived.
But Silla pushed the thoughts aside. She could not let herself want such things when the throne was Saga’s by birthright.
Fallgerd’s expression grew troubled. “I fear he changed when your great-grandmother fell sick.”
Myrkur rumbled low and deep within her, and Silla forced her mind to her sunniest thoughts while focusing on Fallgerd’s words.
“When it became clear the queen was not recovering as she ought to, the king sent for healers far and wide—one traveled all the way from the isle of Karthia. Sadly, it was all to no avail. A month after falling ill, your great-grandmother succumbed to her sickness.”
Fallgerd sighed, his gaze growing distant.
“The king was never quite the same after that. Dark moods fell upon him. He could not climb out of bed some days. There was talk that he might abdicate the throne and pass the crown to his son. But one day, King Hrolf emerged from his gloom. He had a strange look about him. I asked what had happened, and he told me he’d had a dream. ”
“A dream?”
“Aye. He was vague about the details. Only that this dream had given him hope. Had restored his energy.”
“Was he better then?” Silla asked, though she felt certain it had been no ordinary dream. Had Myrkur come to the king? Planted the idea of a life for a life?
“The king began giving us peculiar orders, often sending us on long, purposeless missions. I sensed that something was not right—that he was trying to rid himself of prying eyes. And so one day, I followed him.” Fallgerd’s gaze grew searching. “Do you know what he’d discovered, Your Highness?”
Candles flickering. The slash of a blade. Shadows coalescing on a wall. A book on a pedestal.
“A book,” she breathed.
Fallgerd gave a long, weary sigh, looking much as though she’d just confirmed something. “I feared as much. When we—” His gaze dropped to her hands, folded around the hilt of the hevrit in her lap. And she knew in that moment, Fallgerd had sensed Myrkur in her when they’d first shaken hands.
Myrkur opened one eye, and Silla thought of Rey’s large hands; the scent of woodsmoke that clung to his skin; the golden flecks that burned in his eyes.
“I tell you this,” said Fallgerd, “because something tells me Hrolf would want you to know it.” He paused, collecting his thoughts.
“I was too late to keep your great-grandfather from making that foolish bargain. But Hrolf told me everything. How the Dark One had promised him a way to restore the queen’s life.
What it would cost him. He told me through tears how he’d searched through the book for an alternative, but the only thing he’d found was… impossible.”
“But there was a way to cure himself of the bargain?” Silla leaned forward in her chair, ignoring the dark shiver vibrating low inside her.
Fallgerd rubbed his chin in thought. “Aye, but King Hrolf was simply too old to attempt—”
Myrkur’s wings unfurled, His long neck craned upward, and it took Silla a moment to realize Fallgerd had stopped mid-sentence. His gaze flitted to the door in irritation as someone knocked impatiently.
“One moment, Your Highness. It must be my apprentice.”