Chapter 26 Solveig
Energy buzzed through the camp as the first group of Fae were set to arrive the following morning.
Unsure of what time they would show up, Latham would be out at dawn, ready to greet them. But Solveig’s focus wasn’t solely on keeping her title—she had more pressing fears to deal with.
With the approach of the Fae imminent, her magic coursed through her. A panic attack had woken her in the middle of the night, and she slipped outside the tent before her screams could wake Gerrie.
It was dark and only the Nightwatch moved about the camp. They nodded to her as she passed, which she returned as best she could. She tamped her panic and fear down until she could be alone.
She made her way through one of the side gates and ran as hard as she could deep into the forest. When she was far enough away, she curled into a ball and let out sob after sob, terrified of what was to come.
Would her little party of five—or hopefully just four if Booth had died where she left him—be in this group? Maybe they’d arrive with the next one. Her fear lingered, snaking through her body from the roots firmly planted in her soul.
She knew how they moved and their general shapes, but would she be able to pick them out in a crowd?
Her head spun with the increase in her breaths.
Her magic was going haywire under her skin, the frantic energy doing nothing to calm her.
She had to get control of it somehow, but without the ability to wield it, she didn’t know how.
There was no way to siphon off the excess energy building with her extreme emotions.
She hadn’t spoken of her magic to anyone, not even Gerrie or Laeknir. She couldn’t bring herself to say the words, to plant the hope that their magic was alive too.
So she hyperventilated alone as the panic worked its way through her body. Each sound and movement in the forest spiked her heart rate, her senses on high alert for any danger.
Solveig gritted her teeth and counted to three, needing to get control over herself once more. She counted to three again and again and again, counting until her breathing finally slowed. Still curled in a ball on her side, she forced herself to sit up.
That was the last time she would break.
She rose on steady, albeit sore, legs and ran back to camp to prepare, not realizing most of the morning had passed, and still, the Fae had not arrived.
With a flash of an idea, Solveig switched course, heading for the tents of her shieldmaidens with a new ploy, one that might help aid her to find the ones who had caused her so much pain.
Her shieldmaidens were tucked at the end of one of the long rows, near the back of the camp.
She quietly knocked on the post outside one entrance.
Two slow, soft knocks followed by three harder ones in quick succession.
She heard Veda mumble something to her husband.
Satisfied she was awake, Solveig proceeded to knock the same pattern on Signe and Idunn’s tent.
Her three shieldmaidens silently followed her to the back wall, behind the towering dungeon building.
Their figures were tall and lean and they moved in unison, as silently as the wind. Solveig had trained them well.
Idunn quickly braided her blond hair back, readying herself for a command, her blue eyes alight with spirit.
Signe, her partner, stood a head shorter, her warm skin complementing her bone-straight black hair and dark eyes.
Veda brought up the rear, face framed by tight braids already twisted into a knot at the back of her head.
Unlike Gerrie, Veda’s dark brown skin was not covered in tattoos, only the sigil on her upper arm that marked her as Solveig’s shieldmaiden.
“I need your help,” Solveig whispered.
“Of course, General. What can we do for you?” Idunn asked, mirroring Solveig’s quiet tone.
There was no pity on their faces, only fierce loyalty. Solveig looked each of them in the eye and her mask slipped to reveal the vulnerability she tried to keep hidden. Veda rested her hand on Solveig’s shoulder and the touch gave her the strength she needed.
“The Idavoll Fae are responsible for my capture,” Solveig started, not wasting any time.
Veda’s hand dropped in surprise. Signe and Idunn traded a look of disbelief.
“They are coming here,” Veda stated.
Solveig nodded once. “I know. I’m not sure if . . . if I’ll be able to recognize them.”
“Did you see any of their faces?” Idunn asked.
Solveig shook her head. “I wasn’t able to learn much about them, unfortunately. Only that they were under orders from Idavoll. One of them let slip Queen Alvida’s name when they thought I was unconscious.”
“How can we help?” Signe asked, taking a step closer to Solveig.
“To start, I need you to help me uncover their identities.”
The shieldmaidens did not appear the least bit dismayed by this impossible task. In fact, a dark gleam entered their eyes, their shock quickly fading into determination.
“We will do anything we can to find them,” Signe swore, no hint of doubt in her strong voice.
“Thank you,” Solveig said, relief flooding her senses.
“Are you comfortable with sharing any details you have?” Idunn asked cautiously.
Solveig took a deep breath. “There were five of them. Four males, one female.” She gave them as accurate a description as she could of each Fae’s general build and demeanour and of Booth’s differing stature.
She was fairly sure he was not a Vanir-Elven Fae, but she hadn’t had the time to study him to determine his heritage.
“We will not let you down, General,” Veda said, bringing her fist to her chest, the other two following her lead.
“You must be discreet. No one can suspect that Idavoll has betrayed the Trifold until we know more. I will inform Gerrie, and she can assist you in any way you need.”
“We understand,” they said in unison. Solveig thanked them again and left them to make their plans.
Gerrie was getting changed from her dirty training gear when Solveig entered the tent and filled her in on the conversation with her shieldmaidens. As Solveig put on her black fighting leathers, the two discussed strategy and she let Gerrie curse her out for not telling her sooner.
Though she left off her armour, Solveig made it clear she was readying herself for battle.
