Chapter 27
Kopa, íseldur
“Deliberate?” repeated Silla, trying to comprehend what Atli Hakonsson had just revealed. “Surely it cannot be true?”
But Atli’s expression bore no hint of amusement.
“If the rockslide was deliberate,” she murmured, “then it must have been another attempt on my life.” Her mind spun as she tried to make sense of this.
They were seated at a table in Atli Hakonsson’s private quarters, a pair of wine goblets before them.
Candlelight cast a serene glow through the space, catching on a vase of Stjarna’s lilies and the finely embroidered table linen beneath them.
When Silla had first entered the room—after Ingvarr and Runny had deemed it clear of threats—she’d found this an oddly intimate setting.
It hadn’t helped that Atli was dressed in one of the most resplendent tunics Silla had ever seen, that his hair was styled in an elaborate warrior’s braid and his beard freshly oiled.
But with her guards leaning against the wall behind her, and Atli’s retinue lounging on the benches near the hearth, they were far from alone.
Besides, she reassured herself, the discussion of assassination attempts warranted a private setting.
Silla shook her head incredulously. “You’re certain?”
A look of concern settled on Atli’s face, and he reached across the table to take her hand. Restlessness filled Silla as she pondered how to take her hand back without offense. But Atli’s next words shook the thought clean from her mind.
“There were deep grooves on the ridge where boulders once would have sat. There is no chance these stones dislodged on their own. Someone pried them loose.”
Laughter skittered down her spine. Still, they try to kill us, whispered Myrkur, pumping anger through her veins.
Since she’d caused that explosion to free herself and Atli from the rockslide, the god of chaos had been alarmingly active. Her awful dreams were more vivid, the cravings sliding through her veins more potent.
Atli’s thumb swept across the back of her hand, and Silla jumped, yanking it back. She blinked, trying to refocus. “Does this mean Ivar has allies in the north?” Silla frowned. “I didn’t ask for this. I always say please. I’m somewhat tidy. I even rescue spiders and set them free outdoors.”
We’re a threat, dear Eisa, purred Myrkur. We have the power to topple kings and queens.
There is no “we,” Silla shot back, then winced as the dark god forced visions into her mind’s eye. Silla and Myrkur sat on a throne in Askaborg Castle, a crown on their head. They would string the vile Urkan king and queen on those pillars—would flay the skin from their bodies—
You aspire to be queen, whispered the dark god. Let me in, Eisa, and together we can accomplish it.
Nausea roiled in her stomach, and with great effort, Silla pried the dark god’s talons loose from her mind. She drew her gaze back to Atli.
“Spiders?” he repeated, brow crinkled in amusement.
“What?”
“It’s only…” Candlelight flickered in Atli’s eyes, intense as they roamed her face. “I’m certain they do not wish to kill you for poor manners.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“You represent change,” said Atli. His gaze lingered on her mouth for a moment before flicking back to her eyes. “Perhaps they wish for things to stay the same.”
“Someone with power, then,” Silla mused. Frustration gathered in her stomach. She’d run over the suspects in her mind time and time again—the troublesome Jarl Agnar, who had yet to reply to her multiple letters; Helgi, angered that she’d spurned his advances.
Signe sends her regards— Silla had been unable to shake these words, spoken by the dark form standing over her in Fallgerd’s home. Had it been merely a dream? Or had someone truly spoken those words?
You know it was no dream, snarled Myrkur, and anger spiked sharply inside her. Silla reached for her goblet of wine and took a hearty gulp.
Atli’s voice, thankfully, cut through her swirling thoughts. “I hope this news has not soured you against the evening meal?”
“You must understand, Atli,” said Silla with a raised brow, “attempts on my life are no new thing. If I let it turn my stomach, I’d scarcely ever eat.”
At last, Atli’s stern expression cracked, and an amused smile curved his lips.
He waved two fingers and servants bustled in, carrying fresh jugs of wine and platters of food.
A trencher of roast rabbit was laid on the table, the delicate scent of juniper reaching Silla’s nose.
Platefuls of barley cakes and blistered carrots, pots of butter and clotted cream were all arranged.
Eilif refilled Silla’s wine, her eyes silently asking permission to taste it.
Silla nodded, every muscle in her body tight as a bowstring as Eilif sipped her wine, then proceeded to taste small morsels from each plate on the table. Only after she’d curtsied and left did Silla release her breath.
