Chapter 4 #2
The gardens were magnificent. It was still early evening, but I realized the sun hadn’t set as far as it would have by now in Bhorglid.
Instead, it cast the sky in purples and pinks, a pastel canopy above budding bushes, bunches of lavender swarmed by lazy bees, and beds of tulips.
Between the bright foliage grew different produce—strawberries were beginning to turn slightly red instead of pink and many of the trees shading the area bore fruit.
“It’s beautiful here,” Freja signed. Her expression was almost wistful.
Volkan just shrugged. His sign language was still slow and haphazard, but he managed to communicate his sentiment regardless. “It’s warm. Winter ruins everything.”
We stepped into a clearing within the garden, surrounded by plants on all sides. One long table was set, covered in a purple cloth. The queen stood at the head and gestured to the plates laden with food, steam rising in the cooling air. “Please, sit.”
Volkan had walked me through the precise politics of where to sit. The right-hand side of the queen was occupied by the Hellbringer, which meant I was sitting on the left. Directly across from him.
The lullaby began playing again in earnest. It had receded for much of the afternoon, but no longer.
When everyone was settled, I raised my glass of wine. “A toast,” I offered, hoping my effort toward goodwill would erase the unspoken leverage hovering in the air, waiting for the queen to use it like a weapon. “To peace between our nations.”
Everyone, including the queen, raised their glasses and repeated the words before taking a sip.
Except for the Hellbringer.
He couldn’t drink with the mask on. Fine—this much, I would grant him. But my jaw tightened when the chatter of casual conversation didn’t include his dark and distorted voice. He made no attempt to speak or put anyone at ease.
No. He merely sat and stared straight ahead.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. The Hellbringer complied with his orders, but he’d never once attempted to make anyone feel comfortable. Least of all me.
Volkan stared directly at the Hellbringer while the food was served, like he was trying to communicate silently with the general.
Arne sat on Volkan’s left, as far from Anja as possible.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him toy with his food, eating only a few bites here and there before devoting more of his time to glaring at the Hellbringer.
The queen observed it all, her careful eyes catching every movement.
It had to have been S?ren who confessed the true nature of our relationship to her, I decided as we began to eat.
Clearly hungry, the diners were nearly silent for several minutes—leaving me with ample opportunity to mull over this second betrayal of trust. The meal tasted like ash on my tongue.
And who else would have told her what they knew?
Mira might have guessed, but she never saw proof.
The goodbye note the Hellbringer had left for me to find only hinted at what our relationship had become.
Had I truly once believed that the Hellbringer was on my side? That he cared for anyone other than himself? That once the war was over, I would figure out a way to free him from his shackles as the queen’s general?
I wanted to chide my past self. Find her and smack her upside the head. Only a fool would have believed the promises of her enemy.
He hadn’t uttered a single word since we had arrived.
Was his face unchanged beneath the mask?
Or if I lifted it, would I find the same dark circles beneath his eyes that graced my own features?
If I dared to look directly into his eyes, I knew with certainty he would see it all—the way I hated him with every fiber of my being.
The way I longed for his comfort so desperately.
All he’d done so far was walk near me. And still, I was hyperaware of his every movement.
My magic churned. Was it following the path of my emotions or guiding them? The woman I’d been before the Trials was angry and passionate and decisive. She wasn’t twitchy or paranoid or incapable of control.
Since the moment I became queen, I’d been spiraling. And the Hellbringer’s presence made that more obvious. Still, I couldn’t help the thought that had followed me into sleepless nights and guilt-ridden shadows.
This would all be easier with S?ren at my side.
“There is a member of my court most excited to meet you,” the queen said between her next bites.
“Oh?” I wasn’t sure where she was going with this, but my magic tightened in my chest like a vise and I waited with bated breath.
“A scholar of sorts. He studies Lurae and magic, so when I told him of your extraordinary new abilities and your fascinating experience coming into your magic so late in life, he told me he simply had to meet you.” Her smile was knowing, and I couldn’t shake the feeling I was missing something obvious.
