Chapter three
Arik
I hated being back.
The road to the castle was practically empty. Someone who didn’t know my brother might think it was due to the rain, but I knew he had ordered the way clear. He had always liked to feel his own importance, even when he had to manufacture it.
The few people who were out and about, mostly tradespeople and farmers, kept their eyes downcast as they huddled under awnings. The brave ones cast glances toward us, part curious and part terrified.
Edvard rode at the front, my father’s soldiers surrounding the four of us as we trudged slowly up the winding streets that led to the stronghold.
The familiar sight of longhouses lining the streets, their open stalls now desolate despite usually bustling with trade, did nothing to temper the darker memories of my youth.
Memories that I hoped not to burden my mate with.
I glanced up to see that Edvard had replaced his helm, his head held high as we approached the castle. Its stone walls loomed over the small thatched roofs like a beast prepared to devour them.
The dragons don’t trust him, Eisa murmured, blue light arcing across my mind.
Few people do. I replied, gripping Eisa’s hand more tightly as she stumbled over the slippery cobblestones. But my father does, which is why he will ascend the throne and not me.
I sensed her next question as it floated across the bridge between our minds and answered before she could voice it. For many reasons, Kjaere. Einar’s death is only the latest in a long list of my perceived offenses.
She frowned, her bright eyes flashing in a way that made my heart stutter. You and I need to practice shielding our thoughts from each other.
It doesn’t seem to be a problem for me. I refrained from pressing closer and breathing in her scent.
My brother was nearby, and I could feel his eyes on us.
After what he did at only sixteen, I had no doubt that his skill for cruelty had increased in the last two decades, and I’d be damned if I let him use Eisa in any of his games.
Stay close to me when we get to Stormhold.
If I can’t be with you, then stay with Jorgen.
Eisa’s concern rose in a wave between us. What do you think will happen to me?
Baldur growled, and I was certain my eyes had flashed to silver slits. Promise me. Please, Kjaere.
Edvard will not touch her. The dragon wound his form, white and nebulous, protectively around Idunn’s blue light.
Arik, what aren’t you telling me?
Baldur pressed his comforting weight against the walls of my mind as we approached the castle, his voice pitched in a way that I knew only I could hear. No one shall touch her.
I loosened my grip on Eisa’s hand a fraction, reminding myself to breathe. It’s nothing. Stay close.
The castle was surrounded by a circular stone wall that mirrored the one that protected the city, with two main steel gates that served as entrances to the north and south.
The walls were high and thick, the roughly carved stone fitting together in a way that made it nearly impossible to climb as a boy.
Before the iron gate that guarded the southern entrance of the keep was an ash tree, its trunk as wide as five men and its lower branches sprawled wide before the stone wall.
And from the lowest branch hung two bodies, one far advanced in the stages of decomposition, the other more…fresh.
Oh, gods. I turned Eisa’s face toward my shoulder as I heard Jorgen swear behind me as we were marched under the gate. Don’t look, Kjaere.
Who were they? Eisa’s voice was hushed and shaky, and I cursed my father for his cruelty.
Likely thieves or petty criminals. My father subscribes to Einar’s views on punishment.
Einar never hanged anyone, did he?
No, but not out of the goodness of his heart.
“That was horrible,” Branka whispered behind us once the hanging tree was finally out of sight. Jorgen murmured something soothing in reply, but my mind was focused on my surroundings, once as familiar to me as the sharp sting of Einar’s whip against my back.
In contrast with the abandoned city streets beyond the wall, the inner ward was full of activity.
The sounds of sword and steel on anvils clanged from barracks that housed the garrison, although there were far more soldiers in the training yard than were normally present at the castle, each wearing the colors or sigil of their jarl.
I frowned. Why were so many of the jarls here? Usually, they only came to Stormhold if their clan needed something, or if my father called them in.
“Halt!” Edvard called the procession to a stop and removed his helm.
I studied the man I’d once called a brother. I’d seen him in passing on previous visits when Einar had dragged me back here, but I’d done my best to avoid him. The knowledge that he would inherit the throne and command my allegiance made my stomach turn.
