Chapter 1 #2
She settles into the high-backed armchair the color of a midnight sky, her dagger-like blood-red nails drumming along the plush upholstery. “We got off on the wrong foot-”
Sitting upright, he barks a laugh. “You mean twenty winters ago? When you chose to manipulate me for your amusement.”
“I have only ever tried to be a doting mother with you.” She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest like a petulant child.
He scoffs, knowing the winters have only made her more delusional. Avard, his father, risked everything to rescue Calder from her clutches when he was a little boy.
To keep Lavinia’s malicious plan from coming to fruition.
“I cannot change the past, but I can offer you everything you could have ever desired. Hmm, let us see your deepest fear, shall we?”
The whites of her eyes glow an unsettling shade of yellow while her lips mutter. Slowly, a smile twists across her crimson lips.
Bitter silence fills the room, with only the heavy pounding of his heart to remind him that she has not bewitched him. All he can do is hope his heart will not betray him.
Lavinia’s eyes refocus as her smile widens to bare her white teeth. “Finally. You finally trust me enough to share your deepest fear.”
Calder stands, struggling not to freeze her to the wall and shatter her into infinitesimal shards.
“Oh, Calder!” Her eyes twinkle like a child given a present.
“This fear is not something you should run away from. Imagine if you would relinquish this self-loathing you hold over the past and embrace the unending power you possess.” She rushes to his side, no longer concealing her giddiness.
“Allow me to guide you into it properly.”
“Desperation is not flattering on you, Lavinia,” he growls, tugging away.
“You are not a Witch and cannot guide anyone with Sacred Stone powers. Besides, Witches haven’t existed for centuries.
” His lip curls at the cream-colored matronly gown she chose to wear.
“You had an opportunity to be my mother before you misrepresented my ex-wife as a loving woman and not one loyal to you,” he spits.
“And I am far past discussing my son’s death. ”
“We both know whose hand wielded that axe, my son.” She sweeps past to stand in the doorway.
“The Assembly meets at midday tomorrow. Please allow me to help you tap into your birthright. You can lead the Jarls as the proper Prince of Skalor. Your brain and delicious sinew can be used as we intended.”
“I would rather freeze my body and then fall off the tallest tower than seek your assistance in any matter.” She bristles at his words, but he continues, “I suggest you redirect your manipulative tendrils to someone else at this Assembly.”
“One day, the choice will no longer be yours. You will accept his offer!” Her entire body quivers in indignation.
Calder flinches at her words. No, this cannot be true. I killed him.
“Do not forget what the people call me, Lavinia.” His tone drops low. “I will freeze the entire godsforsaken country if it means destroying another demon god.”
Sometime in the night, Calder awakens to the pitch black of his chamber.
Outside, the winter wind whistles dangerously against the stone walls of the Keep.
The warrior chief lies atop his blankets and furs, clad only in a pair of black trousers.
Sweat clings to his chest and forehead as his heavy breathing slows steadily.
I thought I was past these nightmares.
He slips to the washbasin and splashes cold water onto his face, letting the excess drip onto his inked chest.
He clutches the back of his head, the feeling of his closely cropped hair a reminder that he is awake and not in the nightmares.
The familiar anguish twists inside his gut like a knife.
It is no longer the screams of his son, begging the people of Chillbury to spare his life, or the betrayal of his bitch of an ex-wife that haunts him.
After fifteen winters, the feeling that eats away at his soul is the overwhelming need to punish himself.
The corridor outside his room is barely lit, the fading candles within the sconces casting long shadows as they crisscross the floor. Snores emanate from Gunni’s room, and a peek in Edmund’s shows him lying flat on his back with cream over his clean-shaven face.
Calder abandons his wing of the keep, careful to remain quiet lest he wake one of the other slumbering Jarls.
There are five, each overseeing one of the country's holds. Jarlship is passed down through the family line unless someone steps in and violently takes the role for themselves. That is precisely how a young man, a Drengr of Sigvid Thordsson, wound up in this position.
If only the Norn would reverse his poor decisions. Perhaps then the nightmares would abate.
A plate of meat is his end goal on this unusual late-night sojourn. The Iss Drengr keeps a tightly controlled lifestyle that rarely deviates. After his mistakes of marrying his now ex-wife and losing his son, he finds life much simpler and easier to control when his weaknesses are locked away.
Instead of stepping into the kitchens, he finds himself in a danker, much colder section of the castle. He grumbles under his breath, which mists around his face. As long as he is far from Lavinia’s clutches, he couldn't care less where his accidental wanderings lead.
