Chapter 35
Sunnavík, íseldur
Hunched over his plate, Jonas bit into a chicken leg and pretended he was not surrounded by murderers and rapists.
During his time as a so-called member of the Corpse Bringers, he’d made a point of keeping his head down, and he always sat alone.
The last thing he wanted was to get to know these people.
He was merely biding his time until he could escape this vile warband.
Warband. The concept was a farce. This was no gathering of common minds—no brotherhood like the Bloodaxe Crew.
This was a collection of the worst of íseldur, forced together and prevented from leaving.
But Jonas wouldn’t let the barred windows and dour-looking guards keep him from breaking free from this place. Sooner or later, he’d find a way out.
After picking the chicken bone clean, Jonas sopped up the juices on his plate with a heel of bread.
At the very least, the fare here was better than Sigrún’s shite cooking.
When dining in the garrison hall, it was impossible to tell there was a grain shortage.
But it was no secret that the riots in Sunnavík had worsened, the death toll climbing higher this week.
King Ivar was not terribly popular among his people.
Any hopes of a quick victory in Zagadka had been quashed; and any hopes that the fleet would return to íseldur with boatloads of Zagadkian grain were long gone.
Word was, the king had settled in for a siege, leaving his kingdom without provisions for the winter.
Jonas was no ruler, but even he knew it wasn’t the wisest move.
Movement to his right had Jonas lifting his head.
Straggly blond hair and a patchy beard had his eyes playing tricks on him once more.
For a moment, it was Ilías approaching—Ilías with a tray clutched in bruised hands.
The din of the dining hall fell away as Jonas’s heart grew wings.
But then the light shifted, and the warrior’s likeness with it.
Jonas’s cursed heart crashed into his rib cage.
It was the young warrior who’d been imprisoned in the cell next to his.
Jonas’s despair was so crushing it left him breathless and blinking at his plate as he tried to gather himself. How could this keep happening? How could he have let himself believe, even for a second? Ilías was gone. Jonas would never see him again.
He schooled his face into a scowl as the young warrior set his bowl on the long table and climbed onto the bench across from him. The man’s eye was swollen shut, his face mottled with bruises.
“Jonas, isn’t it?” asked the man. “I’m Freki.” He extended a hand, but Jonas only stared at it.
How this warrior had escaped death during his trial for the Corpse Bringers, Jonas did not quite know.
All he could say was that what Freki lacked in bulk, he made up for in speed.
He’d been able to lure the undead creatures away from one another and had used a board pried loose from the dais to bludgeon them.
The arena had fallen as silent as night as Volund had reluctantly welcomed the young man into the Corpse Bringers.
But Freki had not fared so well in Volund’s fighting games.
When he was pitted against the brutish Horfi, not a single warrior among them had wagered on Freki, and they’d all been proven right.
Jonas had forced himself to watch, and now he relived the vile brutality, staring at the ruins of Freki’s face.
Rolling his lips together, Jonas dropped the last of his bread onto his plate.
He could not be seen with this warrior. Could not afford to offer even a shred of kindness.
Wordlessly, Jonas pushed to his feet, then hesitated.
He planted his hands on the table, holding Freki’s pitiful gaze.
The young warrior’s good eye widened, and he recoiled in fear.
“Let me give you some advice,” Jonas said in a low voice. “You see an opportunity to escape, you take it. Get out of this place before they kill you.”
And with that, he stalked out of the garrison hall to return to his lodgings. The winter sun had long since set, and torches lighting the hallway were sparse, so Jonas did not see the man until he stepped from the shadows.
“Jonas Svik?”
Jonas frowned, eying the wasp sigil on the man’s crimson livery. “Who asks?”
“The queen requests your presence.”
He folded his arms over his chest, irritation prickling through him. “For what reason?”
The messenger bristled. “That is the queen’s business.” He turned on his foot, gesturing for Jonas to follow.
But Jonas hesitated. His bitterness toward the queen had not yet softened.
Because of her, he was in this hellish place.
She’d refused to hear him out that day at the pier.
Some part of him wanted to punish her right back.
Yet as the messenger’s shadow vanished down the corridor, Jonas sighed.
Deep down, he knew he had little choice in obeying the queen’s command, and so after a moment, he followed with long strides.
They exited the garrison hall and made their way across the sparring grounds. On the opposite end, a pair of burly warriors guarding the doors to Askaborg proper stepped aside, allowing them entry.
Jonas had to remind himself to close his mouth as he gazed at the luxurious tapestries and intricate stonework on the castle walls—a far cry from the cold, utilitarian garrison hall.
His mind whirled in search of a reason for the queen’s summons.
What could she possibly have to say to him?
They walked for several silent minutes until at last they paused before a large oak door.
Jonas’s feet faltered as the door swung inward, revealing a cavernous space. A high, vaulted ceiling was supported by arched pillars, but more startling was the fact that it was all white and gold—from the marble floor and dual, gilded hearths to the cream draperies and ivory furs in each corner.
The lone disruption in this sea of white and gold was the figure in mourning black, seated by the largest of the hearths. Queen Signe held a goblet between long, slender fingers, as she regarded him blandly.
Jonas trailed the messenger toward the queen, his unease growing with every step. On the battlefield, he was in his element. But here, before the queen, Jonas was acutely aware of all his shortcomings—the sweat and grime clinging to his skin, the tear in his breeches, and his unkempt beard.
Signe lounged in a gown of black silk, her white-gold braids woven into a steel crown of claws. The queen’s gaze lifted to Jonas, and she studied him in silence.
“You’re meant to bow,” hissed the messenger as the queen’s brows lifted expectantly.