She strapped on dagger after dagger, her swords crossing at her back, and hung Booth’s hammer at her side. Her hair was longer than it had ever been, and she weaved rows of small braids at the sides, intertwining them at the base of her neck with the large plait that fell down her back.
Solveig took great care in applying the marks on her face.
She used kohl just under her eyes, with a thick black line crossing both cheekbones and over the bridge of her nose.
She drew an Othala rune on her forehead to signify that this home was hers and she had the strength and power to defend it, even without magic.
The outstretched lines at the base of the diamond hovered above her brows. On her chin, which she customarily marked with only one thick black line, she drew the Sowulo.
She tried and failed to will her magic into it. Still, the mark would infuriate Latham, and probably the absent gods for using one of their precious symbols. Solveig only ever used the Sowulo rune in battle, and her people knew it.
They needed a reminder of who she was and what she was capable of. It wouldn’t hurt to remind herself of that as well. Whether imbued with magic or not, symbols held power.
Solveig faced Gerrie with a wicked grin. She returned the smile, taking in Solveig’s warpaint.
“She’s back, bitches.”
“Hel yeah I am.”
“Let’s go meet some Fae bastards, shall we?” Gerrie slapped her ass on the way out of the tent and Solveig’s laugh was real and full. She fastened her fur-lined cloak around her shoulders.
“Let’s do this.”
Gerrie followed one step behind Solveig on their way to the front gates. They could hear the Fae had already arrived and, based on the growing crowd at the gates, were being given a very warm welcome.
Solveig hung back to watch her people flock around the preening Fae peacocks. She didn’t blame them—this was the first time they’d received outside visitors in almost fifty years. She’d let them have a bit of fun and make her presence known when the time was right.
Latham grasped the forearm of the leader of the group, a male who towered over him.
In response, he puffed out his chest, standing at full height.
Solveig rolled her eyes. Latham could turn the charm on when he wanted to, and he was clearly pulling out all the stops.
The Fae’s voice rang out to the waiting crowd.
“Vanir of the Southern Wilds, thank you for allowing us onto your lands and into your homes. You have the respect of Asgard and Idavoll for all you have been through.” He bowed to the people.
“The honour is all ours, Lord Conalle,” Latham said loudly, bowing in return.
“Please make yourselves at home. We have prepared the best tents for your weary companions.” Lord Conalle’s companions didn’t show signs of being the slightest bit tired, looking offended at the insinuation. Sensitive Fae peacocks.
“Surely such strong Fae warriors would prefer a taste of our strongest drink and a hot meal over a soft bed,” Solveig called from the back of the crowd.
The way they all turned as one was comical. Her people parted automatically as she pushed off the post she leaned against.
She did not smile at the Fae, nor his companions, and certainly didn’t offer Latham a single glance. The lord’s hazel eyes widened as she neared. Her magic purred under her skin, enjoying the scent of fear in the air.
Intakes of breath could be heard as they took her in. She strode through the crowd, keeping her pace slow and unhurried, locking eyes with the Fae lord when she reached him.
“Lord Conalle, while the reason for your visit is a shame, you are welcome here.”
She allowed herself to assess his companions, fear spiking as she studied each form, hoping but also dreading that her captors might be present. She cursed inwardly—she couldn’t tell from where they sat on their horses.
“Lady Tordottir,” he said, stumbling over his words. “Thank you. General Arlanson was just about to show us to our lodgings.”
“Ah. You see, Lord Conalle, you should not have spoken before I finished,” she admonished, and his pale cheeks flushed pink.
“I would’ve thought you had received word of my return.
Latham Arlanson is not the acting general, though he did an admirable job while I was .
. . away. Since I am clearly not dead and have not been dishonourably stripped of my title, I am still the general.
This is my camp, and these are my people. ” Her words quiet and firm.
“Apologies, General Tordottir. I meant no disrespect.” He bowed his head to her. Solveig could practically see the steam puffing from Latham’s ears.
“That will do.” She paused once more, letting a strained moment of silence stretch between them before her face broke into a grin. “Come now, let us set this useless business aside and celebrate your arrival!”
Conalle’s body relaxed, and she clapped him on the shoulder. He returned her smile but some of his wariness remained. Solveig steered him through the dissipating crowd towards their dining hall.
When Latham tried to join them, Gerrie just happened to block his path so he had to dodge around her, ending up following behind the pair.
“I have a great deal of respect for the Asgardian queens, as well as the king and queen of Idavoll, and so you are indeed welcome here,” Solveig told Conalle, her voice softening. “I hope your men have recovered from my last trip to Asgard.”
“Not all have, unfortunately,” he said, still hesitant.
She couldn’t hold her composure much longer, nudging the Lord with her elbow. “It is good to see you again, Connie.”
He chuckled at the nickname and relaxed further. “My warriors’ egos were quite worse for wear after your visit, I will admit. But it has made the ones who survived stronger, so I thank you.” He faced her. “You look well, Sol. I’m glad.”
“I am well, thank you.”
He swung an arm around her shoulders and whispered in her ear, “But if you ever call me Connie in front of my people, I may just have to report back to the queens how absolutely garish you’ve become.” Solveig laughed out loud and shoved his arm off.
“You’ve just guaranteed that I will call you Connie very loudly at least once a day while you’re here.”