He comes upon a thick wooden door with four small bars embedded near the top. When he presses the heavy wood, it swings open to reveal the castle dungeon. The stench of unwashed bodies, waste, and mildew assaults his senses. With a curl of his lip, he turns to leave.
“Calder…” A croaking woman’s voice halts him in his tracks.
An old crone dressed in rags summons him from one of the cells. Calder glances around to ensure he is the only non-prisoner present. He steps up to the bars of the woman, who bears such a slight resemblance to a memory that he remains fixed on the spot.
He raises a brow at the woman expectantly.
“How the winters have aged you into a proper warrior!” She gushes, tears trickling down her wrinkled cheeks as she tries to reach for him through the bars but is held back by the heavy cast iron shackles on her wrists and feet.
He watches her struggle against the chains. “You speak as if you know who I am.”
She stumbles back into her cell and collapses onto the meager hay scattered about the dirty floor. “Dear boy,” she crawls to the cell bars again, clutching them with frail, wrinkled hands. “I spent the first winters of your life fighting to free you from the horror you were born into.”
Calder strokes his beard, lost in thought about the identity of this strange woman. “What horror do you speak of?”
The Crone tilts her head to the side, assessing him. “Your existence has been meticulously crafted, Iss Drengr. Ever so intentionally with harsh malevolence.” Pity hangs in her gaze.
“Who are you?” His voice is deep and unwavering. He watches her struggle to hold herself to the bars.
As she moves into the light of the flickering flames, he can see the milkiness of her eyes.
“Our gods are cruel, selfish beings. You know more than anyone.” What little weight clings to her brittle bones leans against the iron door of her prison. “The question is not who I am, Iss Drengr. But who are you? There are so many titles you flee from.”
He tilts his head to the side, crouching to her level. “What do you know, Seer?” Based on her blindness and the way she speaks, he quickly deduces her ability.
“I know all that the Norn chose me to know, sweet boy. But what are you seeking in Nightwall Keep? You already know the depravity of your mother, the Queen, from your father, Avard, to the two graves that haunt your steps. Even if one of those graves deserved your axe blade to her neck.”
“How could you possibly know of my wife’s betrayal?”
The Crone ignores him and continues, “You understand the terrible lengths she will go to ensure her power triumphs. Why answer her summons now?”
He strokes his thick beard thoughtfully, considering the Seer. “I felt something, a tugging in my gut, pulling me to this gathering.”
She nods in understanding. “Through the mist, I foresee a treacherous path with a fork in the road. One will not ease your pain, yet bring you a light you never thought you deserved. The deepest oceans will drown you while breathing life into your heart.” Her fingertips press against his cheek.
“Eternal darkness and pain wait for you, should you turn away from your instincts.” Her grip on his face tightens. “You could damn us all.”
“Do you have anything else for me?”
“I remember the young boy who carried toy ships from pond to puddle, imagining ship battles in his mind. You now are more inflexible than the trunk of an elder tree.”
“I must remain rigid.” Repeating my mistake risks destroying everything I have built in Kaldrgataness.
“I am sure you have seen what direction I must take.” He scans the woman's face.
“I remember you, Seer, the woman who would help me build the wooden ships.” He tilts his head.
“The one who would hide me in the wall when my mother would look for me.”
More tears trickle down her cheeks.
“While I have you safe, my sweet boy, I must impart words of wisdom.” Her voice shakes with tiny sobs. “I know you desire a struggle. The need remains starved in your body like a land without rain, thirsting for the one thing you crave most yet deny yourself.”
“And what is that?”
“Power, Calder, you need power. It is an undeniable part of the man you were born to become. Fighting against yourself creates an imbalance that will lead you on the path to ruin.”
She breathes heavily, turning her head over his shoulder as a sadness brushes over her face. “She has my family,” She whispers. “After I aided Avard in your escape back to his home in Treland, she has held their lives over me.”
Calder reaches through the bars to hold the woman he now remembers as his Governess. There is a pang in his chest at the pain he has caused one of the few people in his life who genuinely cared for him.
“What does she ask of you?”
“I must support her twisted interpretation of a prophecy before the Jarls of Skalor. But with you here, I can speak the truth. Please heed my words, my sweet boy, my Calder. Do not allow her to dismiss reality for her whims. You may have been born to dismantle the continent, but it is up to you to free our kingdom.”
Her body seizes, and her eyes fade to black as the prophecy forms in her mind.
“Skalor’s salvation requires two.
Liberation bleeds at the hands of the god-born child.
To make equal upon a field of sunless roses, a willing sacrifice must be taken.
Only when Salt melts Ice will peace descend upon the realm.”