Chapter 11
Solveig collapsed into his arms, her magic drained. He held her tightly as the earthquake ebbed and then grew, throwing them both to the ground.
Westley made sure his body took the brunt of the fall, twisting at the last minute. Her weight was not unpleasant on top of him. She was breathing heavily, her movements weak.
“Are you okay?” Westley whispered.
She nodded. “I think so.”
“I can feel it,” Conalle whispered, staring at his hands, his eyes beginning to water. He looked up at Solveig in awe. “I can feel it,” he said again.
“Did I break through all the binds?” Solveig asked weakly.
Conalle took a moment before slowly shaking his head. Solveig slumped into Westley’s chest in defeat, but Conalle didn’t look the least bit disappointed.
He put his hands on the earth and closed his eyes. The quake triggered by the release of Conalle’s earth magic had been so strong, rocks had broken off and splashed in the water. A small fissure opened beside the pool, a yawning rift changing the landscape of the waterfall.
Westley met Solveig’s eyes and could tell they were thinking the same thing.
“Do you think . . . ?” she started, the same time he said, “What if . . .”
Noren looked between them as Westley helped Solveig to her feet, holding her a little longer than necessary as she steadied herself.
His hand engulfed her elbow until he had no more excuse to touch her.
He broke their connection, and the loss of it was an immediate regret.
He took a step back so he didn’t do anything stupid.
“What are you guys talking about?” Noren asked.
Westley turned his attention to Noren. “We think maybe the mortals—or my grandfather, I guess—had a Fae with earth magic and that’s how the chasm opened in the Southern Wilds.”
“It’s the only explanation that makes sense, unless the mortals are working on some form of technology that imitates magic,” Solveig added. “I need to get to Asgard.”
“We need to get to Asgard,” Westley corrected. “And we have to go through Idavoll to get there.”
Solveig narrowed her eyes. “I’m not stopping at the palace.”
It was futile, but he had to try. “What if we send word and plan to meet elsewhere?”
She raised a brow. “And what do you think will happen? They’ll simply agree, hear me out, change their minds, and let me be on my way?
I can guarantee not all of your family will survive that encounter.
You can go to the palace, meet your family, or whatever you want, but I will not be following you. ”
“Very well, we will do this your way,” he said, resigned.
“You’d disobey a direct order from your queen, your mother?”
The mere suggestion of parting from her was worse than disobeying his mother. Hel, he was four hundred and eighty-one years old.
“She may be my mother, but she’s not my queen anymore.” Westley straightened to his full height, embracing the treasonous words as he towered over Solveig, daring her to contradict him or ask him to clarify. She did neither.
“Very well. Let’s ride.”
If he wasn’t convinced she hated him, he could have sworn a phantom touch caressed his mind, soft and insecure before it was gone in an instant, like it hadn’t been there at all.
They braced themselves as they crossed the border into Idavoll. Gone was the crisp coolness of Vanaheim’s autumn, replaced in an instant with harsh winter. Solveig had been prepared, but it was still a shock to her system.
Asgard was the living embodiment of summer, and so Idavoll, ever Asgard’s opposite, became an unforgiving winter.
It hadn’t always been like this, but after the divide of the Fae, the lands followed suit.
The Block had suspended each realm in its seasonal extremes, and so Idavoll had struggled through a century and a half of unrelenting weather.
It was no wonder the Fae there were dwindling.
Helle snorted in protest. She was an Asgardian-born horse, and therefore, despised the winter. Solveig reached a gloved hand to pat her neck, whispering apologies and adulation.
When the horse tossed her head and snorted again, Solveig sat straight in her saddle and let the beast be. There was no winning when she was in this mood.
Thankfully, Idavoll was a relatively small stretch of land. What was once a woodland with territory claimed by each of the three realms was now a realm unto itself. A strip of forest covered the entire width of the continent.
The palace lay directly in the centre of the land, the perfect place to draw magic from the most powerful point—where Alfheim’s, Vanaheim’s, and Asgard’s borders all converged.
