Chapter 4 Rhianelle #3
Siofra watches him from the pillows. She reaches out, touching the child's cheek with trembling fingers. Her smile is brighter than any crown I have ever worn.
For a moment, the war recedes. The Fae King, the silence, the book hidden in my chamber.
All of it fades.
Life has chosen to begin.
I watch them silently and feel something loosen inside me.
Wild things aren't meant to be caged.
I need to let Svenn go.
I slip back before either of them sees me. The bells begin to chime as I descend the temple steps. Evening prayers, calling the faithful to Isolwen's blessing.
Be careful, Rhianelle. The Un whispers.
I am halfway down the steps when a stack of parchment explodes in front of me.
"Cedwyn," I say, recognizing the dark hair.
He bows so quickly he nearly topples forward again.
I raise a hand to still him. He looks the same as ever. A squire who never quite grew into the armor. Yet something about him unsettles me.
"Your Highness. I'm so sorry. I didn't see you," he says.
I crouch to help him gather his parchments.
He picks up the final one and hugs the stack to his chest. "I was on my way to the royal library. I've been reconsidering my vocation."
"Your knighthood?" I arch a brow.
He winces faintly. "I fear I am spectacularly unsuited to it. The sight of blood makes me faint."
The air shifts between us. A faint prickle along my spine. It passes quickly.
"You wish to abandon the sword for ink," I say simply.
He blinks. "When you put it that way, it sounds rather cowardly. I suppose I am a coward."
The words are humble. But the cadence is not.
"What will you do?" I ask him.
"I thought perhaps I might request reassignment as an archivist, something quieter," Cedwyn says earnestly.
The bells continue to toll behind us as I study him.
"If you truly wish to lay down the sword, I need a scribe," I say carefully.
A pulse of something flickers across his face. "That is… a generous offer."
"I need someone to manage correspondence, maintain records, catalogue the intelligence reports coming in from the outer passages," I continue.
He blinks again, slower this time.
"I would be honored," he says, bowing.
"Report to the library at first light. We will see whether ink suits you better than steel," I tell him.
Cedwyn nods eagerly. "Yes, Your Highness."
He hurries off, nearly tripping over his own boots. I remain still on the steps.
A clumsy squire, and yet… the back of my neck tingles. I cannot name the feeling. But I have learned not to ignore it.
Instead of returning to the palace, I turn toward the old castle behind it. The prison forge sits half-buried beneath stone arches, smoke curling lazily into the winter air. The guards outside are laughing over a skin of ale.
They barely notice me pass.
I don't need the iron key from the warden's ring. They've left the prison unlocked, trusting the fetters bolted to the floor to keep the prisoner where he belongs.
I stand at the entrance for a moment. Then I step into the warmth.
The forge is smaller than I expected. Finished metalwork lines the walls.
A copper pot with a leaping fish for a handle hangs near small helmets built for children and a row of little figures set neatly on a shelf.
There is not a single sword or piece of armor.
Hrolf stands over the anvil with sleeves rolled up and beard braided back. He looks up and freezes. Recognition flickers in his eyes.
"Ah, didn’t expect to see you again, little elf."
Yes, little elf.
The girl who once stepped between him and my uncle's blade. He does not know I am the queen of Aelfheim.
I incline my head. "Hrolf."
He studies me a moment longer, then jerks his chin toward the tables. "Look if ye want. Just don't burn yerself."
I wander the forge slowly. The right side is immaculate, every tool in its place and every finished piece set with deliberate care.
But the left bench is different. The craftsmanship is competent but rougher, still learning its own language.
I run my finger along the edge of an uneven knife guard on the table.
"Don't touch that. That's not my work," Hrolf warns.
"Your apprentice?" I ask.
"Yes, took to the metal faster than I expected," he says flatly. "He's a vampire and he doesn't like people touching his things."
My heart stumbles. I step aside and look away.
Svenn.
"He learns slowly," Hrolf continues. "But he learns."
I debate telling him. That the vampire hammering beside him is my husband. But something fragile lives here between them, something that looks almost like peace. It's beautiful. I will not be the one to break it.
