Chapter 34
Kopa, íseldur
Silla sat at the head of the long table, counting the collective number of beard rings in the room to calm her nerves.
Jarls lined the table, heads bowed in quiet conversation, and it was impossible to forget that these were the most powerful men in the north of íseldur.
She’d met them last night; had conversed with many.
But in the aftermath of Rey and Atli’s confrontation, her nerves were frayed.
Did they think her weak for fleeing the hall?
Think her a poor judge of character for Rey’s outburst?
The ostentatious décor in Jarl Hakon’s private meeting hall did not help her nerves. A bronzed human skull glared at her through ruby eyes from a pedestal in one corner of the room, while a bear’s hide—complete with taxidermied head—was stretched on the wall behind it.
Last night, bolstered by the crowd and the Shortest Day traditions, she’d felt like Eisa.
Today, though, she was back to Silla. And unfortunately, Myrkur fed on her insecurities and further agitated her nerves.
She’d tried to explain to Him that she’d made strides in bringing the jarls to “their” cause last night, but the god was unimpressed that they’d not yet bent the knee.
Impatience prickled through her body, and He refused to leave her mind to herself.
Rey sighed irritably from beside her, and Silla wholeheartedly agreed. While Atli had taken his seat a few minutes ago—glaring at Rey through a black eye that made her frown—Jarl Hakon had yet to arrive.
The jarl plays his games of control, whispered Myrkur, making her flinch. When he arrives you must put him in his place. Shame him for his tardiness to show the others who is truly in charge.
Silla hated that a part of her agreed with the god.
These were Jarl Hakon’s plans. She was naught but a figurehead for his schemes, a name the jarls could rally under until Saga took her rightful place.
And yet Silla was growing increasingly aware that this was not what she wanted.
Was it not her duty as a Volsik to play a greater role?
She wanted a seat at the table, making decisions that could better the lives of those in this kingdom.
Or did she? Was this ambition truly her own, or did it belong to Myrkur? Confused and rattled, Silla turned to Rey. At the warmth that she felt upon seeing his face, Myrkur hissed and loosened His grip on her spine.
“All right?” asked Rey. He sat to her left, glowering at the skull decor.
“Fine,” Silla replied, managing a small smile. “You?” She inclined her head toward Atli, silently asking, Have you made amends?
Rey grumbled something unintelligible that made frustration flare in her gut. She had enough on her plate without worrying about his childish grudges.
Silla’s knee bounced as she waited for Jarl Hakon’s arrival.
Backbone of steel, rang Lady Tala’s voice in her ears. Give them a queen they can believe in.
But how did she quell her racing heart? How did she stop her palms from sweating?
Here sat the northern jarls of íseldur—those who owned the land and controlled vast warbands to protect it.
Their dynasties ran back centuries, their deeds sung by skalds around the kingdom.
And then there was her. Silla. A girl raised in poverty.
A girl who’d gone to bed with an empty stomach more times than she could count.
A girl who’d recently served men, just like these.
They are only men, purred Myrkur. And they are only mortal. A sudden hunger grew in the pit of her stomach—the yearning to sit on a throne. To wear a crown. To make the men in this room kneel before her…
Rey’s hand slid onto her lap, and he squeezed her thigh gently. Myrkur snarled, wings unfurling in agitation. Rey seemed to have a knack for knowing when Myrkur was giving her trouble, and gods, it was lovely to have an ally in this internal fight.
Silla’s hand slid beneath his palm and she tangled their fingers together, but before she could say anything, Jarl Hakon finally strolled into the room.
“I see everyone has arrived!” he exclaimed, arms spread wide.
Deep inside her, Myrkur rattled in displeasure, a poisonous dislike for Hakon gliding through her veins. Hakon settled in the high seat to Silla’s right, then addressed the room.
“I thank every one of you for braving the winter elements to join us for the feast of the Shortest Day. It was an honor to share my table with you, and I trust that you ate and drank your fill.” He planted his hands on the table and leaned forward.
“Now we must turn our conversation to the true reason we’ve come together.
” Hakon looked at the jarls around the table.
“Ivar wages war on the Zagadkians. The timing of this attack, paired with the sudden reappearance of Eisa Volsik, tells me one thing: The gods themselves want us to take íseldur back.”
A chorus of ayes spread around the table.