Twenty years had changed him. Something about him now struck me as hollow. His frame, always leaner than mine, was built with the strength of a man who had wielded a sword for the better part of his life—in training, if not actual battle—but his face was sharp. His skin pale.
“What is it?” Edvard asked impatiently as he tucked his helm under his arm.
I locked my face into stillness—the same mask I had worn for my father for years, and then for Einar—and shrugged. “You look ill, brother.”
Edvard rolled his eyes. “Father is waiting.”
Eisa frowned at me as we turned to follow, but she didn’t press me on my comment. I had a feeling she was adding it to her mental list of questions, and the thought made my heart give a happy thump.
The guards dismounted. The horses nickered irritably, hunting for treats as several stable boys ran forward to catch their reins.
I do not understand horses, Baldur huffed. I would not tolerate carrying a human around for my entire life.
You carry me, I pointed out as we entered the inner courtyard that led to the main keep.
That is different. At least the horses get treats.
I was grateful for Baldur’s commentary. I knew he was trying to distract me as I took in the childhood home that had felt more like a prison.
Built from dark stone, its walls were thick and uneven.
Wooden beams supported the upper levels, and the roofs climbed in steep layers, each one thatched and edged with wooden gables to break the wind.
Wolves snarled down from the carvings on the huge double doors that opened into the Great Hall of the castle. Heat and smoke billowed out as the doors opened, and I heard Eisa suck in a pained breath as the guards herded us through.
Iron doors, I explained. Iron binds the dragons to us, but too much also binds our magic.
Like when I couldn’t reach you during the last battle at the Rift?
I nodded as we crossed the threshold, and the sucking sensation dissipated. Feels like your strength is being drained, doesn’t it?
It’s not pleasant, she agreed. Not as bad as Chaos, though. I’m surprised the whole keep isn’t made from iron.
I squeezed her hand, appreciating the joke even though I was too tense to laugh. I’m sure my father would welcome the suggestion.
The vast hall stretched out before us, cold stone punctuated only by the thin windows of smoky glass that hardly let in any light.
I had been right—the majority of my father’s jarls were present, most drinking and laughing as the servants around the room slaved away to serve them. Many were indentures.
My hand tightened around Eisa’s again, the vision of another girl rising like a ghost. Her lifeless body as she bled out. Edvard’s uncaring sneer. My father’s silence.
Baldur’s growl vibrated through me. We could burn them both. End them. It would be easy.
So your grand plan is to murder them, then? Consequences be damned?
Baldur huffed. It would be worth it.
As we were paraded up the center of the room, my eyes sought the one jarl I actually wished to see in vain.
There were too many jarls for this to be coincidence, and if my father had summoned them, he was duty-bound to come, no matter how much he hated it.
But my letter informing him of our arrival on the continent definitely wouldn’t have reached him yet, and knowing my luck, he was still several days away.
The jarls fell silent as Edvard led us before the dais. “The drage, Father, as requested.”
We stopped at the feet of the throne, carved from a trunk of ash by the Wolf King Ulver, who had united the human kingdoms centuries ago.
The snarling head of a wolf, slain by the same king, was mounted on the wall behind it.
As a boy, I’d been sure the beast would leap from the wall and devour me whole.
And then I saw him.
King Arkyn wore his customary richly appointed attire, his fur-lined cloak sweeping over shoulders that once bore a warrior’s strength.
He’d gone to seed somewhat in the last few years, his belly spilling over his leather belt and warping the gold brocade wolf embroidered across his tabard.
His eyes—the same as mine and my brother’s—pinned me where I stood.
My stomach clenched as I took in the buxom blonde woman straddling him, her skirts hiked up almost to her thighs.
She blushed as she noticed Edvard, more embarrassed to be seen by the dark-haired prince, I thought, than by the queen who sat like a stone statue in the smaller throne beside my father’s.
The queen’s eyes were carefully fixed on the door behind us. Her hair, once black, was now half gray, braided with careful precision into an elegant bun. She looked effortlessly regal, though her face carried an expressionless mask we had both adopted to survive my father’s tyranny.
I felt Eisa’s confusion as the blonde woman extricated herself from my father’s lap and summoned the nerve to curtsy. She rushed from the dais, her face pink.
