Chapter 19 Aura
AURA
Kaldrgataness, Skalor
Skalor was not what she expected. Its dramatic snowy mountain ranges and rugged forests are as wild as they are breathtaking.
The seat of the Hold, uncreatively called Kaldrgataness, is a town less than half the size of Toftlund that harbors the crudest, most despicable people on the continent.
All leer at her when she walks past wearing her slave cuffs.
Most women scoff or look on with pity, while the men attempt to touch her.
She loathes their cruel glares and hungry glances.
The only person who can hardly look at her is Jarl Avardsson.
Since their first night in Coldheart Keep, he has kept her at arm’s length. He seems unable to decide what he wants from Aura, leaving her in constant frustration and bitterness.
Today, Thora disappeared to clear her head and spar with anyone willing to stand still long enough to let her attack.
The Gothi Temple of Kaldrgataness requested Edmund’s presence because–apparently–he has a role and must complete a myriad of other tasks that Calder summed up as “religious bullshit.”
Therefore, instead of sleeping late and exploring her seidr, she begrudgingly follows the Iss Drengr to the longhouse where she will spend the day in Gunni’s suite.
Thankfully, the day’s dreariness dulls the copper shade of her curls to a dark brown, allowing her to exit Coldheart without a hair wrap.
“Remember, you are a slave.” Calder grunts, lighting sconces in the old Jarl’s suite, now serving as Gunni’s home.
“You speak when spoken to. Keep your pretty eyes downcast and, most importantly,” he tugs the front of her bodice so she presses against his soft chest, “wrangle that fire of yours.” His thumb ghosts over her lips. “Do not force me to punish you.”
“I promise.” Her pledge does not seem to comfort him.
In response, he gently shoves her onto the massive bed and returns to the desk to review the written citizen requests.
She cannot shake the demoralizing feeling that her life is crumbling around her. Despite her self-talk–assuring herself that this is temporary–the nauseating realization that so much rests on her shoulders is difficult to swallow.
Not to mention the damage left in Treland.
What reason would Isabel and Rolf have to keep Father alive? But I would know if he were dead. Right? Surely, Grandpapi Briny would tell me and Thora?
Deep breathing does not stabilize her, but rather causes her throat to constrict.
Calder has yet to elaborate on his plan to destroy his mother, other than assuring everyone that he and Edmund would explain later.
Aura tugs at the leather cuffs around her wrists, which are not currently chained together. Secured around her ankles is a matching set. The mirror against the wall reflects her frock, a lovely shade of horse manure. Calder only permits her to wear boots, as the air feels chilly even in September.
She suspects he and Edmund have a grand plan, yet her role in it feels insignificant.
Calder adjusts a thick bearskin cloak over his shoulders, fixing the silver clasp at his clavicle. With his spiked circlet, he is every bit a rugged god.
“We have folks lining up outside.” Gunni pokes his head in. “Can I get you anything, Your Highness?”
“No, thank you.” She remains perched on the edge of his bed, watching the Iss Drengr prepare himself with a look suggesting he faced a day of unspeakable pain.
Finally, he nods to his Second, who disappears into the central area of the longhouse.
“Aura,” his bark rumbles along the floorboards. “You remain in this room. Do you understand me?”
“Where else would I-”
He silences her with a calloused finger to her lips. “You do not leave this room or speak with anyone. As requested, I have provided food, whiskey, water, parchment, and a quill with a full ink vial to pass your time.”
Everything is spread across a table beneath an antlered chandelier. The Iss Drengr’s calculating gaze sweep the room as if assessing for problems.
She has trusted him this far.
What could go wrong?
Still, her leg bounces in anticipation of being trapped in the longhouse for the day without an ally nearby. Sure, the Iss Drengr was down the hall in the central room, but Skalor was an unfriendly place, and it would take only one person to recognize Aura and bring Lavinia down upon them.
“Calder!” Gunni reappears, summoning him.
The Jarl’s icy gaze conveys a silent warning to her before he vanishes into the corridor.
She passes the early part of the day in relative comfort as she pours over her sketchbook, drawing variations of Calder, her favorite haunts in Treland, and a pair of crossed-hand axes.
After High Noon, a soldier in the Kaldrgataness emblem, featuring circular evergreen sprigs surrounding a runic ‘K’, delivers a bowl of stew that warms her bones.
While she sips the broth with her boots kicked off, she reads from a dusty journal she stole from the library in Coldheart.
Her great-uncle, Argnier, signed the opening page with a date fourteen winters ago.
