Chapter 43 #2
Rey bit down on his back molars. Jarl Hakon was a schemer to be sure, yet of anyone, he stood to benefit from Eisa Volsik’s return. “That landslide endangered his heir’s life,” Rey said slowly. “And Atli’s reaction just now”—he shook his head—“he was genuinely shocked.”
“I should like,” said Silla, climbing from bed, “to look at Ingvarr’s quarters myself.
Perhaps there is an explanation—a motive to be found.
” She snatched a gown draped on the back of a chair, then slid it over her head.
Within minutes, she was dressed in a gown and boots, her hair braided back.
But most beautiful of all was the brightness back in her eyes.
“May I?” asked Rey huskily. In his hands was the thigh sheath he’d gifted to her all those days ago. At her nod, he dropped to his knees before her, one hand sliding under her skirts. He slid the strap in place. Pressed a kiss to her knee. And let the silken skirts fall to the floor.
As he stood, he noted the color in her cheeks—the determination in her eyes. But as her gaze settled on Rey, they softened.
“You never gave up on me,” she said.
The very thought made anger kindle inside him. Rey slid his hands over her hips. He tugged her against him, then tilted her chin up. “Never,” he said through gritted teeth.
Silla’s fingers slid around his neck, and she pulled him down until his lips hovered just above hers.
“Frightened together,” she whispered against him.
“Somewhere along the line, I forgot about our promise.” And then Silla kissed him deeply, gripping his jacket while pushing up on the tips of her toes.
A groan built low in his throat as he held her to him, no traces of cold, no traces of anger—of the vile god still lurking inside her. “Always,” Rey said. It was strange how this thing between them grew stronger, even as the world fell to pieces.
With a sigh, Silla drew back, though her eyes held a dark promise. “Now,” she said with a mischievous smile. “Shall we have a little search through Ingvarr’s quarters?”
And as she flounced from the room, Rey couldn’t keep the smile from curving his lips. Today, he would get answers, even if he had to tear them from Ingvarr, kicking and screaming.
To Silla, the afternoon passed in a whirl before grinding to a halting stop. Ingvarr’s guards had gone into an uproar, insisting that he was a man of good name and morals.
But their protests had quieted as evidence emerged from Ingvarr’s chambers: plans for Fallgerd’s home; a pry bar with rock dust upon it; and most damning of all—the surcoat with a torn sigil. The scrap of fabric found in Fallgerd’s hand fit perfectly in the space.
Perhaps the biggest surprise of all was the collection of sedative quills found in Ingvarr’s chambers.
According to Atli, these quills should be housed in the maester’s apothecary.
Further investigation unearthed remnants of crimson thread—the precise kind used to secure correspondence to messenger falcons.
And after turning Ingvarr’s room inside out, they found one of the missing letters—one from Eisa to Jarl Agnar—stashed beneath his mattress.
“Why would he keep it?” asked Silla, confused.
It was a good question—one that Rey seemed to puzzle over for some time. “Protection,” Rey had finally answered, which only made Silla’s head spin faster. “The only logical reason not to burn it is if this letter was damning to someone else.”
“I do not understand.”
“I think,” Rey said carefully, “Ingvarr was doing someone else’s bidding. It would make sense. Why would a queen correspond directly with a guard?”
“It’s only more questions,” Silla said with a sigh.
She ran over the facts in her mind. All evidence pointed to Ingvarr as both Fallgerd’s killer and the one who’d triggered the rockslide.
Ingvarr also seemed the culprit for Silla’s missing letters.
But how had Ingvarr poisoned Silla’s wine when he’d been stationed well across the room?
And if someone was indeed directing Ingvarr, then who?
It was midday when Atli delivered the news they did not want to hear. Ingvarr had been found.
And he was dead.
Though Rey had advised against it, Silla insisted on being brought to the body. In the far back corner of one of the stables, his corpse was sprawled in the hay. The hilt of a blade protruded from his chest, Ingvarr’s hand clasped around it.
It is what he deserved, hissed Myrkur, writhing with anger.
Silla flinched, though she was glad to know Ingvarr’s death could not have been by her hand—not when she’d been shackled to the bed or in Rey’s presence for the past several days. Ingvarr’s once-pale skin was now a grayish hue. It was clear he’d been dead for several hours.
“Pity,” muttered Rey, cracking his knuckles. “I’d have liked a few minutes alone with him.”
Silla pressed her fingers to her lips, sorrow flowing through her. “He took his own life.”
Better his than yours, whispered the god.
“Perhaps,” Rey said carefully. “Or perhaps we’re only meant to think that.”
Eyes wide, she turned to him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Rey, “perhaps someone in this fortress was willing to kill Ingvarr to keep him from talking.”