Chapter 8
The four slept the rest of the day and all through the night.
When Westley woke from his restless sleep, the sun was just beginning its ascent—the white canvas tent soaked in the early morning rays, the space illuminated in a soft glow. He was warm and comfortable, curled into the warm body beside him.
Contentment settled in his bones as strong arms wrapped around him, snuggling him closer. He breathed in the smell of earthy leather. His brow furrowed at the unfamiliar scent. Even in his sleep, he’d been expecting the smell of stormy rain.
He blinked open his eyes and took in the broad expanse of bare chest he was currently draped over. The hairy arms that held him.
He reared back. “What the fuck?”
An infectious laugh came from the other side of the tent, where Solveig sat drinking steaming liquid from a mug. The smell of strong citrus tea drifted over to him, his mouth watering.
Her amused smile curled over the lip of her mug. “You two make such a cute couple.”
A still-sleeping Conalle hugged him closer before Westley shoved him off, sending the butt-ass-naked lord flying into Noren. Solveig chuckled again as the two males woke in a disoriented array of limbs and snarls.
Westley took in the sight of her dressed in black travelling clothes, her hair braided back. She was ready to go.
“How long have you been up?” he asked, surprised when she handed him a mug of tea. The lemon scent filled his nose and he drank it readily, letting it warm his insides.
“An hour or so. Breakfast is waiting by the fire and your clothes have been washed and dried. They’re laid out at the end of the bed. The horses have been readied—we must be off.”
“You did all this for me?” Westley asked skeptically.
Solveig stared, unflinching. “No, Quillon had everything prepared for us. Now get up.” Her tone brokered no argument.
“As you wish, General.” He smirked, but his humour faded when she also handed a mug of tea to Conalle.
“She’s so demanding,” Noren muttered.
“Wipe the drool off your face, Noren,” Westley said as he launched a pillow at Noren’s head.
“Did you expect anything less from a general?” Conalle asked, pulling on his pants.
Solveig left them, clearly satisfied with their ability to get ready without her supervision. They were just as anxious to leave as she was.
Westley ducked out of the tent first, quickly taking note of Solveig’s heated discussion with Latham.
Aggressive hand gestures and hissed words that didn’t quite reach him hinted that the conversation was not going Latham’s way.
The male stormed off in the other direction. Westley hid his smile as he approached.
“Ready, General?” he asked, hoping to open the lines of communication between them. But she wouldn’t have it. She nodded without eye contact.
Saying goodbye only to the jarl and a few others before mounting their horses, they made a swift exit. They raced through the realm, making it difficult to enjoy the beautiful surroundings as they went.
Westley wanted to speak with her—needed to—but he also needed to get farther away from the other Vanir to do so. They would be crossing into Idavoll before continuing to Asgard and he either had to lie to her or set a trap and lure her to the palace.
He didn’t like either option. In a perfect world, he would ask her to go with him and she would say yes. But they didn’t live in a perfect world. He doubted she would go willingly if he came clean.
At this pace, he didn’t have much time to sort it out—they would make it to Idavoll by next morning.
Save for the sounds of the horses’ heavy breathing and hooves stamping the ground, they rode in silence for hours before coming upon the ruins of what appeared to be an old Southern Wilds campsite.
They had travelled through the mountainscape that bordered Vanaheim and Idavoll, emerging on the other side—a perfect hiding place nestled among the monstrous rocks.
Solveig dismounted without a word and led Helle down an overgrown path. The males followed without question.
Westley’s eyes widened as the lush green foliage opened up to a stunning waterfall.
Tall reddish-brown cliffs surrounded the waterfall, which fed into a pool of crystal-clear water. Pale flowers filled the cracks of the warm rocks, intricately woven and growing in the unlikeliest of places. He’d never seen anything like it.
Solveig brought her horse to the water, scooping a handful into her mouth. Noren and Conalle followed suit, but Westley couldn’t take his eyes off the magnificence of this place.
Memories of war flashed through his mind as he took in the surroundings. His life had been full of council rooms, warships, barracks, and bloody battlefields. He had rarely taken time to explore the realms. He’d never had the inclination nor the time.
But as the water cascaded in heavy waves down the rocks, a piece of his soul stirred—his magic woke.
