Chapter 38 #2
Myrkur’s laugh fell from Silla’s lips, unnatural and eerie, and Rey pushed away from the bed to resume his pacing.
“Pitiful mortals,” taunted the god. “So beholden to your hearts. Tell me, warrior, would you give your life for hers?”
“Aye,” said Rey, without hesitation.
Myrkur tutted. “Unfortunately, you do not hold my interest.”
Now Rey did drive his fist into the wall—a foolish mistake, as the volcanic stone split his knuckles.
He cursed and shook out his hand, but Rey was glad for the pain—it was far more tolerable than what lay on that bed.
Each glance at Silla felt like a hand reaching through his ribs and squeezing his heart.
Each word from Myrkur was like knives in his skull.
It was hard to stay hopeful in moments like these.
Because even when the god’s grip on Silla faded, the fact was, irreparable damage had just been done.
Jarl Holger had witnessed Silla’s possession, and Rey did not want to consider the repercussions.
Would he withdraw his offer of warriors?
Would he poison the other jarls against their cause?
One week. They had only one week before they rode for the woods. This was the last thing they needed.
A strange scratching noise drew Rey’s attention. He strode to the window and pulled back the curtain. Before him was a chilling sight—a black hawk perched at an iron offerings plate, tearing meat from a chicken bone.
The black hawk is a harbinger of death, rattled Harpa’s voice in his mind.
“I won’t lose her!” Rey bellowed, pounding on the window with his fist.
“Easy, Galtung,” said Runny, laying a hand on his shoulder. “That hawk has been here each day, feeding on the offerings left for the spirits and the gods.” She sighed. “And the healer said rest is the best thing for Eisa.”
But Rey only scowled as the black hawk took flight, the offerings clutched in its talons.
He scrubbed a hand down his face and made to turn away from the window, but something curious caught his eye.
The corner of the window frame was pried loose, several curly hairs clinging to it.
Rey leaned closer. Below the window jutted an ornamental lip of stone.
“I suppose,” said Rey, plucking the curly hairs from the window frame, “this answers the question of how she escaped the room.”
Runny joined him, staring down at the ledge. “None of this makes sense. Ingvarr was beside me when we swept the rooms. Beside me when Eisa entered and locked the doors. He could not have slipped in.”
Rey scowled out the window, his moods as dark as the night. “What happened?”
“I do not know,” said Runny carefully. “But I suspect there will be no answers tonight. Get yourself some sleep, Galtung. Morning will bring a better day.”
Runny returned to her seat near Atli and continued flipping through her book.
A moment later, Rey settled across from them.
There was an edge to this silence. An imaginary blade hovering at Silla’s heart.
The three of them searched for a way to free Silla from the bargain long into the night.
But it seemed no answers were to be found.
Rey woke to the clank of chains. Immediately, he surged upright and reached for the dagger under his pillow.
Perhaps it had been unwise to share a bed with Silla, but he couldn’t stand the thought of her alone.
And so he’d arranged himself on the farthest edge, leaving ample space between them.
As his gaze now settled on Silla, Rey found her clear-eyed, and exhaled in relief.
Myrkur no longer held her in His thrall.
“Rey?” she asked, a panicked edge to her voice.
“What is this? What’s happened?” She tugged on the restraint again, setting the chains to clatter.
Silla paused. “What happened to your face?” She attempted to sit upright, but her manacles caught and wrenched her back down.
A whimper escaped her. “Tell me what has happened.”
“What do you remember?” asked Rey, prodding his broken nose. It was swollen and tender, and would likely soon be spectacularly bruised.
“I had a bad dream,” she whispered, craning her neck to look at her restraints.
Rey followed her gaze to her curled fingers—to the bandages wrapped around her palms.
Silla released a ragged breath. “It wasn’t a dream, was it?” Before he could answer, a low wail escaped her. “Oh, gods. Ingvarr…your nose…did I—”
“No. It was not you.” But Rey’s words rang hollow, even to his own ears.
Silla’s chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, and he knew her mind had gone to Fallgerd.
“Everyone is safe, Silla. No one was harmed.”
“But I tried, didn’t I?” Her voice trembled, making an ache spread through his chest.
Rey was silent, which he supposed was answer enough.
“I was so tired,” she said, collapsing on the pillow and staring at the roof. “I’d kept Him out all day. My mental strength was weakened.”
“Let me release you—”
“No! You will keep me shackled to this bed. It is long overdue.” Silla drew a tremulous breath.
“It is time I accept the truth: I am a danger to others.”