Chapter 37
Kopa, íseldur
Rey’s nerves were on edge as his spoon scraped the bottom of his bowl. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze falling on the curly-haired woman seated across from him. Today they took the daymeal alone in her chambers as Silla conserved her strength for their upcoming meeting with the jarls.
She’d been uncharacteristically quiet all morning, a fact which made Rey want to punch the wall. It was clear the god was growing more active, twisting Silla’s thoughts and whispering inside her skull. It drove him mad that there was nothing he could do to lift the burden from her shoulders.
Silla buried a yawn in her sleeve, then met his eyes with annoyance. “Bother,” she muttered. “A queen doesn’t yawn, according to Lady Tala.”
Rey’s eyes narrowed. “And I suppose a queen doesn’t piss, either,” he grumbled. As far as he was concerned, Lady Tala could go and jump into the Hvíta River. What did a battle-hardened jarl care for rules and etiquette?
Silla’s eyes widened. “Absolutely not!” But she propped her chin on her fist and cocked her head to the side. “According to Tala, I must never insinuate such bodily needs. But if it absolutely must be broached, I’m to say I must pass water.”
Rey’s face pulled into a grimace, causing Silla to burst into laughter. But suddenly she flinched, then fell silent. Immediately, Rey sat up a little straighter.
“What did He say?” he asked with cutting calm.
For the past few days, Rey had studied Silla’s every move—each small expression—and he’d learned the signs that the god of chaos was present. A flinch. A sharp word. And most chilling of all, the occasional dark flicker in her eye that hinted someone else peered out at him.
Silla reached across the table and slid her hand into his. Rey gasped—her palm was ice-cold. Instinctively, his thumb rubbed circles on the back of her hand.
“Dimples,” Silla muttered, and he knew she recited her hearthfire thoughts. “The ice crystals that form in the air when it’s really cold. The winterwing bird’s song.”
Her palm seemed to warm by the barest degree.
“The handaxes I picked up in Sunnavík,” Rey contributed. “The way you drool when you sleep.”
“At least I do not snore!” Silla shot back.
“But you do steal all the blankets.”
The tension in Silla’s shoulders eased as her lips curved into the hint of a smile. “My thanks. It seems He’s rather…enthusiastic this morning.” She returned her focus to her half-eaten bowl of porridge.
Tension coiled in Rey’s gut. He knew their time to muster an army was tight, but his concern for Silla’s well-being was growing by the hour.
“Should we reschedule our meeting?” Rey asked cautiously.
“No!” Silla snapped, in a way that told Rey it was not all her. “We’ve rescheduled once already. Too long have we waited. It must happen today.”
Unease crept across Rey’s skin as he watched her eat.
They had to free her from this gods damned bargain, but how?
The Weaver Silla had visited was still bedridden, and Fallgerd was dead.
All that remained were the piles of books they combed through day after day.
It was like searching for a single snowflake in an enormous snowdrift.
How would they find answers? How would they cure her?
He dragged his hands across his thick curls, before folding them behind his head. Rey was used to being a leader. To having complete control. But when it came to the bargain living inside Silla, he felt completely helpless.
“After we meet with the jarls—” he began.
“We must practice drawing out my bloodline gift,” Silla finished for him.
Rey frowned as she smothered another yawn. “Perhaps you ought to rest. Last night you—” He broke off as the memory of her voice rang in his ears. A voice that was not her own, speaking in tongues. “It is clear you had dark dreams. I think rest is in order.”
Silla slapped a palm on the table, her eyes flashing black for the fraction of a heartbeat. “We haven’t time to rest,” she said sharply. “I must play with this bloodline gift. Learn all I can of it.”
Trepidation crept across his skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Rey held himself rigid as stone, wondering if these were Silla’s words, or if they were Myrkur’s. Gods, but he hated this.
How was Silla to practice this bloodline gift of hers to prepare for the battle in the heartwood with a shard of the god of chaos monitoring her at all times?
They’d been fortunate that Myrkur had exhausted Himself in the wake of the unfortunate meeting of jarls, as it had left Silla’s mind to herself for several hours.
During those precious hours, they’d discovered that Silla could pull magic not only from halda stones but also from other Galdra. After she’d inadvertently pulled Rey’s galdur, she’d repeated the move countless times. Then Silla had called over Runny and done the same with her light-bending skills.