He’d been raised to think peace was unattainable, that the world was a dark and gruelling place and it was his job to right the wrongs. His experiences gave him no opportunity to refute what he’d been taught.
Westley dragged a breath of clean air into his lungs, struggling to swallow around the growing thickness in his throat.
“How far are we from Idavoll?” he asked in a hushed tone, overcome with the need to be reverent in a place so clearly blessed by the gods.
“About two more hours to the border,” Solveig answered without looking. She was digging in a pack. “Conalle, where did you put the food?”
“Oh, I had to rearrange a few things, so I stuck it all in Westley’s bag.”
That’s why his pack had felt heavier than when he’d tested it out the previous night. Solveig snorted.
Westley rolled his eyes. “Gee, thanks.”
He was so mesmerised by the scenery that he didn’t notice her pulling the food from his bag until the air went completely still. Like the world was holding Her breath at the sudden tension radiating off Solveig.
Even the sun faltered.
“What is this?” Solveig said, enunciating every syllable, her tone low and menacing as she stood.
Westley whipped his head around, first taking in the stillness of her body, then the mask completely devoid of emotion on her face. She held a folded piece of parchment in her hands.
The letter he’d found yesterday tucked in a deep pocket of his vest as he’d undressed. A letter from his mother with instructions from his grandfather.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. His heart raced as his mind scrambled to come up with anything to defuse the situation.
“Solveig, I can explain.”
“Then explain,” she growled.
“What is it?” Conalle asked.
Solveig began to read out loud, and the blood drained from Westley’s face as her cheeks flushed with anger, her mask cracking.
“‘Dearest Westley,
We must leave you in this gods-awful camp for a little while longer. We cannot stay to clean up after the barbarians. Your grandfather has another mission for you. Bring Solveig to us in Idavoll. Discreetly.
Make sure you bring her alone—we do not want word getting back to Asgard about her whereabouts. Do not let her out of your sight. She is the key to Idavoll’s ruin and must be stopped. Lure her any way you have to, but get her here quickly. The gods demand it, as do we.
With love, my son,
Mother.’”
Conalle went rigid, reading over her shoulder as if he had to see it with his own eyes. His eyes darkened with mistrust. “West?”
He didn’t know how to explain without her hating him. How could he tell her he needed her to help save his people?
That’s why he had to get her to Idavoll, why he’d do anything to ensure it.
He swallowed hard. “I wasn’t planning to let them hurt you, Solveig, you have to know that.”
“How am I supposed to trust you?” she snarled, trembling with rage.
“I didn’t have all the logistics sorted out yet, but I had a plan.” Westley winced as the words left his mouth. He hadn’t meant to phrase it like that.
“You had a plan? Did your plan involve asking me?” she hissed.
He grimaced. “I wasn’t sure if you would go willingly, so—” He scrambled for anything to help her understand.
Solveig’s voice lowered. “You meant to capture me again?”
“No.” He shook his head violently, like that would convince her he was telling the truth. “I want to prove to them that you are the opposite of our ruin—that you want to help, and not just Asgard but the world. I want to change their minds.”
“Their minds cannot be swayed so easily, Westley,” Conalle censured.
“After everything you’ve already put me through, you expect me to believe you?” Solveig hissed, drawing her sword. Magic charged the air between them, the hair rising on the back of his neck.
Oh shit.
Westley put his hands up in a show of peace.
“I want them to see you as you are, Solveig, what a powerful ally you could be. Ragnvald will not be in Idavoll. We only have to sway my parents. North and Easta already fight the same fight you do. They didn’t believe the mortals caused the war, and they were right. ” Words spilled out from him in a rush.
She shook her head, and the small bit of hope that lived in his heart vanished at the look in her eye.
“I have given you yet another chance and you have already squandered it.”
“Solveig, please,” he begged as she advanced towards him.
“I am done with your pleases.” She slashed her sword, leaving him no choice but to defend himself, ducking and rolling away. Noren tossed him a blade and Westley caught it, straightening his stance.
“Alright then, General, let me have it,” he said, pointing the sword in her direction.
Instead of charging like he expected, she dropped her weapon and flung her magic, the blast of light shocking him to his knees. He recovered from the attack quickly, staring with a mixture of awe and anger.
A deadly combination.
Dredging up his own magic proved impossible—it was still blocked.
It raged in his veins to be let free, to answer the challenge her magic wrought.