38. Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Eight
Callan arrived in Nivali the day after a heavy storm.
Under a bright sky, freshly fallen powder piled up in high drifts against the western side of the Estate.
An empty hall greeted him, the morning meal already concluded.
A flurry of servants moved about the space in a practiced dance, clearing away the mess in preparation for the day’s activities.
Though Callan could ask any one of them to see him to his parents’ chamber, he stalled inside the entryway.
“Nephew!” Thorn appeared at the top of the stairs, waving Callan over with a flick of his wrist.
When Callan joined him on the second level, Thorn clapped him roughly on the back before gripping his shoulder.
“Pleased to see you’re still in one piece.”
“The gods favored me.” Callan glanced down the gallery walk. “How are they?”
Thorn pressed his lips together, a crease forming between his brows. “Your mother is quite well, Brumal be praised.” Thorn spoke in hushed tones as he led Callan along the walkway. “But your father . . .”
Thorn shook his head and turned his face away from Callan for a moment. When they reached the door at the far end and he faced him once again, Callan spied the glimmer of unshed tears in his uncle’s eyes.
“He hasn’t spoken a word. Sees and hears nothing. It’s as if he’s locked away inside his mind. A prisoner in his own body. The healers say nothing more can be done for him.”
Callan cleared his throat, nodding in grim understanding. For centuries, he’d wished for the chance to speak with his father once more. Now, it seemed he would never get that chance. Thorn stepped aside, motioning for Callan to enter.
Though it wasn’t the Noble quarters, which Thorn occupied as regent, his parents had been given a stately chamber.
A lively fire blazed on the hearth beside a bed made up with thick furs.
Set on the corner of the Estate, the far wall boasted several large windows, the view extending to the shoreline and the bay to the west.
Before the windows sat his parents. Callan crossed the room, his footfalls muffled by the luxurious rug. He cleared his throat as he neared the sitting area, and his mother, Angrid, twisted in her chair to see who had come to call.
Though the time spent under Omen’s thrall had altered her, she was as lovely as he remembered. Her warm brown skin still rich but muted. Her long black hair streaked with white.
“Callan,” she gasped, reaching out to him with a faintly trembling hand.
He knelt before her chair, clasping her fragile hand in his own.
She had been a warrior when he was a youngling, skilled with a sword and immovable behind a shield wall.
Now, Callan questioned whether she could lift the steaming mug of tea sitting on the arm of her chair.
She cupped his cheek with her free hand, scanning his face.
Callan wondered if he bore any resemblance to the idealistic young male she’d last seen two hundred years before.
Life had hardened him in the intervening years.
So much so, he struggled to recognize his own reflection at times.
“How handsome you are.” Creases fanned out at the corners of her eyes as she looked upon him, cracked lips stretched thin by her smile. “Like your father.”
Her gaze shifted to a point over his shoulder, and for the first time since entering the room, Callan allowed himself to look at his father.
Gunnar sat in the chair behind him, eyes like burnt amber, glassy and unfocused, a thick woven blanket tucked about his lap.
Twisting his torso, Callan faced his sire and laid a hand upon his forearm, but Gunnar gave no indication that he felt the touch.
Callan shook his head against the unwelcome sting at the corners of his eyes.
Incredibly intelligent and capable of commanding the attention and respect of his subjects, his father had always seemed to fill any room he entered.
In times of strife, the folk of Nivali had looked to him as a compass; Callan had never seen him look so lost.
“Father?” Callan squeezed gently, his father’s arm little more than bone and wasted muscle beneath the fur-lined robe he wore. “I’m so sorry.”
Gunnar didn’t even blink. Callan broke down then, shoulders slumping as he covered his face, hot tears, long overdue, running down his cheeks.
Angrid gripped Callan’s hand weakly, drawing him to her once more. She guided his head down to rest in her lap, bony fingers petting the braided hair at his temples while she murmured soothing words. Callan felt as if he were a youngling again, crying into his mother’s skirts.
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” Angrid crooned between gentle shushes.
“But I have,” Callan forced out. He sat up, gaining some composure and swiping a sleeve over his eyes. “I left. I abandoned you both. I should have stayed. I should have been here—with you—that day.”