“I can see…threads!” Silla had gasped, vanishing before Rey’s eyes.
After Silla mastered vanishing, Runny showed her how to form a shield of curving light.
Then Silla had called Hef over, and learned to wield his Blade Breaker skill.
By the end of the day, they’d learned Silla could most easily pull from those who were primed.
But with a little extra effort, she could draw straight from Rey’s source.
“Why do you think you could not feel this bloodline gift before now?” Rey asked cautiously. It was a fine line between understanding this gift and revealing too much to Myrkur.
Silla tapped her spoon against her bowl. “I think,” she finally said, “my Ashbringer source is so bright and vibrant and…loud…that I could not sense this other ability. Only now that my Ashbringer source is smothered with hindrium am I able to sense these more subtle cues.”
Rey hummed in agreement, but then turned toward the door as someone knocked. “Come in!” he called out, hoping it wasn’t the irritating one called Ingvarr.
Thankfully, it was Runny, no doubt here to usher them to their meeting with the jarls. But her drawn expression had Rey immediately on his feet.
“What is it?” snarled Silla. Rey could have sworn the torchlight flared black for a second.
“Refugees,” said Runny, gaze darting from Silla to Rey in alarm. Is she all right? she asked with her eyes. Rey shook his head subtly, no. Runny swallowed, then continued. “Hundreds, I’m told. They’ve been gathering at Kopa’s gates all morning.”
“Refugees?” asked Silla, and to Rey’s great relief, the words seemed to be truly her own. “From where?”
“From the countryside.” Runny’s dark eyes met Rey’s. “They bring word of a mist with a beating heart.”
“Why are they gathering at the gates?” asked Silla. “Has Jarl Hakon refused them entry?”
“Aye,” answered Runny. “He claims he hasn’t the resources to feed them.”
“He has,” snapped Silla, and this time, Rey was certain the flamelight beside him blazed black. “I have seen that man’s grain stores with my own eyes. You will take me to him, Runny.”
Trouble, thought Rey, trailing Silla from her chambers. He had a bad feeling about this day.
News of the refugees seemed to enliven Silla.
She quickly took charge of a group of servants—remembering each of their names with enviable ease—and ordered that any empty room in Ashfall Fortress be readied.
Within an hour, she had the kitchens preparing a dozen enormous cauldrons of stew and countless batches of griddle cakes; the stablehands collecting spare blankets and clothing; the healers gathering in Ashfall’s great hall, ready to see to any sick and injured.
The meeting with the jarls was postponed once more.
Jarl Hakon hovered nearby and tried to interject, but he was uncharacteristically cowed by Silla today.
Rey was certain he’d seen those dark flashes in her eyes, and given that Hakon was privy to Myrkur’s bargain, it was likely the jarl was simply afraid to object.
Atli, to his begrudging credit, took orders from Silla with impressive ease, and was soon putting out a call for any available lodgings in Kopa.
Pride bloomed in Rey’s chest as he watched her lead—as he watched the jarls who’d seemed ready to dismiss her the day before witnessing the true Silla in action.
Rey didn’t have to watch carefully to see the signs of Myrkur—Silla flinched frequently, her words growing sharp.
Despite this, she seemed to hold Him back.
As the line of hungry, exhausted refugees snaked from Ashfall’s gates and down through the streets of Kopa, Silla insisted on standing by a cauldron, ladle in hand.
She spooned stew into wooden bowls, greeting each beleaguered villager with a smile and reassurance.
Rey stood by her side, handing out flatbreads while trying not to frighten the refugees with his axe eyes.
As the sun reached its low peak in the winter skies, stories flowed into the city, matching what he and Silla had told the jarls just a day before—mist crawling across the countryside, Turning all creatures in its wake.
There were tales of nightmare creatures and human draugur, of the moldering stench that clung to them.
Now, more than ever, Rey was reminded of his purpose, and of those who’d pay should he fail to muster an army.
Today he would swallow his pride and go to Atli—would go to any jarl who’d hear him out. He’d do what it took to get Atli’s help in mustering men, even if it meant dropping to his knees and begging.
Hours passed, and the line gradually dwindled.
The cauldrons were scraped dry, the platters of flatbreads emptied, and winter’s early darkness fell over them.
