Chapter 43
Kopa, íseldur
The hours dragged on, but Silla only grew more resolute in her choice to remain shackled to her bed. She’d let her condition go on in secret for too long—she ought to have locked herself away in the aftermath of Fallgerd’s death.
Now she was simply too tired to keep the god of chaos from slithering into her mind.
She dreamed His dreams; heard His curious mutterings.
Myrkur was always prodding, always searching, and Silla knew He was trying to understand her bloodline gift and how it had the power to undo Him.
She’d thought that she could hold Him off—that she had more time.
But now, she was forced to accept the truth.
She was slowly losing herself to Myrkur.
For the hundredth time, Silla wondered how things had gone so badly. She’d failed at being a silent placeholder queen. Had ruined Hakon’s plans to rally the jarls and Rey’s chances of mustering warriors. Gods, what had she done? Saga would never have made such a mess of things.
Atli and Runny sat near the hearth, frantically flipping through tomes as though the answer to all Silla’s problems would suddenly emerge.
The silence in the room made Silla want to scream.
It was no weightless, easy silence, but a dangerous, unsettling kind.
Each passing breath brought them a moment closer to the doomed battle at the heartwood.
How was she going to vanquish this mist when she did not have her own thoughts to herself?
You must convince them to release you, Eisa, whispered Myrkur. If we want the throne, we must act quickly. The jarls cannot leave before they’ve sworn themselves to us—
Silla squeezed her eyes shut and tried to push the god away. But no matter how many hearthfire thoughts she forced into her mind, Silla could not find a shred of optimism. It was like a vital part of her had died; like her light had been smothered by Myrkur’s darkness.
Atli slammed a book shut with obvious irritation.
When he’d first arrived in the morning, Atli had droned on about everything and nothing for several long minutes, until Silla finally demanded that he give her an honest report.
It was not good news. Jarl Holger, it seemed, was not ready to raise his banners for Eisa Volsik, and the other jarls were following suit.
The lone bright spot in this dismal news was that Holger would still send the men he’d promised to the heartwood.
But none of the other jarls had made such an offer.
“Holger has ordered his horses readied,” Atli finished, wearily. “He plans to ride home on the morrow.”
Atli had settled near the hearth with a book soon after, and Lady Tala had taken his place by her side.
She’d examined Silla’s pallor and tutted over the manacles clasped at her wrists.
But then Tala had fluffed the pillows and ordered a window opened to allow fresh air into the chambers.
Broth was brought up, and Tala offered to spoon it into her mouth, but Silla’s stomach roiled at the sight of it.
“Has there been any sign of Ingvarr?” Silla whispered, the wounds in her palms throbbing angrily.
Rey had explained that such marks could only have been left when defending herself, and that Ingvarr had fled before he could be questioned.
Had Ingvarr attacked Silla, and Myrkur retaliated?
And did this mean that Ingvarr was the assassin?
But there were too many questions—too many holes that needed filling.
For one thing, Ingvarr had been far from Silla’s cup on the day of the attempted poisoning.
When questioned about the day of the rockslide, Runny could not recall Ingvarr’s position.
It had been too chaotic, and their group was fractured by the slide.
Lady Tala shook her head with a tight smile. “There has been no sign of him, I’m afraid, but you needn’t worry. You must focus on restoring your health. Come, take some broth.”
Tala lifted the spoon again, the thin liquid quivering upon it. Bile rose in Silla’s throat again. “Later,” she said weakly. With a frustrated sigh, Tala set the bowl aside then began prattling on about the inroads she and Ladies Liv and Kaeja had made with the jarls’ wives.
Silla was glad when Tala finally took her leave until she realized she was now alone with Myrkur and her toxic thoughts.
The god of chaos breathed in her bitterness and exhaled it in greater potency.
She’d come to Kopa with hope and determination, but now she felt shattered and on the very brink of ruin.
There was blood on her hands.
Poison in her mind.
Why are you so stubborn, Eisa? whispered Myrkur, His claws sliding into her mind, kneading and molding it as He saw fit. Are you not intrigued by all that we could accomplish together?
Silla sighed, too weary to shove Him out.
All you need to do is let me in. Grant me access to your bloodline gift.
Images flooded her mind—legions of undead creatures and black-veined Klaernar; berserker warriors banging weapons against their shields.
An enormous black dragon circled the skies above, and all the while, raw, unbridled power thrummed through Silla’s veins.
You could have it all, Eisa, whispered Myrkur.