He schemes, muttered Myrkur. He is an opportunist. He uses the Volsik name for his own gain…
Silla squinted as she tried to focus on the jarl’s words.
“Now you’ve had the opportunity to meet Eisa Volsik; to confirm that she’s returned to us,” continued Jarl Hakon, gesturing at Silla.
The motion triggered an avalanche of emotions inside her—frustration that she was meant to sit demurely and let this man use her name; yearning for a greater role; anger that she’d let this all happen.
Unaware of her inner turmoil, Hakon continued. “With the Urkans distracted by war, we must act quickly to solidify our northern alliance.”
“Where is Jarl Agnar?” asked one of the men—Jarl Holger, if memory served.
Hakon made a sound of irritation. “Killing my people along the eastern border,” he muttered.
“I’ve written the boy, have sent emissaries to entreat with him.
I even went so far as to offer him a valuable family heirloom as an offering of peace—but he simply won’t acquiesce.
I’ve stopped trying to understand his motives. They make no sense to me.”
Lies, hissed Myrkur.
“My letters did not help, then?” Silla asked.
“If they ever made it,” muttered Rey, and Silla could have throttled him.
Atli grumbled something under his breath that drew a fierce glare from Rey. Anger burst to life inside her.
They act like children, whispered Myrkur. Stand up, Eisa. Take control of this table.
With a calming breath, Silla pressed on. “I wrote to him thrice. Have you not heard back?”
“Afraid not, Your Highness,” said Jarl Hakon, while shooting a pointed look at his heir that seemed to urge him to behave. “It’s looking like we cannot count on Agnar to join our alliance.”
As silence stretched out in the room, Myrkur coiled ever-tighter. Talons kneaded; anger and frustration built low inside her. How dare these jarls not leap at this chance—not immediately bow to their rightful queen? With a ragged exhale, Silla managed to shake Myrkur’s grip.
“Forgive me, Jarl Hakon,” said the one named Jarl Holger, “but I’m trying to understand. You’re asking us to risk the wrath of Ivar Ironheart to overthrow the Urkans—a feat never before accomplished in any Urkan colony, I might add—”
Jarl Hakon lifted placating hands, silencing the murmurs of agreement with Jarl Holger’s statement. “I ask you to stand up for what is right—”
“But the long winters,” said one of the jarls. “Our resources are already stretched so thin.”
“As are mine with the violence on my eastern borders!” exclaimed Jarl Hakon.
“Yet still, I know in my heart—in the very marrow of my bones—that the timing is right. Too long have our people suffered. Too long have the innocents been slain on those pillars. This is our best chance since those bear-worshipping kuntas landed on our shores—”
While I admire his ambition, this man is a threat to your rule, Eisa, whispered Myrkur. You must speak…make these men understand who is truly in charge…
Silla tried to blink Myrkur’s suggestions away, and yet His claws sank into her.
This time, their grip was firm. Unshakable.
She jolted to her feet and stared fiercely into Jarl Hakon’s perplexed eyes until he got the message and sat.
Anger burned low in Silla’s gut, growing and churning with each hammering beat of her heart.
The words she and Lady Tala had practiced for so long suddenly seemed entirely too soft.
She needed to make these men understand.
“The Urkans murdered my parents,” Silla began, in a voice of sharp edges. “They stole the throne. They’ve committed atrocities across this kingdom.” Her desire for vengeance grew hotter and higher. “This cannot stand. They must pay for what they have done.”
Silla looked around the table, meeting each jarl’s eye. Her blood sang with the righteousness of this moment. This was her birthright, and she would take it.
More, Eisa, purred Myrkur. Show them!
“Jarl Hakon has spoken highly of the honor each and every one of you holds,” she continued.
“Does your honor not demand vengeance for the deaths of King Kjartan and Queen Svalla? Does your honor not demand King Ivar meet the same fate as my father? We must put him to a pillar, pry back his ribs, and drape his foul lungs from his body.”
At the perplexed looks that met her, her voice grew louder.
“And what about the child they put to the pillar in my place? If not my parents, then surely that innocent girl, who had seen but four winters, deserves retribution?”
When her statement was followed by silence, Myrkur hissed with displeasure, sending a wave of blistering anger through her. Silla slammed a fist onto the table. The torchlight flickered black for a fraction of a moment, and Jarl Holger recoiled at whatever he saw in her face.