My mother's campaigns carved through dwarven holds like wildfire. Hrolf lost a wife and child to her war. If he learns I am her daughter, this careful truce might shatter. And if he learns Svenn married me...
I let the silence hold.
"I came to give you something," I say quietly after a while.
I unwrap the honey cake from its bundle and set it on the edge of his workbench.
Hrolf looks at it. He wipes his hands on his apron and picks up two metal spoons from a tin cup near the water basin.
"Eat," he says, handing one to me.
We sit on opposite sides of the workbench with the honey cake between us. He digs his spoon into one side. I hesitate, then do the same.
We eat in silence. I'm glad Blaire told me to take the cake. Someone made this with care.
"You're a good person, little elf,” Hrolf suddenly says.
I look up sharply, startled.
He doesn't meet my eyes. “Coming here to visit a prisoner on Isolwen's Eve, when ye could be anywhere else.”
I’m the furthest thing from good, I almost tell him.
"I wanted to bring you cake,” I say instead.
"Aye. That's what good people do.” He grunts. “They think of others. But good people are the first to die too.”
My chest constricts.
"I've seen it," he continues, still not looking at me. "Every war and every battle, the merciful ones go first. They hesitate when they shouldn’t, they try to save everyone. It’s foolish.”
We stare at each other across the workbench.
"When ye stepped in to save me at Tavan I thought ye'd lost your mind."
I had to do it. Rainer would have killed Hrolf in his Asterdust madness. “You could have died.”
“Better me than ye,” he says quietly. “My hands are red with innocent blood, little elf. That elf was right to want me dead. I deserved it.”
A knot lodges in my throat. “You don’t deserve—”
“I do.” Now he looks at me. His expression softens. There’s almost a smile there, but not quite. “But thank ye for being foolish enough to save me.”
I manage a faint smile.
The forge crackles in the silence. Hrolf scrapes his spoon along the plate to catch the last crumbs. "Good cake."
"It is," I agree softly.
Children's voices drift in from the street, high and bright against the cold.
They appear in the doorway. Four of them, small and bundled against the winter.
They have red orchids clutched in their mittened hands.
A girl steps forward with great solemnity and places two orchids near the prison bars.
"For the bear," she says, pointing at the shelf. "And the dog."
Hrolf doesn't smile. But he reaches up, takes the toy sets, and hands them through the bars.
The children squeal and immediately begin negotiating who gets to play first with the intense seriousness only children can bring to such matters.
Another child pushes forward. A boy holding a cloth bundle. He unwraps it carefully to reveal three small rolls of bread, slightly squashed.
"Mama said these are for the pot," he announces, setting them near the iron bars. "The big one."
Hrolf looks at the bread and the boy. He lifts the copper pot with the fish handle off the wall and sets it down.
The boy beams and gathers the pot with both arms. They leave in a cheerful, arguing cluster. Hrolf watches them long after they go.
"You make toys," I say.
"I make what's needed." He picks up his chisel again. "Pots and toys are needed."
I look around the forge again. At the careful work on every shelf. At the child-sized helmet with flowers along the brow and small wooden carts with iron wheels.
"Pick something," Hrolf suddenly says.
I turn. "What?"
"It's Isolwen's Eve." He gestures broadly at the shelves. "Anyone who comes to the forge today leaves with something. That's how it works."
My throat closes.
His wife and child. Both gone. My mother's war took them, along with half the dwarven settlements in the northern range. She starved them on their mountain, and here he stands, offering me gifts on a mercy goddess's holiday without knowing who I am or what name I carry.
"I shouldn't," I say carefully. "I do not deserve your kindness, master dwarf."
"That's not for ye to decide." His eyes narrow.
"Pick ten things. For the honeycake." He gestures at the shelves with his free hand. "I'd trade everything in here for another one of those."
A reluctant laugh escapes me. "Then I will take one."
"Five. You saved my life. Let me pay the blood debt with this," he insists.
"Three," I say firmly. I walk the shelves slowly.
Hrolf watches me in silence. I do not choose for myself. I think of Lady Deirdre, who lost her husband and her son. I think of Lenna and Tallula, who made a flower wreath for a wyvern because they wanted her to feel included.
