Chapter 4 #2
She lifts her hands to show she is unarmed. “I was merely looking for someone.”
“Who?” The question is not intended as a means of exchanging pleasantries.
He expects a name.
How much is appropriate to share with this stranger?
She grinds her teeth in indecision. “Someone who betrayed me.” She chews along the inside of her cheek. “A woman.”
“Did she do this to you?” His rough fingertips lightly caress her face with a heat that flutters in her belly.
Aura glances away. Her throat burns in her attempts to simply utter the word ‘yes.’ Ultimately, she nods curtly. The events of the day still war with her mind.
An underlying fury grumbles low in his chest.
She yelps when he takes her jaw in his firm grip. The light of the dock lanterns blinds her as he tugs her face toward the flickering flames, no doubt examining the bruising and cuts. He reaches behind her head and feels the end of her newly cut curls without ending his fierce eye contact.
Tears well in her eyes, and she curses herself for surrendering her state before a stranger. “She cut my braid.” She chokes out before burying her face in her hands.
“What a cruel way to disrespect a Salt Warrior.”
He acknowledged her as a Salt Warrior rather than a failed Drengr.
That admission alone stirs her desperate need for approval far more than rehashing Isabel’s betrayal and those repercussions.
He rubs the ends of the cut hair between his thumb and forefinger. “I assume she is not of Salt birth to disrespect you in such a heinous way.”
His arm brushes her shoulder when she leans back slightly, leaving her shivering.
“Timber.” Her tone suggests there is more that she wishes to convey.
“Fucking Timber.”
Her head jerks up. “Are you from Treland?” His ship has more of a Skalor appearance with the Wyvern head, but his dialect reminds her of Uncle Slode and Father.
“A long time ago, I called your country my home.” He grunts.
She crosses her arms, gnawing at the increasing number of questions she has for this warrior, who looks like he could obliterate five Drengr with one hand tied behind his back.
“Who are you?” She asks with her head held high.
“Jarl Calder Avardsson of Kaldrgataness.”
The Iss Drengr.
Hearing him speak his name shoots chills up her spine.
He is the infamous mentee of her father, who was sent to Skalor to uncover the Draemonium threat. If one were to believe the legends surrounding him, one would find him initially vile and disturbing.
His sordid history leaves her fixed beneath his unnerving stare and should be her cue to abandon the ship. Not to linger with a man who can end her life with a mere touch of his ice abilities.
Yet, considering the day’s horror, she feels safest here, caged in his brawny arms.
“Why are you not accompanying your men in the taverns tonight?” Almost immediately, she regrets her accusation.
A wariness akin to sadness flickers behind his gaze. “Only one man accompanies me on this journey. Most prefer my absence anyway.”
“Why?” The question bursts from her lips before she can wrangle it in.
Any trace of weakness evaporates, and he leans in closer until she can feel his hot breath caress her face. “Because I have committed terrible atrocities. Barbaric acts a young woman like yourself could never conceive.”
“I hold no ill will toward you-”
“If I am alone, then I am only hurting myself. And isn’t that better?”A cool bitterness laces his words.
She wishes to ease the apparent pain haunting him. Her hands twitch at her side to reach for him when the air around her suddenly grows frigid.
She wraps her arms around herself instead.
“You are early for the Conclave.” She states awkwardly, unsure how to converse with a man likened by many to the Abyss Demons.
“Lord Commander asked me to arrive early to discuss matters.”
She chuckles. “You must have my father’s confidence if that is true. He hates unnecessary time spent with people other than family.”
Shit! She had not intended to reveal herself. No return now.
“I stepped into his Inner Circle after the death of Helga.” He dismisses her revelation, perhaps suspecting her identity. Despite his cold gaze, he exudes a calm power that wraps and comforts the Princess. It shudders deep in her bones, nudging her to seek his approval.
“Are you not a warrior?” He asks.
“Of sorts.” She bites along her bottom lip, once more debating how much to share. “I would be much stronger if permitted to access my real power.”
Thankfully, whatever gust of cold chilled her bones alleviates, leaving her with the warm summer air.
He drinks her in from slippers to curls. “The young halvgud collared by the gods.” He smirks.
