Chapter fourteen
Arik
“This is madness,” Arne shouted, the only man not afraid to say what every one of us was thinking. He was standing, his body practically quivering in rage as he stared down my father.
“The drage do not leave the Odemark.” I rose to join him, and I gave a silent prayer of thanks that the surprise I felt at my father’s latest scheme wasn’t betrayed by the tone of my voice.
Arne was right—invading the fae lands was tantamount to a suicide mission, and I couldn’t for the life of me think why my father would want to take such a risk.
“Our place is in the south defending Stalheim.”
“And what is there to defend?” My father laughed, the sound void of mirth as the other jarls looked on in disbelief. “A people who are likely to starve, if not this winter, then within the next few years?”
“Explain.” It was one of the jarls from the northern territories, and the look my father gave him could melt glass. “If you—please. Sire.”
My father pointed to the map, to the northern territory the jarl controlled. “Tell me, Hans, what lies to the north of your territory?”
“The Deep Wood,” Hans replied, his beard quivering.
“And how much trade do we do with the shifters in that realm?”
“Why, none, Sire.”
“And you, Arne.” He turned next to my uncle. “How much trade has come from the dwarves of late? Our markets used to be flooded with their iron tools and meat from their beasts.”
Arne frowned, his eyes narrowed at my father. “Less than previous years.”
“It is none, and you well know it! The dwarves have turned against us. Their treaty with the new fae queen means they will not produce iron for us—iron that the fae fear. And you.” The king turned to one of the western jarls. “What of trade with the elven lands?”
“T-there is none, sire.” All eyes turned to stare at the three western jarls, and I blinked in surprise. The elves had been strong partners in trade for hundreds of years. “Not for at least a year now.”
“This is the problem,” my father announced, turning back to the map.
He pointed to the west. “The elves suffer an endless winter and cannot trade.” Then to the north.
“The shifters trade with no one, man nor fae alike, and keep to themselves.” He moved his finger to the northeast, where the mountains that hid the Dwarven Realm stood like a barrier between us and the rest of the continent.
“The dwarves have forsaken us because of their new allies.” And finally landed on Ironholm.
“And the south is plagued with monsters that we must fight using the meager resources that remain.”
“But the midlands thrive, Sire,” one of the older jarls declared. I recognized him as one of the three midlands chieftains who sent their tithes in grain rather than coin. “There is enough food to sustain us.”
“For now.” The king’s voice darkened. “But we are a populous race. The elves and dwarves and fae are slow to reproduce, but our numbers have grown by the thousands every year and will continue to do so.” He cast a serious look around the room.
“My advisors inform me we have no more than two winters before we begin to feel the pinch of rationing. Three before we must begin to limit childbearing. Five at most before the people begin to starve in earnest.”
“We cannot limit childbearing!” one of the southern jarls cried in alarm. “A man needs at least two or three sons to carry on his name.” Several other jarls murmured in agreement, and I saw Edvard roll his eyes.
“Then let us trade farther north,” another northern jarl suggested. “The orcs will gladly trade for human women. We could send them some of our thralls.”
Another grumble of agreement boiled my blood. Of course the jarls would not condemn selling more women into slavery if it kept their own bellies full.
“Or the Demon King and Witch Queen might–”
“We do not need the black magic of the witches in these lands,” my father snapped, forcing the jarl to take a step back as spittle flew from my father’s mouth.
“And trade with the orcs will buy us a few years at most. We need land, gentlemen. The only arable land within striking distance is fae land.”
“And yer willing to risk our sons and daughters in a battle where they will be slaughtered by wind and fire wielders?” Arne asked, a brow raised.
“We have our own fire wielders,” the king replied, looking at me.
I clenched my jaw as he turned back to the jarls.
“And the fae have an untested queen. We need more space than the meager territory we have, pushed to the bottom of the continent where we face the fewest resources and highest threats.”
“Threats of our own making.” All eyes turned to me. “It was a human sorcerer who opened the Rift. Who cursed the Odemark to an icy wasteland rife with monsters we do not understand. If we could close the Rift—“
The room erupted in a burst of laughter, and I felt Baldur growl in irritation deep in my chest. Do they not know who we are?
They do not care, I reminded him.
“Close the Rift?” One of the southern jarls shouted out loud, his voice edged with hearty amusement. “Has the ice driven you to madness, boy? No one can close the Rift.”
“It’s been eons since that land was anything more than ice and rock,” another agreed. “If the skalds in the royal library have not found an answer in two millennia, how do you propose to find one within two years?”
“Because your human skalds do not know what I do!” I hadn’t meant to shout, but my patience had reached its end. The room went deadly still, and I realized that Baldur shone out through my eyes, his anger building with mine.
I was so fucking tired of old men making decisions based on nothing but their own greed.