Uncovering the leather-bound book was an accident.
However, the drawings inside take her breath away.
The pain in each stroke is palpable. Maps from all over the continent are interspersed among the sketches of people and scenes.
Ravengarde City districts, Pradacian streets, and Hold maps of Skalor.
Aura drools over the level of detail in each sketch as she attempts to replicate a map of Skalor of her own.
The creak of doors and brief cries from the main room draws her attention to the corridor. Carefully, she sets her quill into the ink vial before pushing away from the table and padding to the doorway.
Her fingers fidget together.
Calder instructed me not to speak with anyone or leave the room.
Before she can commit to returning to Gunni’s bedchamber, a young man steps out of one of the other rooms, adjusting a cloak on his shoulders. He is older than Aura yet younger than Thora and dressed like a lord in fine trappings with a carefully trimmed beard.
When he catches sight of the barefooted princess in slave garb, his brow quirks, and he shifts forward.
“Consider me intrigued.” His voice is smooth, with the cadence of someone from a high station.
Her fatigue from encountering new foes washes over her. She forces a fake smile and gives a friendly wave. “Good day.”
“Aren’t you a bold one, addressing me without an honorific?” He leans against the wooden wall with a half-smile. “You must be that new girl whom the Jarl dragged off the ship yesterday.”
“I am Jarl Calder’s pleasure slave.” She repeats in a bored tone.
Averting her gaze like a proper slave is nearly impossible when the instincts instilled by her parents scream for her to focus on his actions.
“Fascinating.” He appraises her with an unsettling longing.
Discreetly, she slips a foot backward, edging her way back to the bedchamber. “Fascinating?”
“Jarl Calder doesn’t keep slaves. He is vocally against the practice.
Those who keep them tend to end up dead or worse.
” He pushes off from the wall, stalking her closely.
“The Iss Drengr keeps a hushed bed. If I hadn’t seen a woman leave his house last winter, I would have thought he was celibate. ”
She shrugs noncommittally. “I only just met the Jarl.”
Warning horns blare in her mind. Something about this man curdles her stomach.
“So the good Jarl hasn’t tested you out yet, sweet thing. Hmm?”
“Oh, uh, no. I mean, yes, he has.” She overemphasizes her nod, striving to believe the lie. “His cock barely fits inside me.”
He grabs her neck and slams her into the wall, evoking a shocked squeal. “You address me as Lord Harvart. Or,” he inhales her scent, sending a wave of cold chills along her skin. “You tell me the truth, and we can skip the pleasantries.”
“Truth?”
He pins her to the wall with his body. “You may fool the others, but the crown pays me well to report on Calder, slave. Or should I say, Princess Aura?” He whispers her name, and her struggles intensify with his laughter.
“You are wrong! I was a working girl in Salt, a Drengr!” She spits.
He shoves her into the bedchamber. “Right, a Drengr.” He mocks as he kicks the doors shut behind him.
Frantically, she searches for a weapon, but Harvart tosses her back onto the bed, eliciting a scream from her. He straddles her waist, removing his member from his pants.
“No! Help!” Her shriek is piercing enough that his hold loosens. She slams her fists into his chest, forcing him to stumble back with a grunt.
Scrambling to her feet, she shoves the table between them, scattering parchment and spilling the contents of the whiskey bottle onto the floor.
Dammit, that was a good year.
“You can lie all you want, Princess. The Queen told me the truth. You seduced our good Jarl and plan to take control of Skalor for Treland.”
“You are delusional!” She shatters a chair against the wall, plucking two splintered legs off the ground. With a yell, she lunges, stabbing him in the crook of his arm.
Suddenly, the room doors burst open, and she darts to the safety of the corridor. A thick arm catches her before she can slip out. Calder’s warmth and reassuring scent envelop her tightly. She clutches his side, burying her head into his tunic with a gasp of relief.
“My Jarl!” Lord Harvart removes the chair leg, discarding the bloodied wood onto the floor.
Aura shivers as the air grows colder, more frigid than the darkest winter night in the Salt Province. The Iss Drengr’s unflinching gaze does not avert from Lord Harvart, who tugs his cloak tighter around his lean figure.
“I demand,” Harvart wipes his face with his hand, “a punishment from you to your slave to make amends for her assaulting me.”
Aura’s heart sinks.
What an excellent manipulation tactic.
If Calder refuses, Harvart will accept that as further proof that she is not a slave, but a Treland Princess. A situation that would jeopardize everything and attract Lavinia's attention.