I stop at a small headpiece, simple and elegant, engraved with a pattern of leaves along the band. "This one. For a healer I know."
I lift a small brooch, a flower with a center of amber. Lenna would love this. "For my friend.”
I hesitate at a heavy cast iron pan, perfectly balanced, the handle fitted with a grip of wound leather. Perfect for Tallula, who burns everything except eggs. "And this."
Hrolf grunts, which I take as agreement. He takes them down and wraps them in a square of cloth.
I look at him. "That's three."
"It is." He holds out the bundle.
I take it. The weight of it sits strangely in my hands. Not the objects. The other thing. The thing I cannot name or tell him.
"Thank you," I say.
"Go on, now. Enjoy the day with someone you love." He turns back to his anvil, but not before a faint smile tugs at his beard.
The one I love is not here.
I leave the master dwarf to his work. The streets are crowded when I emerge.
Every woman I pass carries a red orchid.
It's pinned to their sleeve or tucked into their braid.
Lady Eidith passes me with her arms full of crimson blooms. Young lovers exchange them shyly in corners.
Even the temple guards have small orchids pinned to their cloaks from wives or hopeful admirers.
Everyone has their red orchid but me.
The bitterness of that thought surprises me. It's a silly tradition, I tell myself, watching a young couple share a gentle kiss over their flowers. Childish superstition about warding off evil spirits and witches. No flower has ever stopped true evil when it comes.
I married a vampire. My husband is a collection of monsters wearing the shape of a man. He cares little for tradition, but I know he loves me. Svenn is out there somewhere, fighting in my name, risking himself for my people, for my kingdom.
Soft flakes catch in my hair and melt on my cheeks. The snow has started again. I should return to the palace and prepare for tomorrow's council meeting. There are a hundred things that need to be done.
Instead, I walk aimlessly, letting my feet carry me through the celebration. The streets are dusted white, orchid petals pressed into snow. Children dart between the adults, their cheeks flushed with cold and excitement. For a few hours, they can pretend the war doesn't exist.
"Bring my husband back to me safely," I whisper to the falling snow, to Isolwen if she's listening, to the Un or any power that might care. "Just bring him home."
Movement at the wood's edge catches my eye.
A figure in black stands against the white, tall and broad-shouldered. Even blurred by shadow, I know that shape.
Svenn?
It cannot be. I must be imagining him.
I blink, afraid he will dissolve like frost in sunlight. A cold spike of panic jolts through me. I don’t dare breathe.
Then his silhouette shifts.
It is him.
Something inside me unravels. I surge forward without thinking. The hem of my robe tangles at my ankles and the packed snow slides treacherously beneath me. I nearly crash to my knees, catching myself at the last moment, but I do not slow. I would crawl the rest of the distance if I had to.
"Svenn!"
He turns at the sound of his name, still half claimed by shadow.
I want to throw myself into his arms but I stop short. The memory of our last encounter crashes over me. I used the Rhunhraefn on him and bound him with shadow chains. He probably hates me now.
We look at one another across the snow.
I brace for anger.
Instead, he drops to one knee. The lantern light from the distant streets catches on his face, illuminating the sharp line of his jaw. His hair is wild and unbound. There's something almost fragile in the way he holds himself, despite all that contained strength.
My breath catches. For one wild moment, I think he's injured. But his closed fist extends toward me like an offering.
I approach slowly. "Svenn?"
He keeps holding out his hand. I reach for it carefully, peeling his fingers open one by one.
In his palm lies a flower.
It’s made of metal, twisted and shaped with rough care. An orchid, every petal perfect despite the crude craftsmanship.
"What..." My voice fails me.
"Forged from the axe of the orc rebel Akaloth." His voice. "Hemvald fortress is yours now."
The words sink in slowly.
Svenn has won me another fortress.
All over Aelfheim tonight, lovers exchange red orchids. Tradition says they ward off evil and protect the heart from darkness.
But I don't need protection from darkness. I married it. And now it kneels in the snow offering me a flower forged from the weapons of my enemies.
An eternal flower that will never wilt.