“They wish to see how I handle the abilities through the Sacred Stones. There was a time when my parents believed the gods, not the Norn, granted my seidr. Regardless, the pantheon tasked Grandpapi Briny and Grandma Maeve with approving my requests.”
Asking permission to use her abilities is mortifying, so she has taken to stealing the Sacred Stone, the nautilus shell, and tapping into the seidr privately. At least Briny rarely tells her no.
Except for tonight.
Calder shakes his head. “Halvguds existed long before your parents, Witch.”
“Witch?” She interrupts him. The word is foreign to her.
“Seidr wielder chosen by the Norn who can harness any power available on the continent. Eras ago, their task was to train mortals who received Sacred Stone abilities from the gods. ”
Aura chortles. “It has been a long day, Jarl Calder. I would rather not be teased.”
His expression remains unmoved. “Bestowing powers through Sacred Stones has been quite popular over the last several centuries. Gods believe they can carefully choose the ability and eliminate instances like the necromancer of Timber. But they are beholden to the Norn like the rest of us.”
A mountain of unspoken knowledge settles between them. Judging by his demeanor, he is unlikely to share more.
He tugs her to the light to continue inspecting the bruises imparted by Isabel. “Who is the woman who did this to you?”
Once more, his question demands an answer.
“Isabel Kilton.” She spits the name as if it burns her tongue.
“I have not heard that surname in a long time. Yet, I recall it was not of favorable opinion.”
Aura tugs on her copper curls. “I messed up! I allowed her to get close to me, and she seeks vengeance for her father, but I’m not even sure who that is!” Her hands drag down her face. “Pops is going to kill me.”
“Where would she go?”
She swings her hands at her sides. “Risking crossing the dangerous fjords alone back to Timber is laughable. She must hide in Toftlund.”
He tilts her head and examines the wounds on her face once more. “That may be true, Princess.” The way he utters her title is like the sun’s rays tickling her skin, wrapping her in a heated embrace. “But tracking her this evening is not your concern.”
“I am an excellent tracker,” She argues.
His hand wraps around her mouth, silencing her protests to mumbles that reverberate between her legs.
Why is he forcing such a reaction within me? Worse, why do I want him to continue?
“Your skills are not in question. You are far more useful to your family and country if you heal from your wounds.” He nods to her sore figure, and he is not wrong.
Aches and pains have crept along her limbs, and she is unsure how long she can support herself upright.
“Perhaps your idea is wise,” she mutters once he releases the pressure of his palm on her trembling lips.
Except, she has no inclination to listen to his words. No matter how weary she feels, she will tear apart every home in the city tonight in search of Isabel. “Jarl Calder, this has been a pleasure. I shall take your suggestion and be on my way home.”
“Wonderful,” he releases her from his cage, “I will escort you.”
“No need.” She smiles, taking calculated steps toward the dock.
“That is not what I said.” He tugs her by the waist until her front collides with his.
Calder scoops her body into his arms as her heart pounds, cradling her delicately to his surprisingly comfortable chest, not hard like the younger Drengr, who cared for nothing besides resembling the cragged peaks of Fjell Mountain.
“This is wholly unnecessary!” She protests even while she clings to his armor.
“Dammit, Grandpapi, now, will you help me?”
Nothing.
Forsaken by my grandparents. How wonderful.
Curiously, he trudges outside the city walls toward her family home of Blackwood. She suspects his identity would lead to more issues with the Princess in his arms.
She quiets as the pain inflicted by the Trial overcomes her body.
Mostly.
“I can walk,” she mumbles.
“Use your words.” He growls a warning.
She narrows her eyes in response. “I do not fear you, Iss Drengr.”
“That may be so, but I am not asking, Princess.”
Butterflies erupt in her stomach at his words in that deep voice. Pleasure warms between her legs, and she has to remind herself that this moment with Calder is a passing situation. His help stems from a duty to her father.
Nothing more.
“I can walk.” Her words are louder and more assertive.
“Good girl.” His words are harmless, but oh gods, how they roll off his tongue in that somber tone makes her whimper.
She waits, anticipating him to lower her to the ground. When he does not, she huffs. “Jarl Calder?”
