Chapter 48 Westley
Westley dragged his feet on the way back through the camp gates, his mind reeling from everything he’d just learned. With the sun rising, he didn’t have much time to process this new information.
It didn’t sit right with him. Everything he’d heard about this almighty general and everything he knew since meeting her, it wasn’t adding up. He’d seen Solveig’s strength and force—there was no way she could be half mortal.
But Latham had been one of her closest confidants. Why would she lie to him? None of this made sense. All he could do was go with the information he’d been given. The source was almost Solveig herself, so how could he refute it based only on a feeling? He couldn’t.
He had to remain impartial.
When news had reached Idavoll that the Southern Wilds Legion was facing disarray and Asgard called for aid, Idavoll answered. They had long suspected this specific war camp was in some way connected to the Block. There had to be a traitor somewhere within their borders—the gods had shown them this.
His people had infiltrated every other Vanir, Fae, and Elven war camp, town, and city. While the Vanir focused on the mortals, the Fae sought within the Trifold for the breach, as the gods demanded.
For one hundred years they had flipped over every suspicious rock, sent spies to all corners of the continent, and nothing. Not one single piece of evidence that anything was amiss.
Which left only the elusive, powerful Southern Wilds Legion.
The queens of Asgard fought tooth and nail to keep this place a secret for centuries, and there had to be a reason, they had to be hiding something or someone here. He’d been just as impatient as his parents to find the Southern Wilds and their Vanir general.
Solveig was the most obvious choice, but could it be that simple? He hated that he’d volunteered to come here, knowing what he had to do. Westley fought all his instincts, but he couldn’t waste any more time—he couldn’t deny the divine inspiration sent to Idavoll.
His Fae companions had been working these past few weeks to spy on every Vanir citizen in this camp. Latham and Solveig integrating the Fae into their lives had been a stroke of good luck.
Nothing had been found, except for Solveig.
A bitter taste coated his tongue as he made his way to the tribunal. The crunch of gravel under his boot grated on his nerves, as did every call of a bird that flew overhead.
He missed the open sea air and the feel of a ship’s swaying deck. He’d been on land for far too long, and though his magic was painfully trapped, he wanted to feel the power the ocean gave him.
Ever since coming to the Southern Wilds, his very foundation was rocked, becoming unstable. He missed the feeling of surety in his mind and heart.
Conalle and Noren waited for him by the entrance. His steps slowed as he neared, if only to delay the inevitable by a few seconds. As he reached them, both regarded him with concern.
“It has to be her,” Westley said, voice hoarse. Noren nodded and met his gaze with a knowing look of his own. A wordless message passed between them, but Conalle didn’t see. He was busy shaking his head in disbelief.
“It can’t be. It just can’t be Solveig,” he whispered.
“I’ll admit it’s not certain, but it’s the only plausible lead we have.”
Conalle glared at him. Westley had never seen such anger on the gentle Fae’s face.
“I will not allow you to destroy Solveig’s life based on a plausible lead.
It has to be confirmed beyond a shadow of a doubt.
” Westley opened his mouth to speak, but Conalle cut him off.
“Not even the faintest shadow, West.” He was so stern that Westley felt oddly like a faeling being chastised by his father.
He put his hands up. “I agree, Conalle, I do. But we have to follow this thread.” Conalle still seemed skeptical, so Westley put a hand on his shoulder. “I promise I will do whatever it takes to get to the bottom of this.”
“Promise me you will find her innocent,” Conalle insisted. But Westley couldn’t promise that, and his silence was answer enough. Conalle shoved Westley’s hand off his shoulder and without another word, stomped into the tent. Westley let out a deep breath.
“You know you’ll need to write to the king and queen,” Noren said softly.
“Not yet.”
“West . . .”
“Conalle’s right. We don’t know anything for sure.”
“They’ll want to know about any lead, no matter how small.”
“Not yet.”
“But—”
“Not yet,” he growled. Westley drew himself up to full height.
A flash of fear crossed Noren’s face as he took a step away from him.
He rarely, if ever, pulled rank on his closest companions.
“If I give you a command, you obey it, is that clear?” His voice was cold and calculating. The voice of Idavoll’s war prince.
Noren bowed his head. “Yes, Your Highness. Forgive my insolence. I will, of course, follow your lead.” He hesitated and then met Westley’s stare, the formality dropping from his posture and his tone. “I only want what’s best for you and our people, West.”
Westley relaxed too. “I know. So do I. You have to trust me on this one.”
Noren nodded after only a moment.
They entered the tent together. Everyone but the jarl, Solveig, and Gerrie were gathered. Latham and Maddock were whispering to each other but stopped as he entered. Westley almost turned right back around at the smile Maddock gave him, but he didn’t. He had a duty to his parents and to his people.
He strode over to take the empty chair beside Conalle, with Noren seated on his other side. A few of their Fae companions were also in attendance—more than Westley anticipated.
Solveig spent time with some of his people, but he wasn’t sure if he was relieved they were here or not. Anxiety bloomed in his chest as the seconds ticked by.
The mood in the tent was fairly neutral, which also concerned him. If there was no passion behind this decision, Solveig was doomed.
Like his thoughts conjured her, the tent flap opened.
Solveig and Gerrie strolled in, unhurried.
Was it disappointment that made his heart sink when she didn’t make eye contact with him?