Whatever it was, it didn’t come to me. But the idea of a scholar asking me about my magic…I suppressed a shudder. Scrutiny was the last thing I needed now, when the treaty was so close to being finalized and my magic was still so raw and untamed.
“He plans to attend the ball we’re hosting in honor of your visit tomorrow evening,” she added.
“I look forward to speaking with him.” I hoped the platitude was enough to ensnare her goodwill for now.
Every word felt like a careful step over thin ice, the possibility of falling to my doom a constant companion.
I had expected the trip to be complicated, demanding, emotional.
I hadn’t expected that the queen, who had bargained so much to train me to win Bhorglid’s throne, might be hostile.
No weapons had been drawn yet, but words were their own blades when wielded right.
Swallowing another tasteless bite, I attempted to steer us toward small talk. “Does Kryllian have many scholars?”
The queen’s eyes lit with venomous excitement.
“Of course,” she said with a laugh. “The history of the Fjordlands is so rich, and we are dedicated to uncovering it. Those who held the Kryllian throne before me cared little for history, but I feel the past is the key to enlightening our future. So much of the origin of magic has been lost to time, and our scholars have taken great care to bring the stories back to the present day.”
“The origin of magic?” Freja spoke for the first time since the meal began. My friend had not been idle, though—I’d noticed her painstakingly interpreting every word of the conversation for Astrid, who sat next to her. “You have this history…uncovered?”
The queen’s glance was pitying. “Of course we do. Bhorglid’s dependence on the Holy Order of Priests to keep their history oral instead of writing it all down means much has been lost to time. You’ve wasted generations worshiping false gods.”
Even I tensed at the abrupt switch to callousness in the queen’s voice.
My Lurae sensed it, and the song in my mind screeched a discordant note, the tempo galloping faster.
My hands tightened on my silverware, but before I could manage a retort, Volkan stepped in.
“You may call it history, Queen Anja, but there are many who would disagree. I’ve heard your wild tales before, and many of these stories come from conjecture—not fact. ”
“Call them what you want, little prince,” the queen said, her voice pitched to reflect feminine demurity.
“But there are three countries in the Fjordlands, and only one harbors the truth. Bhorglid’s priests were closer than most, certainly.
And Faste…well, choosing to ignore history doesn’t make it any less real. ”
“If you’re truly so enlightened,” I said, forcing my muscles to relax despite every instinct telling me to let my hackles rise further, “then why don’t you share this history with us?”
I noticed for the first time the heavy silence ringing the table.
The only person whose head wasn’t swinging back and forth between members of the verbal sparring match was the Hellbringer.
He had his arms crossed, reclining slightly in his chair.
I wondered if the front feet of his perch were off the ground, and turned to nudge Frode with my mind.
His typical seat was next to the Hellbringer, and he didn’t mind causing a political scene.
There was no one better to knock the general off balance and straight onto his—
My eyes found Astrid in Frode’s seat. It was like time stuttered. A wave of grief shuddered over me, so strong my chest ached. Absentmindedly, I rubbed a palm over my heart.
“Once,” the queen began, “a young girl lived in a village in the middle of nowhere—my scholars speculate it may have even been in Bhorglid’s northern wastelands.
When the girl was sixteen, there was an accident.
She and her friend were ice fishing on a lake and they went out too far, to where the ice was thin.
It broke and the young man who accompanied her fell through.
He could not swim, and quickly began to drown.
The woman had a savior complex worse than any I’ve seen or heard tell of since—and of course she dove in after him.
“Neither of them died that day. And the girl? She became something more. When she emerged from the depths of that lake, she had a Lurae. The first Lurae.
“The girl’s name was Aloisa.”
That’s the dream I’ve been having, I realized. The boy falling through the ice and his friend jumping in to try to save him.
The knowledge unsettled me. I managed to keep my composure, though; there was no more than a heartbeat of silence before I scoffed. “You can’t honestly believe Aloisa was a real person.”