My mother is used to it, unfortunately.
Eisa’s eyes met mine, softened with sympathy. I’m sorry.
“Step aside, Edvard,” my father commanded as he drained the contents of his tankard. “Let me get a proper look at my erstwhile son.”
Edvard glanced in the direction the woman had fled and bowed curtly, his eyes adopting a sheen of fury as he followed her from the hall.
One of his mistresses then. I clenched my jaw, sending up a prayer to the Hearthmother for the poor woman’s safety.
“I half believed you would ignore my summons.” The king’s gaze slid from me to the hand locked with Eisa’s. Her skin had turned icy in my grasp. “This is the thrall woman you murdered my loyal dragehersker for, then?”
The word hit me like a hammer. Thrall. To reduce my mate to that word—the old name for slaves—was an insult to everything I stood for. To the girl whose death still haunted these stones.
Eisa’s face paled, and I felt her trying to soothe the jagged, raging parts of me, even as her own heart thundered in her chest.
“She is my mate.” I struggled to contain Baldur’s fury and keep my impassive mask in place. “You will address her as such.”
“She is nothing more than your stolen whore, if Einar was to be believed.”
Baldur’s eyes burned silver through mine. Several servants and the jarls nearest to us gasped, stepping back toward the walls. The flicker of unease in my father’s eyes was more satisfying than I cared to admit.
“I will claim her as my wife before a priestess this very second, if that is what it takes for you to give her the respect she deserves.” I heard Eisa’s breath catch. “But call her a whore or a thrall again, and no castle built by man will contain my dragon’s wrath.”
The hall was utterly silent for a heartbeat. And then my father’s booming laugh broke the silence. “Einar was a fool to challenge you, my son.”
I blinked as my rage stuttered out. The endearment was so foreign to me that it was jarring.
My father wanted something. There was no other explanation for his nonchalance about Einar’s death, and I was certain that, whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good for me. Or likely anyone else.
I flicked my gaze to my mother, whose eyes widened almost imperceptibly in warning as she met mine.
“You may keep your prize.” My father’s waved his hand dismissively at us. “And I suppose I shall need to appoint a new dragehersker in Einar’s place.”
“I claim the right to the title.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself.
Eisa raised a brow at me. I thought you didn’t want to be dragehersker?
I shrugged. I don’t. But I’d rather take orders from a fucking jotnar than anyone my father chooses.
It’s about time, Baldur drawled in amusement.
“Excuse me?” My father’s expression was unreadable as he regarded me.
“Baldur is Drakonungr,” I continued, drawing strength from his encouraging nudge against my mind. “The drage will follow him without question, and the Book of Chaos will confirm my claim.”
I didn’t say that it would be Idunn and Eisa the dragons would actually be following. Even the Book of Chaos was not immune to the misogyny of weak men.
My father drummed his fingers against the arm of his throne, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully as the gathered jarls watched silently. I could almost see the wheels turning in his mind, his subtle smile telling me he had won a game I hadn’t realized I was playing.
“Very well.” My stomach swooped in surprise.
“I will need my skalds to consult the Book, of course.” He stood, snapping his fingers to summon his steward, who had the beaked nose and beady eyes of an elderly pigeon.
“The Althing meets in several days. I will have my decision by then.” His eyes gleamed. “You shall stay here in the meantime.”
I frowned. The jarls of each region met together at an Althing only when the king felt like calling them together.
The last one had been when I was a boy, as my father despised the pageantry and bureaucracy of the jarldoms. Their power was mostly symbolic after the consolidation of Stalheim under the crown.
The fact that my father was calling one now meant he had plans that I doubted would align with my own.
I clenched my jaw, wondering if I’d made a huge mistake in bringing Eisa here. “We are needed back at Ironholm.”
“You are needed here.“ The smile didn’t reach his eyes as he raised his tankard in salute. “We must celebrate, after all. We shall have a feast in five days’ time.”
“Celebrate what, exactly?”
Baldur growled protectively as my father’s grin widened. “Your handfasting of course.” The King’s gaze raked over Eisa’s body in a way that made my blood boil in my veins. “To your mate.”