Silla swayed on her feet, exhaustion etched into her face, but as Rey wrapped a stabilizing arm around her shoulders, he caught sight of a figure watching from the shadows. It was an opportunity he had to take.
Rey waved Runny over. “Take her to her chambers and make sure she lies down.”
As Runny led Silla away, Rey strode toward the man in the shadows. There, leaning against Ashfall’s black stone walls, was Jarl Holger, his impressive gray beard reaching midway down his chest.
He tried not to show his deep discomfort in approaching the jarl. For the last five years, Rey had been the blade, or as Atli put it, a hound on the Uppreisna’s leash. What right had he to make an ask of this jarl?
But as he took in the brutal scar on Holger’s pale cheek, Rey told himself that this was not the kind of jarl who lounged by the hearthfire and let others do the work. He could do this. He could ask this man for help.
Reaching the wall, Rey extended a hand.
Holger accepted it and gave it a sturdy shake. “I cannot decide why you look so familiar,” said Holger, examining Rey’s face in the torchlight.
Rey forced his limbs to relax. “I’m certain we’ve never met, my lordship.” The words felt clumsy on his tongue, and Rey stumbled over what to say next.
But realization had settled in Holger’s face. “You’re a Galtung.”
A premonitory ache grew in Rey’s throat. “Aye,” he croaked.
“I knew your father,” said Holger, stroking his long beard. “We fought shoulder to shoulder when—” The jarl sighed, sorrow settling in his face. He did not need to finish the sentence for Rey to know he thought of the Urkans’ landing. The battle his father did not return from.
“He was a good man, your father,” continued Holger, before launching into a story about the chaos they’d caused behind Urkan lines.
As Rey listened, his discomfort eased just a touch.
Holger did not speak to him as though he were lesser, and they had common ground.
As the jarl wrapped up his story, Rey prepared to make his ask.
A better man would play the dance of words—would ease into things—but it was not who Rey was.
Instead, he broached the topic with the subtlety of a broadsword.
“I would call on your history with my father, Jarl Holger. You’ve seen the refugees. Have heard the tales they carry. We need good men to fight with us in the Western Woods.”
Jarl Holger chuckled softly, staring up at night’s first stars.
“In these matters, you’re direct. More like your mother than your father, I suppose.
” The jarl exhaled heavily, and Rey felt the man choosing his words.
“I have seen the refugees. I have heard their tales. I’ve also heard tellings of giant serpents in the north.
” The jarl paused. “Strange happenings indeed. Alone, they might merely be oddities. But together…together they tell an alarming story.”
Holger laid a hand on Rey’s arm. “I tell you this in honor of your father, and because I respect that you’re not the sort to play games.
” Jarl Holger’s jaw hardened. “This is where I stand. I arrived with doubt in my heart—doubt that the girl Hakon had unearthed was truly Eisa Volsik. But the moment I saw her at the feast, I knew she was who he claimed. I can see it in her eyes and her hair; in the scar beside her eye; and, strangely, in the way she moves her hands when speaking. For a moment, I thought that at last our prayers had come true—that íseldur had hope of becoming whole once more.”
Rey braced himself for what came next.
“But I sense something dark in her—something she keeps from us. And I cannot place my faith in a leader, no matter their name, when they hide truths from me. I will send a warband to fight with you in the woods, Reynir Galtung, but I do it for you. For your father. And for this strangeness I sense sweeping across our lands.”
Rey was filled with a mixture of gratitude and worry. He wanted to explain about Myrkur—about Queen Svalla’s bargain gone awry. But it was not his truth to share, and so he forced a smile. Clasped Jarl Holger’s hand again.
“My thanks, Jarl Holger,” said Rey.
And as they turned toward the fortress entryway, for the first time in weeks, Rey felt the stirrings of hope.
Holger had spoken to Rey as an equal. Had taken his request seriously.
And Holger would send warriors, which would certainly help sway the other jarls.
Rey might just muster the men he needed to do battle in the heartwood.
But as they walked beneath Ashfall’s portcullis, Runny came rushing forward, a look of panic on her face.
“What is it?” demanded Rey, the fine hairs on his arms lifting.
“Eisa,” said Runny, gaze darting everywhere. “She’s gone missing.”