“No,” Angrid said with as much force as her weakened body would allow. She cupped one side of his face and bent her neck to meet his gaze. “It was a blessing you were far away the day Omen’s vile creatures came to Nivali.”
“But I might’ve been able to help. Perhaps if I had . . .” Callan gestured uselessly at his father, a specter wearing a familiar face.
“If you’d been here, you would have been taken as we were, or worse.
” She shook her head. “I can’t bear the thought of you losing your young life to the enchantment.
All this time, we may have been alive, but we weren’t living.
I had no awareness of myself, let alone anyone else.
It was a life of exhaustion. Loneliness.
Hunger. We were wraiths, lost to the world.
” Angrid shuddered and licked her dry lips.
“Your father was so proud of you. We both were.” His mother cradled his face in her hands.
“You may find it hard to believe, but your father was a dreamer once. He, too, longed to see the world beyond our borders, but was never brave enough to leave. Gods know your grandsire would have sent a pack of trackers out after him to drag him home.” She tilted her head to one side as she brushed her thumbs over his cheeks, smudging the tracks of his tears.
“You lived, Callan. That’s all we ever wanted for you.”
Callan nodded, but the truth stung like a barb: He hadn’t lived. Not truly. Not until Nova.
Nova.
Callan righted his spine, pulling out of his mother’s reach and scrubbing a hand over his face.
He sensed his mother watching him as he stared out the window, his mind whirring.
What would he do now? Seeing his parents like this—he couldn’t walk away, could he?
Not again. Would Nova come to Nivali? She’d told him she wanted to put down roots in Silvergard.
No. The Lunar Court was her home, and it was obvious the folk there considered her star-blessed.
He could never ask her to leave, to give up everything for him.
“What troubles you?” Angrid’s voice snapped Callan from his racing thoughts.
He looked to his mother once more, finding concern etched in the fine lines creasing her forehead.
“I see you here before me, and yet, it’s as if you’re somewhere else entirely.”
Easing the tension in his jaw, Callan nodded.
“It feels as if I’m in two places at once,” he agreed, taking her hand in his.
“Nova, my mate, is in Silvergard. I find it very difficult to be apart from her. I can’t think clearly.
My mind always wanders back to her. What she’s doing. Whether she’s safe. Happy.”
“My son has made a love match?” A wide grin bloomed on his mother’s face. Though her once-full cheeks were hollow, her eyes sparked with joy, and she squeezed his fingers in her weakened grip.
“You must keep her close. We may not have been bonded mates,” she said, indicating his father with a tip of her head, “but our connection was always very special in its own way. Through the fog of the enchantment, I sometimes imagined I could feel our love. Fleeting, like a brief moment of sunshine upon my face . . .” She trailed off, sniffing once and dabbing at the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Just promise me you’ll keep her close.”
“I will, I swear it. But I don’t know what to do. She has built a life in Silvergard. I said I would join her there, but how can I, now that the gods have finally returned you both to me?”
Angrid shook her head firmly. “Go to her, Callan.”
“But what about—”
His mother held a hand up in the space between them, halting his words.
“We are safe. Well cared for. We won’t reclaim the throne, and you mustn’t feel obligated to either.”
“But Thorn—”
Angrid waved him off again. “Thorn is a pain in the backside. He was always better matched to intellectual pursuits than the practicalities of leadership. I imagine it was an unwelcome shock for him to have to assume the role of regent. No doubt that is partly why he has sought to see you take the throne. But much time has passed. He has learned, and he is well suited to the task.”
She pursed her lips and exhaled sharply through her nose. “Believe me when I tell you that blind duty is a waste of a life. Devoting yourself to something, or someone, that brings you happiness, a true sense of purpose, that is living.”
She cupped his face once more, her eyes shimmering with what he hoped were happy tears.
“Just promise me you’ll visit.”
He raised his hands, fingers circling the inky cuffs marking her slender wrists, and gave a resolute nod. “I promise.”
Callan bid his mother farewell when the afternoon sun slanted in through the windows.
They’d avoided the subject of her years under Omen’s enchantment, choosing instead to reminisce about days long since passed.
His father never spoke, never reacted to Callan’s presence, though Angrid was able to feed him a bit of broth at midday.