If Solveig had anything to say about it, their party would avoid the palace at all costs.
Their journey would take them to the eastern part of Idavoll instead, giving the royal city a wide berth.
They’d have to find somewhere to stay the night before continuing on to Asgard the next day, and she knew the perfect place.
The prince pulled Njord up beside Helle. “Would you allow me to write to my sisters so they can bring us provisions or help us find a place to sleep?”
Solveig stiffened in her seat, mistrust lingering. The way her magic yearned for him was so at odds with her common sense. “It’s not necessary,” she said tersely.
Westley glanced at Noren and Conalle behind them. “If you’d like Conalle to keep all his appendages, then it is necessary.”
“What was that about my penis?” the lord shouted through the wind, his teeth chattering. “If you’re asking if it’s going to freeze off my body then the answer is yes, yes it is.”
She sighed. “I have a better idea.”
The prince appeared puzzled but followed as she led them through the frozen forest, its crystalized branches providing no shelter from the relentless winds that whipped at their faces.
Solveig called on her magic to heat her body as she urged Helle forward. If Helle was irritated before, it was nothing compared to the attitude she gave Solveig when she took note of where they were heading. Solveig ignored her horse’s tantrum and yanked on the reins.
An hour later they reached a clearing where Solveig dismounted, leading Helle to the stables. The horse reared her head and dug her hooves into the snow. Solveig rounded on her.
“Grow up, Helle. It’s either this or you’re sleeping outside,” Solveig said more forcefully. The horse gave a little more resistance and then hung her head in defeat. “You’re so dramatic,” Solveig muttered as they entered the warm barn.
There were only a few horses housed in the stable, but Helle steered herself to the farthest stall, putting as much distance as possible between her and the others. As they passed, a golden stallion stuck his head out to greet them and then gave a loud, deep whinny.
Helle started stamping her feet before Solveig could get control of her.
“Here we go,” Solveig whispered. “Get your horses into stalls as quickly as possible,” she told the others just as Helle smacked her head into the golden horse.
The stallion tried to snap at Helle, but she was faster, getting a decent chunk of his neck in her mouth and clamping down in a show of dominance. He whimpered and backed off, allowing Solveig to regain her grip on Helle’s reins.
“You’re worse than a Vanir with that temper,” she said as she brushed her down. “Do not”—Solveig tugged on the reins to look her horse in the eye—“I mean it, Helle, do not wreck this stable. He’s over there and you’re over here and it’s only for one night.”
Helle let out an angry puff of air and Solveig patted her face. “You’ll be fine.”
They fed their horses and left the oddly tense barn, making their way to the small cottage.
“What the Hel was that about?” Noren asked as they trudged through the snow.
“They have history,” Solveig replied.
“The horses?” he asked, incredulous.
“In case you haven’t noticed, Asgardian horses are not built like regular horses. They are intelligent and emotional.” She turned to Westley. “You should know, Njord probably gives you all sorts of trouble.”
Westley stared. “Excuse me? Njord is not an Asgardian horse. He came to me from Jotunheim.”
Solveig snorted. “He’s no more a Jotunheim horse than I am. He’s Asgardian through and through, Prince.”
They reached the front door of the cottage and paused, waiting for Solveig’s instruction.
After a moment she banged on the door twice with her fist. Snow sprinkled down from the force of her knocking. Westley quirked a brow at her frowning face.
“I haven’t seen the resident of this cottage since Helle and that stallion had their last dalliance. I’m not sure if he’s still upset with me,” she told him.
The door swung open, showcasing a tall male dressed in nothing but a towel draped around his waist.
Glistening muscles ribbed his pristine chest as drops of water rolled down the length of his pale body.
Piercing blue eyes widened as he took them in, his long blond hair piled on the top of his head.
A cropped beard lined his square jaw, his sharp cheekbones creating a harsh expression as he assessed who stood at his door.
His eyes only flicked to Solveig’s companions once before a slow smile spread over his face, transforming his features.
The mischievous smile of someone who knew her well.