“Yes, Princess.”
“Please, permit me to walk on my own.” She levels her own forcefulness.
“Princess,” his chest reverberates as he addresses her, “the notion of releasing you from my grasp already pains me. I will deliver you home.”
Aura’s lips snap shut.
She could enjoy the remainder of the evening with this god-like warrior before facing the reality of her failed Trial in the morning.
Besides, striding upright into Blackwood is what her father would expect.
Maybe tonight, she can respect the wisdom of a burly, seasoned Drengr whose mere presence has shaken the young woman to her core.
The path to Blackwood is dark, and an eerie silence hangs in the air.
His muscular, inked arms coiled in tension pull her tighter against his chest. His strength and soothing demeanor provide an unsettling protection.
“Can you feel their presence?” She whispers, looking up at his unreadable expression. “The Drengr searching for Isabel. They must be all around us. Watching, waiting.”
His pace quickens, but his attention to her father’s men surrounding the home doesn’t lessen her trepidation over the reality that Isabel Kilton’s venomous intention is still out there.
Up along the path, they overhear an argument.
“...he has approved all Drengr stationed at the Blackwood checkpoint.” She recognizes the voice of her friend Kjarton, a blacksmith and Drengr often called upon to help protect Blackwood.
“Listen, I understand Uncle Sig better than you ever will. I need you to calm yourself.”
Oh, for the love of the Briny God. Is that cousin Edmund? Uncle Slode and Uncle Bertie’s son?
As they draw closer, the moonlight reflects Kjarton’s incredulous expression while Edmund, draped in a wolly Gothi robe, smokes a pipe while yawning loudly.
“By the gods! Miss Aura!” Kjarton points his axe at Calder as they approach. “Halt!”
Edmund shoves his weapon away. “Put that away before you hurt yourself.”
“I am a Drengr of Sigvid!” Kjarton’s hands quiver in indignation.
Edmund clutches his pipe between his lips. “And I am a nephew of Sigvid.” He mocks the Drengr’s outrage. “What do you want me to say?”
“Kjarton!” Aura shouts to him. “Edmund and Calder are permitted on Blackwood property.”
At least, I assume.
He runs his hand along his braid. “Miss Aura! I cannot allow anyone not approved by His Majesty. Besides your father’s recent mandate of the Drengr…none may touch-”
Edmund’s fist flies out of nowhere and connects with his face, knocking the Drengr out cold. Calder treads on him instead of walking around.
“Sorry, Kjarton,” Aura mutters as they continue the journey with Edmund humming a naughty ballad.
“Cousin?” She finally questions. “Should you not be in Pradacia? In a temple?”
Edmund quirks his head over his shoulder. “Shit, am I not?”
He snuffs out his pipe and then assesses Calder, clutching a nightgown-wearing, beaten Aura. “Do I even want to ask?”
“We don’t have the time for this,” Calder growls.
Edmund manages to keep in step with the Iss Drengr. “Does the Princess’s state have anything to do with the teams of Drengr scouring the city?”
“Yes, it does, Edmund.”
“Wait,” Aura looks between them, picking up on the familiarity in their banter. “Do you two know one another?” Her left eye begins to twitch. “Never mind,” she interrupts Calder as he opens his mouth to respond, “I do not wish to know.”
Rising out of the Blackwood Forest is a sizeable A-frame structure of front and back windows. Stretching out are the wings of the old Blackwood Inn. Her father acquired the building and changed it into the Blackwood Estate after he found Mum and adopted her older sister, Thora.
“Fuck,” Edmund mutters as his father, Uncle Slode, who is both her father’s Second and a well-respected Duke of the Ridge Province alongside his husband, Bertie.
His head-to-toe ink may look intimidating, but he let her and Edmund dress him in her mother’s jewels when she was a little girl. Except, standing on the wrap-around porch of Blackwood, cracking his knuckles as he assesses them, he looks every bit the terrifying warrior.
“I’ll catch up with you tomorrow, Jarl Calder.” Edmund turns about and strides back toward Toftlund.
“Coward!” Calder shouts over his shoulder, only to earn a middle finger from her cousin as he jogs back to the city, leaving them alone to face her father.