Chapter 2
CALDER
Nightwall Keep, Skalor
Calder awakens in the early morning to find himself alone in his darkened chamber.
No Lavinia.
No trained temptresses.
He follows his unchanging morning routine, which today includes cutting his hair close to the scalp—a process that has frustratingly grown more difficult with age.
At first, the actions were a means of clearing his head.
As the winters passed, each as dark and unforgiving as the last, he realized his routines were more about quieting the voices haunting his steps than about any real productivity.
The atrocities of his past continue to sink into him like bitter tendrils, soaking up the faint residue left of whatever soul he possesses.
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.
He is unable to shake the Seer’s prophecy.
The more it replays in his mind, the more he is forced to tighten his control, lest he crack and expose his weakness.
I should storm the dungeon and save the Seer. Then take the fight to the damn Queen and demand she release her family!
By afternoon, he checks the windowsill and freezes it shut before falling to the floor. Repeatedly, he pushes himself upward, strengthening his arms, the last remnants of his once-toned form.
If I had known that bitch threatened her family, I would have stopped it long ago!
He jumps from the floor and punches his fist through the wooden closet door. He staggers back, gripping the high-back chair, and his unhinged seidr freezes it solid.
His breath fans out in crystallized flakes.
Fuck. He takes a few deep breaths. Control. You must remain in control.
His frustration grumbles in a low growl as he grabs his great axe, Freyja, and steps into his practice battle movements. He continues until the sun's rays shine through the narrow window and a knock drums on his door.
A yawning Gunni greets him with a half-wave. “Well, you aren’t ready for breakfast.” His Second peers around his Jarl and into the carnage of the ice-filled room, and understanding dawns on his features.
He steps inside and shuts the door. “What did she want?” Assuming the reason for his Jarl’s tension.
“What she always wants.”
Control.
Calder rips his tunic from the bed and tugs it over his head.
The door creaks open again to reveal Edmund, looking like the pillar of well-rested health.
As he smokes his pipe, of course.
“Did the furniture come to life and attack you, or did I miss something last night?”
Gunni whips around. “Are you saying your room didn’t defend itself against your presence? Both of ours did.”
“My room knew better.” The Gothi pats his waist, where a carefully stitched flap in his robe conceals his dual axes.
Calder lets out a rare chuckle, pleasantly pleased with his choice of companions for the Assembly. He straps on his great axe and dons the spiked circlet of the Jarls of Skalor before leading them down to the Great Hall.
His mentor’s home of Blackwood, in Treland, held a warmth in natural light that even the cold of the Salt Province could not chase. In Nightwall Keep, he finds the slender windows and heavy drapes cast dreary shadows in every crevice.
Another reminder that his mother has eyes and ears everywhere.
The trio steps into the high-ceilinged, expansive chamber, with a roaring hearth embedded in the stone floor running down the center of the room. Long wooden tables laden with meat platters and bowls of root vegetables stretch alongside the fire.
The banter immediately ceases as all heads pivot to Calder. He rolls his shoulders back, sneering at the cowards.
“Ah, I see your reputation precedes you.” Edmund offers finger waves to the soldiers they pass, who mutter at the appearance of the infamous Iss Drengr.
“Jarl Calder!” Jarl Odo stops them. The older man has seen his way around far too many pies and is likely too intoxicated, even in the afternoon, to remember he should be wary of the Jarl of Kaldrgataness.
Odo approaches with his hand outstretched, and Calder notes how weak his grip has become over the last few winters.
“Please tell me you have some notion as to why we are all gathered in winter?” Odo drags his hand through his receding hairline.
“Not a clue. But I am sure the heartless bitch has something up her sleeve.”
Odo waves with a dismissive gesture. “Lavinia always operates with a plan. I only came for those lovely young women she offers for us to partake in.” He nudges him with a wink. “You know what I mean.”
“Tread carefully, Odo.” He warns, knowing it is too late for the Jarl of Sumpland Hold. Lavinia already has him ensnared in her grasp.
Odo and his companions find a table where many of the Queen’s handmaidens are serving, leaving the trio to find a seat at one of the long tables shoved in the corner beside the hearth.
Calder remains tense, arms tightly crossed over his broad chest, while Edmund and Gunni pile their plates with an array of meat pies and seared root vegetables.
“Boycotting morning meal?” Edmund asks with a mouthful.
Gunni chortles as he leans against the Gothi. “He trusts no one. Only his hands craft his meals.”
