Chapter 48
—Broan—
Ingrid didn’t want to stop at the Meadhouse near the bottom of the mountain, much to Broan’s disappointment.
He figured he’d have another fun evening before venturing off to overthrow the Elvish throne.
Plus, he desperately wanted to see how Lief handled the EitrAle.
There was also Jacob to consider. The River Storm soldier crossed his mind a few times.
In the end, the rest of the group refused.
The faster they could clear the open, the better.
The Vikings were seafaring people, after all.
Trekking up and down mountains and venturing into the forest was beyond their comfort.
“I can check the villages for him if it would put you at ease,” Ithril offered, stalking closely to Broan’s heel since leaving the Whiteridge Mountains.
“No,” Broan said, pulling snow from his growing beard. “If the rat wouldn’t go with us then, he won’t go now, and we would have to fucking kill him this time.”
Ithril clutched her bow tightly as she continued.
They finally found camp after crossing the Goldmere and clearing the green mountains.
The forest greeted Broan as soon as he stepped onto the soil, runes on the trees dancing with silver and gold.
He huffed. Fucking trees. They sparked wildness in Ingrid’s eyes. She backed away and spat on the ground.
“Harmless,” Broan said calmly, a smirk threatening his face. He enjoyed seeing her squirm. Otherwise, she’d be a tough facade with no character. That and it gave him an edge against the Warband General. “Don’t let the trees scare you, or you’ll never make it in the hidden city.”
Kaelthar dropped his pack to the ground and searched for stones. “Those runes? Elves carved ‘em to mark their trail. Means the path ahead’s safe, least by their reckonin’.”
Skald coughed into his arm, his white beard bouncing against his chest. Lief sat beside Broan as he tucked tinder between the stones Kaelthar had built. He started a fire once, and he’d be elated to do it again. He even took the flint stone to claim the right.
“The Lorekeeper won’t likely survive the way home,” Lief whispered.
Broan studied the old man, the way his chest heaved unevenly when he coughed and fought for a breath.
Skald rested against the base of a tall rock.
The journey to the Elvish city was a brutal one, but the journey back to Whiteridge would prove to be far more difficult. “I know a healer. Maybe he can help.”
Lief shrugged. “Eldyr would be so kind.”
A silence settled between the group as Kaelthar grunted through the camp, setting up tents and unpacking blankets.
Ingrid settled in near the freshly lit fire and laid her head in the dirt, leaves gathering in the ratted, fiery hair.
Ithril found a cozy tree and climbed to the top, the most relaxed she looked since leaving the forest.
“Grid,” Lief called across the fire. “Did you cross paths with any raiders on your last voyage?”
Ingrid sat, facing them, but Kaelthar clasped his hands together immediately and sat near the fire, the glow casting an orange hue in the faded light. “The Blackskal came upon us once. I was little more than a babe. Still remember the dragon prows cutting through the fog.”
Lief and Ingrid groaned, which pulled a smirk from Broan. At least he wasn’t the only one annoyed by the Chatterbox. Broan leaned forward anyway, entranced by the idea of these raiders.
Kaelthar continued. “Their ships bore dragon heads with jaws wide enough to swallow courage whole. Terrified me as a lad. Folk claimed it was in honor of the great sea drekar, but I knew it was meant for fear—”
“Not tonight, Kaelthar,” Ingrid said, tossing a rock toward him.
Broan stood, approaching the tree where Ithril was, ready to relieve himself of yet another tangent spun up by Kaelthar about the Skalavian lands. He craned his neck until he saw her black boots dangling. “How do you keep from falling?”
“Rope,” Ithril said, her voice now alluringly calm.
Broan laughed. When the fuck did she get rope? “You’d rather risk falling out of a tree than be on the ground with them?”
“Let’s not pretend we like each other.” Her voice drifted like a whisper curling around his shoulders. It didn’t come from above the tree. It was as if the words traveled on air, circling him in taunting whirs.
A wind mage.
He should have known with the way she commanded her bow. The wind carried it for her. “You surprise me, Tightstrings.” Broan glanced up once more and then back at the Vikings. “I’m not pretending.”
For the first time, he was torn. His father was right.
He did like the Elvish—at least some of them.
He’d give his loyalty to Connak, the man who led them away from the tyranny of River Storm.
He served Tristian. He had character outside the rest of the Elvish clan that Broan respected. And Danek…his brother.
These Vikings, though. They tugged at his fucking heartstrings, too. Broan wanted to scowl. Brush them away. Caring made him too weak.
Or did it?
Broan sat with Lief and asked him to sing a song.
He was on a journey now, one he never imagined for his life.
He cared about people. As he listened to his blood brother sing a glorious ballad, his mind trailed their quest. The goddess was laughing as she changed him.
Broan tried to scowl again, but he couldn’t find enough malice to do it.
—Tristian—
“We will call a council meeting, High Commander. The Still Court is unhappy.” Seredai brought Tristian to the edge of Trinity to tell him this. Her lilac eyes remained still.
Tristian blinked. Whatever the Still Court felt, he couldn’t bother to care. Let Connak handle it. Or Talon. Maybe Niramelle should be in charge. He didn’t have the heart anymore.
“What do you expect me to do?” he asked, his attention fixed on the grasslands stretching toward the Elvish Mountains, their peaks rising like distant castles—castles that made the forest look weak. Sunlight spilled gold across the swaying blades, soft as straw.
“They want retribution for the lives lost,” Seredai said, hands finding her hips.
“I didn’t realize they cared about the lives out here.”
Seredai’s eyes ignited, lilac deepening to a dark violet as the wind teased through her silver hair. “An Elvish life taken is a blemish on the world’s record, especially one that is burned and cannot be used afterwards.”
Tristain snapped his head to Seredai at the thought of this. He parted his mouth to respond, but Seredai waved her hand.
“Do not pretend you are not one of us.”
Pointless politics. Tristian had grown sick of it in Silverthorne, always fighting his comrades to stay at the top so he could get here.
He was sick of it then, and he was sick of it now.
He would walk away from his title if he could, but his father had to go and die.
Now Tislin was gone. His mother, too. And what had they left him?
A scar that ripped down his collarbone and a cursed bond that meant he couldn’t die without taking others with him.
Seredai smoothed her hair, composure sliding back into place. “As a child of Silverthorne, you serve the Still Court. Or did you forget the oath you swore when your training ended?”
Tension crept up as a reminder of all he still owed the Still Court. “I didn’t forget.”
“Good. Then collect the girl. She’ll be dealt with.”
Tristain caught her arm as she moved to pass. “Dealt with how?”
“Elira wants her dead,” Seredai said, violet eyes glinting with smug satisfaction. “I could convince her to allow passage to Silverthorne, though. I want to study her.”
Tristian couldn’t let either of those things happen. He knew it deep in his soul, even as the dark thoughts slid through, leaving him wondering if it might finally give him the peace he wanted. He wouldn’t be a ranger in any form, but the Eternal Mother would find use for his soul.
That was grief talking. Tristian had to shake the tension from his neck. He reminded himself of that as he backed away from the master healer. He’d send Connak to collect Kienna and consider the rest later.