Around the time his mother sent for afternoon tea, Callan realized that although she didn’t want the visit to end, she was exhausted, and took his leave
Courtiers lounged around the Great Hall when he descended the stairs.
Thankfully, only a few seemed to take notice of him, glancing up from their games as he walked briskly toward the exit.
He’d nearly reached the double doors when a hand closed around his arm.
Callan spun to find Liv clad in a fine gown of ruby red velvet, a silver circlet adorned with transparent gems sparkling like icicles atop her head.
His eyes fell to where her hand still gripped his elbow, and he instinctively twisted out of her grasp. Playing off the potentially offensive gesture, he bent forward slightly, as if it had been his intention all along to make a polite bow.
“My Lady,” he murmured. His mother had shared the news of Thorn and Liv’s betrothal earlier; they would be joined on the next new moon.
“Leaving so soon?” she asked, her accent lilting. Liv stared at him, her fine brows raised expectantly.
“Yes, I must depart for Silvergard.”
Liv nodded. “But you will return?”
Callan studied her for a beat. Something had her flustered, her nostrils flaring slightly with every quick breath.
“Of course, I intend to return,” he answered, tipping his head back and narrowing his eyes at her.
Liv nodded again, her head bobbing rapidly as her icy blue eyes darted from Callan to the courtiers in the hall who had begun to take notice of their conversation.
“Will you speak with me in private before you go?” She gestured to the sitting area in the corner cordoned off with thick drapes.
He shot a look over his shoulder to the exit only two strides away.
He was so close. Though he now believed the medallion she’d gifted him before his journey was truly nothing more than a talisman, something in his gut made him wary of her.
Still, she was, in effect, the Noble Lady of the Winter Court.
He pressed his lips together in a polite smile and motioned for her to lead the way.
Liv breezed through the curtains ahead of him.
When he entered the private sitting area, she stood beside the small fire crackling in the brazier in the center of the space, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.
“I assume your mother told you she does not intend to retake the Winter Throne?”
“She did.” Unsure what Liv was after, Callan resolved to keep his answers short.
“And did she also tell you of your uncle’s intention to be joined with me?”
“She mentioned that, yes.”
Liv turned, pacing a few steps away from him before spinning to face him once again.
“Callan, I must call in the favor that is owed to me.” She extended her arm, holding out her hand, palm facing up.
Callan knit his brow, suddenly acutely aware of the small stone he still carried in the pouch hanging at his hip.
He flexed his fingers, hesitant to procure it even as the magic binding him to their bargain forced his hand.
The token, pale blue and the size of a large pearl, was smooth against his fingertips as he fished it out.
Liv took two rushed steps forward, shoving her hand at him.
Resisting the compulsion to immediately drop the stone into her palm, he closed his hand in a tight fist.
“What is it you ask of me?”
“Renounce your claim to the throne.” Liv’s chest rose and fell with several rapid breaths, her gaze fixed on his closed hand. “Swear that you will never seek to rule Nivali.”
He studied his uncle’s betrothed for a beat. Desperation clung to her, evident in the tightness in her jaw and the slight tremble of the hand she held in the space between them.
“What are you planning?”
Liv huffed a breath and clasped her hands in front of her once more. She stood still for a brief moment, eyes trained on his, before sliding her palms down the front of her gown.
All at once, Callan saw everything clearly.
His uncle’s fixation on family and seemingly stubborn desire to close ranks.
Liv’s rosy glow and fuller figure that he himself had noticed and attributed to her living well as the consort of a regent.
With the flowing fabric of her gown pressed tight to her abdomen, Liv cradled the swell of her pregnant belly in her hands.
“I see,” Callan murmured, realization washing over him. Thorn’s obstinance was rooted in his desire to protect his unborn babe.
The tension in his body eased, and Callan reached out to her. Liv accepted the offered stone, relief painting her features once she held it. She stared down, rolling the stone in the palm of her hand.
“Your parents will be well cared for, you have my word. But it is my child who will one day sit upon the Winter Throne. The time for one of the Fisher Folk to lead Nivali is long overdue.”
Callan laid a fist over his heart. “I swear to you, my Lady, my claim to the throne is well and truly severed. My future is with Nova, wherever she wishes to be.”
Callan made a polite bow and passed through the curtains, eager to be reunited with his mate and begin the rest of their lives together.