The throne. íseldur’s undying loyalty. A reprieve from your pitiful mortal struggles.
All you need to do is yield your Volsik power to me.
The door flew open and crashed against the wall, sending Myrkur’s depraved images scattering from her mind. Rey stormed through the doorway, a strange look upon his face. Deep inside her, Myrkur hissed in displeasure.
“What is it?” asked Runny as she and Atli gathered at Silla’s bedside.
“This!” There was a note of triumph in Rey’s voice, and his hand was curled into a fist. Rey’s dark gaze homed in on Silla. “You hadn’t any cuts on your hands when they found you in Fallgerd’s home. There were only smears of blood on your gown and hands.”
Runny nodded vehemently.
“Fallgerd suffered a dozen stab wounds,” continued Rey. “If you’d killed him, Silla, you’d surely have cut yourself.”
Silla’s gaze roamed his face as she tried to understand.
He shook his fist once more, and for the first time, Silla realized he held a small scrap of fabric. “I visited the undertaker,” he said, a mad sort of gleam in his eyes. “While preparing Fallgerd’s body for burial, he found this in his hand.”
Rey held the scrap near enough for Silla to study it. A swath of red fabric was embroidered with threads of gold in the image of a dragon’s claw. Shock jolted through her in recognition, but Atli’s dark voice beat her to it.
“This is my house sigil.” Atli’s olive skin flushed red with fury.
Rey kept his focus trained on Silla. “Someone else was in that room, Silla,” he said gently. “The dark form you saw was real.”
Tears blurred her vision.
“You didn’t kill Fallgerd,” he said in a low, dark voice. “This fabric proves someone else was there. Imagine that this someone entered Fallgerd’s home. Tried to kill Princess Eisa. But Old Man Fallgerd interrupted them, and they turned on him instead.”
“I didn’t—”
“No. You didn’t. I suspect that Fallgerd’s killer then turned his blade on you—that was the dark form looming over you. But you screamed. Startled them away.”
The despair in Silla’s chest was displaced by a feeling so potent it sent Myrkur skittering deep within her. Hope. “But the blood on my hands—”
“Came from the weapon. They used your hevrít; placed it back on your lap to frame you.”
She hadn’t killed Fallgerd.
But who had? Silla forced her thoughts back to that horrid day. Ingvarr had hauled her to her feet and carried her from the home. She’d stared at his uniform, desperate for calm. Had noted the róa stains. The torn corner of his sigil.
“It was Ingvarr,” she whispered. “Ingvarr killed Fallgerd.”
Victory swelled in Rey’s chest as Runny and Atli raced off to search through Ingvarr’s quarters. He and Silla were alone in the room.
“I have Atli’s sedative in my pocket,” said Rey, staring at Silla’s fluttering pulse. Her eyes were set with determination, yet uncertainty still lurked beneath.
He slid the key into the manacles and they clicked open, releasing her wrist. Rey took it in his hands and massaged the red indentation. His eyes met hers and held them. “I won’t hesitate to use that sedative. And I surely won’t let you near my nose again.”
Rey had seen his reflection—two black eyes and a new crook across the bridge of his nose.
It looked ghastly, and yet it was nothing he hadn’t suffered before.
As he released the rest of Silla’s shackles, he felt as though he could finally breathe.
He’d spent hours chasing down leads, questioning anyone who’d been near Fallgerd’s home on that fateful day.
Rey had been too late to examine Fallgerd’s body before it was buried.
But when the undertaker had passed Rey a satchel with the old man’s bodily possessions, his irritation had quickly shifted to exhilaration.
That scrap of fabric changed everything.
And as he’d watched understanding light Silla’s eyes, he realized how much Fallgerd’s death had weighed on her. He hoped this news loosened the dark god’s grip on her just a touch.
Silla now held the scrap of fabric up to the light.
“I should have known,” she said softly. “Ingvarr’s attire is normally pristine.
But the day of Fallgerd’s murder, as he carried me back to Ashfall, it was stained and torn.
” Silla’s gaze turned steely. “Queen Signe sends her regards. That’s what he said. ”
“So Ingvarr is working for the Urkan queen.” Rey massaged Silla’s wrists, running over everything he knew about Ingvarr. “He was appointed by Jarl Hakon to keep you safe. Now it seems he might actually have been tasked with ending your life.”
“Ingvarr was with us on the day of the rockslide,” mused Silla. Her eyes met Rey’s. “Do you think Jarl Hakon knew Ingvarr’s motives?”