Edmund shakes his head, spearing a piece of beef.
More young women servants weave from group to group, filling flagons with white wine. Likely imported from the wealthy Western country of Pradacia.
Calder catches Odo grabbing one girl by her backside and burying his face between her breasts.
“Good morning, Jarl Calder,” a curvy woman with golden hair, her features framed by a tight bun, announces her presence. She loiters at his arm as she pours Salt mead into his empty flagon.
“Good morning.” Edmund winks at her, but Calder can feel her gaze burning into him.
Out of his peripheral vision, he observes her steeling herself to approach him. At last, she touches his shoulder and leans down by his ear. “The others may not understand you, Calder.” Her sudden attempt at seduction fails as her fear of him permeates her words.
He grinds his teeth, knowing his impulse to sink his blade through her neck hangs by a thread.
“I can withstand anything you wish to give me.” In a bold mood, she presses her trembling lips to his bearded cheek.
Edmund and Gunni both stop chewing.
He cracks his neck. “While I applaud your courage, if you wish to continue in your worthless life, I recommend you never breathe the same air as me again.” He swats her hand off his shoulder and rips the pitcher from her grasp.
As her eyes widen and her hand jumps to her mouth in shock, he slams the pitcher on the table, eliciting a squeak before she darts away.
“I thought you were going to rip her apart on the spot,” Gunni says through a mouthful.
“I’ve heard all of your rumors, Calder,” Edmund says, studying him over his flagon. “I’d be curious to know if they are all true.”
“Is there a question in there?”
“Even my fathers didn’t know why Uncle Sig sent you to Skalor. Why? What brought you here, never to return to Treland?”
“My King knew I was born in Skalor and raised here until my fifth winter, when my father rescued us from Lavinia. Sigvid wanted information on the Draemonium threat. The mission quickly grew complicated.” To say the least.
“Did you kill your wife and son?” Edmund pushes his plate away and lays his forearms on the wooden table. “You are a coldhearted bastard, but disposing of your family seems harsh.”
You have no idea.
Calder glances around, but everyone else in the hall is distracted by their congregations brought from their individual holds. He doesn't care what others think of him, yet still relies on his terrifying persona to be left alone. Before he can respond, Gunni leans into Edmund.
“This is an eye for an eye, Gothi,” he jabs a finger into his upper arm. “Calder tells you his truth if you tell him yours.”
Edmund smirks as he takes a long drink of wine. Finally, he tilts his head, assessing him. “You first.”
Calder’s thick, muscled arms clunk on the table, shuddering the platters. “I did.”
Mid-drink, Edmund spits out his wine, spraying all of them to Gunni’s verbal dismay.
“By the gods! I have so many questions-”
“Your turn.” Calder doesn’t flinch as Gunni curses Edmund for the regurgitated wine. “Who are you really, Gothi?”
Edmund grunts, tousling his hair to one side. “I am Lord Edmund Slodesson-Alexandrite of the Ridge Province in Treland.”
Gunni gapes at the son of the infamous warrior, Slode, who also serves as King Sigvid Thordsson’s Second-In-Command.
Calder sips his mead with a faint grin. “I suspected. I just needed you to confirm it for me.”
The boy’s cockiness and unparalleled abilities with an axe were the only tip-offs he needed. His dark hair and eyes were only a slight nod to his old Drengr friend in Salt.
“Did your wife and son deserve it?” Edmund presses, and Calder grumbles low in his chest.
“Pass,” he says, feeling the familiar sensation of sinking into the void, clutching his chest. “How did you end up a Gothi?”
Edmund removes his pipe and takes a moment to light the bowl before answering. “I bedded the daughter of a high-ranking lord. Well, and his wife. His steward. And his son.” He ticks off on his fingers as he reclines on the bench.
Calder chuckles, slightly impressed at his audacity.
“My fathers needed to show discipline and sent me to Pradacia to stay in a Gothi temple.”
Gunni raises his brows, his mouth gaping. “That’s harsh. Pradacia worships Gullveig, and her temples are…strict.”
Edmund exhales a cloud of smoke. “Grand Duke Barnaby of the Ridge expects me to learn humility, a sense of decorum, and chastity.”
Calder has known Edmund for a few months since they crossed paths in Pradacia. He can safely say that the experiment to condemn him to a rigid religious center has failed spectacularly.
“Why do you still wear your robes?” Calder asks.