Chapter 21
Westley struggled to wrap his mind around what he was reading.
He’d never heard of Bragi nor Frida, and certainly never Faedir. He delved deeper into their tales, each entry telling histories, fresh discoveries of their world.
With each passage, mentions of the Aesir became sparse until they were all but forgotten. Once Bragi’s life ended, his great-great-great-grandson, Gudrun, a Fae, took over the histories.
Gudrun’s focus was on the rise and fall of the Fae, and he lived through the division. His descendants became the inhabitants of Idavoll. According to this history, Gudrun was Westley’s great-great-grandfather—Ragnvald’s grandfather.
The concept of time was lost to him as he devoured the pages. Completely entranced in the writings, he did not hear the door open, nor the footsteps approaching.
Movement caught his eye, causing him to jump. He tore his eyes away from the tome to see Solveig perched on the armchair beside him, expression thoughtful in her profile. He was momentarily distracted by the sight of her. Her hair piled on top of her head exposed her long, slender neck.
Westley got a peek at the tattoo that trailed down her spine.
From this angle, he could tell they were runes but couldn’t decipher them. She wore a soft-looking nightdress and matching robe that did nothing to hide her peaked breasts.
“Are you okay?” she whispered into the night.
“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully.
Solveig reached over and took the tome from his hands. He let it slip through his fingers without resistance. She scanned the cover, face softening in understanding.
“Is it true?” he asked, not bothering to keep the despair out of his voice. “How do you know it is true?”
“Come with me,” she said, setting the book down gently on the table in front of him.
She stood and reached out her hand, and when he looked at her, he could see it was more than an offer to help him stand.
There was an unguarded look in her eye, one she’d allowed him to glimpse over the last few weeks.
Sometimes there was confusion, other times hurt. But she was allowing him to see it.
By not hiding her emotions from him, she was offering an olive branch. One she extended again with the offer of her hand.
He took it without question, letting her strong grip and current of magic steady him as it flowed through them.
Their fingers interlaced, though he was not sure who initiated it, walking beside her as she led him through the stacks of the library. He wanted to ask her where they were going but couldn’t find the words.
One step brought him closer so their arms brushed together and their magic surged as the air thickened between them. After a few minutes and some turns that Westley couldn’t quite remember, they ended up in an older section near the back of the library.
Reluctantly, Westley released Solveig’s hand, immediately missing her warmth as she turned to face him.
“This is the history section. Asgard has worked tirelessly over the centuries to collect works from all the realms. Scribes of all races took notes and wrote their histories after Ragnarok. Copies were made for the realms that wanted to build libraries and schools. So while some of these are not originals, they are copies of those journals.”
She reached up and started taking books out, seemingly at random, piling them in Westley’s arms. When she took the next one down, he started in surprise, almost letting the heavy books fall to the floor.
It was a newer book with a familiar language and design.
“This is from Idavoll.”
“Yes, and it is the original.”
Westley’s eyes narrowed, his shoulders rising. “Why does Asgard have it?” he asked, trying to temper the anger in his voice.
Solveig placed the book on his stack and laid a hand on his arm. “It was brought to us after a branch of Fae settled in the forest,” she said kindly. “A scholar wanted to keep it safe when the monarchy of Idavoll began rewriting their history.”
He was already shaking his head, his mind refusing to consider the ramifications of her words. “One journal proves nothing.”
“Take a look at the other works. Compare them. No history contains all truths, but piecing them together, you will see.”
Westley wondered what she meant as she led them back towards his chair. He placed the books on the table, daunted at his task.
“I will leave you,” she said, making to step away. But Westley reached out and grabbed her hand.
“How did you know I was here? Why did you come?” he asked without taking his eyes from the table.
“I awoke restless and then I . . . I realized the distress wasn’t my own. The feeling led me here, to you.”
Westley nodded, throat thick with emotion. She slipped her hand from his and he didn’t stop her as she left. He sat down, staring at the tower of books, the feeling of dread and unease curling around his insides.
This couldn’t be.
Solveig turned when she reached the door, meaning to ask if he needed anything else, but what she saw stopped her.
Westley sat with his head in his hands, his fingers buried in his hair. He stared at the books in front of him, tears trickling down his face.
Not wanting to interrupt, she whispered, “May Odin grant you truth,” so faintly she knew he couldn’t hear.
She stepped through the door and closed it quietly, giving him privacy to sort through his thoughts.
The way to her room felt long, arduous, like moving against the tide that wanted to pull her back.
She was about to ascend the final staircase to her rooms when a figure emerged from the shadows. The dagger she had strapped to her thigh was in her hand a moment later, staying raised when Noren appeared.
“Where is he?” Noren demanded.
“He is not to be disturbed,” she answered coolly, her grip on the dagger tightening.
“You cannot keep him from me,” Noren said, taking a step closer.
“I’m not keeping him from you, I’m giving him space,” she said with a sigh.
“You’re poisoning his mind, filling his head with conflict.”
“Do you really think your prince so weak of mind that one idea could destroy his entire faith?”
“No, I think he’s so obsessed with you he pays no mind to reason.”
Solveig scoffed. “I am not the one who broke his trust.”
“You are the one who set him on this path.”
“You’re wrong. He has seen cracks in Idavoll’s foundation, and for the first time in his life, he’s acknowledging it. That is what’s destroying him. If you fight against this, if you try to stop him, his trust in you will be broken as well.”
Noren’s face fell, anger melting away as insecurity bloomed. “What do I do?”
“You listen with an open mind and heart. You hear what he has to say.”
“But what he’s saying is wrong and I can prove it.”
“And he is learning that truth is not so black and white. Our world was formed by destruction, and destruction causes even the most level-headed being to succumb to their high emotional state. History can never truly be known—there is fallacy in written words and stories passed down through generations.”
Noren was shaking his head again. “But there are facts.”
“What are facts about history besides one person’s perception of them?”
“You use your words to confuse, witch.”
“No, Noren, I use my words to help open your mind. There’s more than meets the eye and your prince is starting to see that.”
Without saying anything else, Solveig walked away, resheathing her dagger. She got back to her rooms and collapsed into bed, letting the exhaustion drag her down into sleep.
The last thought she had was of Westley poring over those books—a fallen prince weighed down by the truth and betrayal balanced precariously on his shoulders.