Better her than us, whispered Myrkur, and Silla bristled with irritation.
Hadn’t the god of chaos anything better to do?
She forced her mind to winter-blooming lilies; to Vig’s booming laugh.
Myrkur hissed, slinking lower inside her, but Silla could still sense Him.
It was growing increasingly difficult to force Him down entirely.
“Have you seen Galtung?” Atli asked casually.
Chest clenching tight, Silla reached for her wine and took a long sip. “No.” She could not meet Atli’s gaze. “I’ve received no letters.”
“It was not the letters I referred to—” Atli dropped the rabbit flank he’d reached for, his gaze growing intent. “Do you not know?”
“Know what, Atli?” Icy fingers of fear spread through her.
“Rey has returned from Istré. Has he not—” Atli’s voice trailed off, a piteous expression filling his face.
Silla’s fear quickly morphed into pain as understanding settled.
Rey was back.
And Atli-gods-damned-Hakkonsson knew it before she did. Silla’s mind spun with confusion and hurt, but Myrkur’s anger soon eclipsed them both.
The man is a deceiver, whispered Myrkur. Gods, had she not just shut Him out? How had He already slithered back?
Leave me, Silla screamed in her mind, but the god of chaos only laughed.
Her insides twisted with betrayal and anger, and she no longer knew which belonged to her and which belonged to the god of chaos.
Silla’s anchor to this world of Galdra and politics—the one man she thought she could always depend on—couldn’t even bother to let her know he’d returned.
Kalasgarde now felt like years ago, like a dream she could hardly recall.
And wasn’t it a dream in so many ways—a refuge from reality, where only she and Rey had existed?
Whatever was written in her face, Atli seemed to read it. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Eisa. I thought you knew—I assumed you’d seen him.”
“It’s nothing,” she muttered.
Nothing is what you are to him, whispered Myrkur.
Nothing was what she needed. Silla took a deep drink of her wine, then wiped a droplet from her mouth with the back of her hand. She froze, then groaned. “I suppose that wasn’t up to Lady Tala’s standards.”
Atli chuckled. “Let me assure you, I’m not bothered by Lady Tala’s standards in the least.” He put his elbows on the table and bit into the rabbit flank. Juice dribbled down his chin, and he wiped it with the back of his own hand. “Does this make us even?” he asked, after swallowing.
Silla’s chest squeezed at Atli’s attempt to ease her discomfort.
If you want the queenship for yourself, you must have more ambition, Eisa, whispered Myrkur. This man’s name alone demands respect from the nobles. It would be a smart partnership to amass more power.
Silla tried to shake off the dark god’s words, but they sank into her all the same. Atli was kind and protective; a man of good house who knew this world inside and out. And there was no doubt that he was handsome. Chiseled cheekbones, full, smiling lips.
He wouldn’t lie to us, purred Myrkur. He wouldn’t break promises.
There was one problem.
Her heart beat for only one person.
Tears pricked Silla’s eyes. She was spinning around, losing all sense of herself. Who was she? Not Silla. Not Eisa. Just a confused woman, desperate for a break from it all.
Gods, what she wouldn’t do to lose herself in her skjold leaves right now.
In their absence, Silla would make do with wine.
Reaching for her goblet, she was helpless against the seductive pull of numbness.
Silla tipped it up, draining the last of it before waving for the cupbearer.
Soon Silla had her chin propped on her hand, swirling her freshly refilled goblet.
The wine was working its magic already—delicious warmth smoothing the jagged edges of Rey’s broken promises.
Smothering the dark god’s incessant words. Smothering everything, truly.
She cocked her head, sending Atli a loose smile. “I hear your little brother has been chasing after my best friend.”
Atli raised his goblet, a conspiratorial smile on his lips. “Tell me what you know, and I’ll do the same.”
Silla lifted her own goblet, then did just that.
It took every last shred of Rey’s will to remain seated before the enormous obsidian fireplace in Jarl Hakon’s private quarters.
Hakon paced before it, the ostentatious buckles on his boots clanking with each step, and his expression growing more thunderous with every lap of the room.
But Rey couldn’t bring himself to care what the jarl felt.
His thoughts were entirely consumed by Silla.
He’d have gone to her already, but the moment he’d dismounted in Ashfall’s yard, Jarl Hakon’s men had swarmed him. Before Rey knew what was happening, Horse was swept away to the stables, and he was being led urgently to the jarl’s chambers.