All but Arne took several steps away from me, and my father gave me a curious, wary look, his eyes gleaming with some emotion I couldn’t parse.
Over his shoulder, Edvard stared in surprise, something dark flitting within his gaze as he looked between me and the king.
“Leave us,” my father barked, his eyes intent on mine as the other jarls stood in silence and watched our exchange with wary looks.
When no one moved, my father’s temper broke. “I said leave us!”
“But, Sire.” The jarl who spoke was one of the midlands chieftains. “We have not voted on the matter of—“
“Out. Now.”
To an outsider, his tone would have seemed mild, but the jarls obeyed, practically tripping over themselves in their rush to get out the door. They almost crushed the wizened skald, who was caught around his scrawny shoulders by Arne before he could be flattened by the fleeing jarls.
Arne shot me a knowing look as he escorted the skald from the room, shutting the door behind us. Only my brother, my father, and I remained in the room, which was filled with a silence so loud I could hear it throbbing in my ears in time with my blood.
“You too.” My father’s voice was ice as he looked at Edvard. “Out.”
Edvard blinked in surprise and took a step toward our father. “Don’t you think—“
“I am tired of being told what to think by lesser men,” my father growled. “Out!”
Edvard’s face paled, his eyes darkening with hatred. He bowed, somehow managing to make it look insolent. “As you command, Sire.”
He cast me a look of warning before striding from the room.
“Sit.” My father slumped into his chair and poured a deep goblet of wine. “Drink.”
I did not sit. “What?”
“You need a drink,” he repeated, pushing the goblet toward me as he filled another. “I hear from the servants that your woman has her blood? You should keep your distance until it passes. Women are irrational during their bleed.”
“I will not be taking advice about how to treat my mate from you.” I ignored the goblet, trying to stifle my building fury and indignation. My heart still thumped a furious rhythm, and Baldur’s grumbled agreement wasn’t helping my temper.
It would be very fast. He wouldn’t even have time to scream.
No. I took a breath, trying to calm my pulse, and had a sip of the wine to steady myself.
My father sighed, looking older than I had ever seen him as he contemplated the red liquid in his cup. “It is a good omen that she bleeds so close to your handfasting. A blessing from the Hearthmother.”
“I…what?” I stared at my father, certain I had misheard.
“Sit, Arik.” He waved to the open chair across from him, sighing deeply into his cup. “It is time we had a reckoning, you and I. But first, tell me about your plan to close the Rift.”
I remained standing as I tried to think of a way to deflect. I had no intention of telling my father what I believed Eisa and Idunn could do, but coming up with a clever lie was beyond me. “I asked you first.”
My father chuckled and drained his cup, then refilled it before pinning me with an appraising stare. “You were always more like me than Edvard, you know. It’s why I sent you to Ironholm instead of him.”
I struggled to maintain my indifferent mask, appalled that my father thought me anything like him. “I don’t understand.”
“No, you thought it was a punishment.” My father laughed and drained his second glass. “But I knew if you could survive Ironholm—if you could bond that dragon of yours—that you would be a force to be reckoned with. A king with blood of both wolf and dragon.”
My stomach dropped to my feet, and I gripped the back of the chair to steady myself. “Edvard is to be king. I signed away that birthright at your behest.”
“Because it was required by the jarls.” He waved his hand as if this were merely an inconvenience. “They did not wish to bow to a king who was also a dragon. They wish a chance to inherit the throne for their own clans by wedding their daughters to Edvard.”
He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, looking more eager than I had ever seen him. “But contracts signed on paper can easily burn, as you well know.”
I kept my face as impassive as I could, despite my thundering heartbeat. “You would have me rule over a wasteland. None of the jarls would stand for such a thing.”
“Probably not.” My father smirked and sat back in his chair, his expression difficult to read. I thought perhaps it was pride, which made me feel sick. “Which is why you must win me this war.”
He stood and tapped on the map, on the tiny stone dragon poised at the edge of the fae lands.
“Edvard’s cruelty hides a coward’s heart, and the jarls know it.
The moment he tries to take the crown, they will depose him.
And then there will be another war the likes of which this continent hasn’t seen since the Wolf King himself.
Thousands will die. But you…” He looked up, his eyes hard-edged steel.
“You will wed your woman. You will bed her and put a child in her. And then you will take your drage and win us more land, so that when I name you as my restored heir, the jarls will have no choice but to bow or burn.”
I didn’t bother correcting him about the chances of Eisa and I producing a child. The entire scheme was too horrifying to properly process, but I managed to keep my blank mask in place. “And if I refuse?”
My father smiled faintly, as if he’d known I would ask. “Then I will find another way to motivate you.” He moved another stone piece across the map to join the dragon. “Or I will find another Dragehersker who will do as I command.”
My blood ran cold at the implied threat, and my father sat back in his chair, his victory complete. “Now. Tell me about the Rift.”