Though his instincts protested—this woman was the cause of his current misery—Jonas forced himself to bow low in deference. As he straightened, he examined the queen’s pale face. Jonas considered himself a master at reading women, but this one—this queen—was completely inscrutable.
“Sit,” said the queen, gesturing to the seat opposite her own.
Reluctantly, Jonas did as she bade, hoping the filth on his leathers didn’t mar her pristine furs. Signe waved two fingers in the air. A cupbearer rushed forward and poured wine into a goblet, and all the while, the queen’s unnerving gaze never left Jonas’s face.
“Jonas Svik,” she murmured, once the cupbearer had left. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”
“No.” He held her gaze, trying desperately to prove her wrong.
But her lips curved into a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Liar.”
Jonas took a sip from his goblet, then blinked. The few samplings of wine he’d tasted in his life had been acidic and sour. But this one played across his tongue like a hundred splendid musical notes.
“It’s good, isn’t it? One of the few good things to come from our Zagadkian friends.” There was no disguising the queen’s sarcasm in the last word.
Jonas wasn’t certain if he was meant to answer, and so he let his eyes roam to the gilded fireplace. How many sólas would the grating fetch? he couldn’t help but wonder.
“You have talent on the sparring grounds.”
Jonas’s gaze snapped back to the queen, that foolish, impulsive bow rushing back to the forefront of his mind. He’d let his anger get the best of him that day in the pits, and now, he felt a moment of regret. “My thanks,” he said woodenly.
The queen took a sip, then set her goblet down. “Word of your prowess reached me from Volund, so I came to see for myself. Imagine my surprise when I realized you were the same man who cost me Svangormr Pass.”
Jonas’s hands tightened around the arms of his chair as he struggled to hold the words back—to explain that they’d had Eisa Volsik when the avalanche had struck.
“I wrote to Kaptein Ulfar,” she said casually, yet he felt her studying his every move, his every reaction. “I understand you came to him in Kopa. That you told him you knew the pair we sought.”
The birchbark etching of Reynir Bjarg and Silla Nordvig—Eisa Volsik, he corrected himself—flashed in his mind. “Aye.”
“The kaptein expressed his doubts in your story.”
“Kaptein Ulfar is an incompetent fool,” snapped Jonas, then closed his eyes in regret.
He braced himself for a reprimand, but was met instead with soft laughter.
“Aye, but he is,” said the queen. “I had him flayed and left for the wolves.” She sipped her wine casually, as though she hadn’t just uttered the most hair-raising thing Jonas had ever heard.
The queen’s eyes locked onto his, sending a jolt straight through him.
“Do you know how hard it is to find competent people?”
Jonas wasn’t certain if he was meant to answer. He held the queen’s gaze, and for the first time in years, he felt faint traces of fear.
The queen continued, unperturbed. “I’ve been thinking, Jonas, that perhaps in my anger, I was rash to dismiss you. What say you to that?”
Jonas swallowed. “I would say you are a wise and humble queen.”
“Humble?” The queen laughed. “It might be the first time I’ve ever been called such a thing. Drink, Jonas.” Signe nodded at his goblet.
Jonas took a large, nerve-calming gulp.
“Tell me, warrior, do you truly know her?” The queen’s gaze had an eager edge to it. “Eisa Volsik.”
The wine in Jonas’s stomach soured at the name. “I thought I did.”
Signe’s white-gold brows rose as she leaned forward in her chair. “Tell me everything.”
Jonas hesitated, reaching for his wine. Some part of him knew he stood on a threshold; that he could walk away from this meeting and find an opportunity to escape.
Jonas could put this all behind him. Start fresh.
But the pendant hung heavily beneath his collar, his grandfather’s words ringing loudly in his ears.
Family, respect, duty.
And so, after a long draught of his wine, Jonas began.
He told the queen a brief version of it all, starting with the woman who’d climbed into the Bloodaxe Crew’s wagon.
He paused to collect himself as he detailed her role in his brother’s death, and finally, Jonas ended with the avalanche that had nearly taken his life.
By the time he was done, the queen’s eyes had sharpened to deadly points. “She cost you your brother.” The queen unexpectedly leaned forward, taking Jonas’s hand in hers. “You understand.” She paused for a moment. “I lost my Yrsa to Saga Volsik.”
Jonas squeezed the queen’s hand in gentle reassurance. Of all the people in íseldur he might feel a sense of kinship with, Queen Signe was the last he’d guess. “I do understand.”
The queen slipped her hand back, then got to her feet. Her black skirts swished on marble as she paced back and forth. “The Volsik sisters are heartless monsters.”
“Aye, but they are.”
“So…kind and caring on the surface,” continued Signe. “But it’s only a ruse. Beneath it, they are cold, selfish beasts who take and take and take. They think of no one but themselves.”
Jonas had been numb for so long that the anger licking in his chest was disorienting. “Exactly.”
The queen paused as her gaze met his. “I know we’ve just met, Jonas, but I feel a sort of kinship with you—we have so much in common. Can I trust you?”
“Aye.”
“This must not leave this room.”
“It won’t.”
The queen licked her lips. “There are those in íseldur who support the Volsik sisters. These supporters are like weeds, growing in each corner of the kingdom. But they do not know how many hands I have to pluck them.” A malevolent smile curled Signe’s lips.
“Eisa is in Kopa, trying to rally the jarls of the north against my husband. But she does not know I have a spy in her midst, reporting her every pitiful attempt.”
Jonas’s heart thumped in his chest as excitement churned through his blood.
But the queen’s smile fell. “Eisa is slippery as an eel, as you’ve discovered. Already, she’s escaped three attempts on her life. Tell me, Jonas. Tell me what you know of her. Give us some edge that we might use against her.”
Jonas reached for his goblet and took a hearty drink. And then he told the queen everything he knew.