She nodded to those she passed and grasped the hands of those who greeted her. He hated everyone who got to touch her.
Did they feel the jolt of electricity when their skin touched hers? Was that a Solveig thing, or a him-and-Solveig thing? He tried and failed to keep his gaze from following her, but his eyes moved of their own accord, tracking her movements.
Surprise flitted across her face as she strode over to a young male hovering at the edges of the tent. He looked unsure of whether he should be here or not. Westley wouldn’t have noticed him if Solveig hadn’t gone to him.
He was a lanky male, barely past the age of maturation for a Vanir. He was quite pale, but when Westley beheld his eyes, he sat straighter in his chair.
The male’s eyes were a watery blue, almost white. He knew those eyes—they were the telltale colour of a Seer.
Solveig greeted the male by putting her two hands on his shoulders, holding him steady. The witch started speaking rapidly and Solveig hung on each of his words. A Seer she trusted. Interesting.
He strained to hear what they were saying, but even with his Fae hearing, he couldn’t make out their conversation. Solveig frowned at the male, then shocked Westley by pulling him into a hug.
Westley flicked his gaze around the room to see if anyone else was witnessing this, but he was the only one who caught the raw emotion on Solveig’s face as they pulled away from their embrace. She schooled her features and gave him a warm smile.
The male stumbled slightly, exiting the tent as quickly as he had appeared. Solveig took a deep breath. He could’ve sworn she was about to glance over at him but instead whispered something to Gerrie. Gerrie’s answering smile was wicked, and a slither of foreboding crawled up his spine.
Jarl Bjornson entered and stood in the empty centre. The thirty or so gathered in the tent quieted.
“Thank you for coming,” he said gravely.
“You all know why we are here. Captain Arlanson has expedited this meeting in hopes that our people may find some normalcy and stability during these trying times.” Westley almost snorted at the derision dripping from the jarl’s tongue.
He barely managed to quell his reaction.
The jarl continued. “We will hear from the captain, as well from General Tordottir, before we discuss matters privately and make our final recommendation to present to the queens.”
Westley didn’t realize the Fae were to be a silent party to this meeting, he had assumed they would be able to ask questions, interrogate, or at the very least, hold the candidates responsible for questionable actions.
Latham stood first and walked slowly and dramatically around the circle. Westley fought the urge to scowl.
“We have blindly followed Solveig Tordottir for decades.” Solveig’s brows furrowed as her first name slipped from Latham’s forked tongue, the attendees taking note of the familiar name with confusion. Westley’s molars ground together while Latham continued.
“We have lost brothers, husbands, fathers, and friends in futile attempts to regain our magic. Very little progress has been made, and we must ask ourselves why. Yes, she has been a good leader—respectful and decisive. But shouldn’t a good leader know when they are no longer effective?
“Maybe if she had never been captured, we would have remained in this perpetual state of raids, funerals, and fleeing. We wouldn’t have known there could be another choice.
A better choice. Asgard selected this incredible warrior to lead us, and with no disrespect intended towards our fearless queens, perhaps they were blinded by their love and devotion to her. ” He paused to let this settle in.
With her name being spoken and this small hint at the queens’ feelings, rustling whispers spread through the tent like wildfire. Latham was single-handedly revealing a centuries-kept secret.
“We have been given this great opportunity for change. We should seize it! We made a difference in the months when our late general was no longer with us, and that difference could mean salvation not only for the people of the Southern Wilds, but also for the entirety of the Trifold!” Latham’s passionate voice echoed through the tent.
Westley gripped the table in front of him so hard the wood splintered beneath his fist. He dared a peek at Solveig, expecting to see steam billowing from her ears, but she sat very much the same as she had all meeting—calm, determined, almost amused.
Latham collected himself and continued in a more sombre tone.
“I, of course, wish that it had not taken such suffering, both on Solveig’s part and our own sorrow for her loss, for change to occur. But this is the hand the gods have dealt us, even from their graves, and we must move forward and heal.”
The Fae bristled in their seats at the mention of the gods.
Latham cast a condescending look in Solveig’s direction.
“We saw yesterday that healing is needed. Our beloved general is not the same as when she left. She was unable to do what needed to be done—what she insisted needed to be done. She must heal before she can even consider leading again. It pains me to see her unable to fulfill her duties, to see her struggle with such weakness.”
Westley caught Solveig stiffen almost imperceptibly, but otherwise, she showed no reaction.
“I hope she can find the help she so clearly needs. I hope that she can see that an official change of leadership is better for her people. I am willing to step in to fill the void—to bring about progress and change for Vanaheim. To put an end to the Block and an end to the reign of Midgard!” Latham brought his fist to his chest to punctuate the end of his speech.
He returned to his seat after the applause petered out.
Westley couldn’t have torn his eyes away, even if he’d wanted to, his heart beating wildly, as the jarl gestured to Solveig.
She stood gracefully, making eye contact with each person in the room. Her eyes lingered on Latham, who could not escape her gaze. Her face hardened before moving on. She met Westley’s last, and unease settled over him. What was she up to?
In an instant, the tent was empty of air as the group took a collective inhale, holding their breath. Tension was so tangible it was its own entity, filling the space with anticipation. The only audible sound was the rolling thunder in the distance.
“I step down as leader of the Southern Wilds.”