Chapter 22 Calder
CALDER
Thirteen Winters Ago
Coldheart Keep, Skalor
After drowning himself in a mead barrel and nearly succumbing to the blackness of the Bay of Souls, the Iss Drengr’s head finally hits the pillow. At least he managed to shed most of his clothes this time, leaving him in a pair of undergarments.
He slightly twitches as sleep continues to evade him. Shifting onto his side, he imagines a life with a family. Even the thought of becoming a father again leaves an aching void in his chest.
That ship has forever sailed, and his sins will die with him.
But what would a loyal lady look like at his side? One who would help him defeat his mother rather than join her—a woman with beauty and determination.
What a load of horse shit.
If she does exist, she is likely in the one place the Norn seem to refuse him entrance. The only location on the Endless Shore he yearns to return to above all else.
Screams pierce the night, sending him bolt upright in his bed.
Shit, Argnier!
Calder leaps to the cold stone floor, grasping for a weapon. He finds his fork and knife from his evening meal and rushes down the corridor toward Argnier’s chamber. He throws open the door to find the older man thrashing in his sheets, screaming.
Calder drops the knife and fork on the bedside table and sits at the end of his bed. “Argnier.” He shakes his leg. “Wake up.”
Argnier sits upright, his fists swinging in front of him. “Calder?”
“Nightmare?”
His hands tug at his hair. It takes Argnier a moment to collect himself. “After all this fucking time,” he winces as if recalling his past trauma renders him unable to speak, “the things that bitch did to me…”
“No need to explain yourself to me.” Calder finds a flagon sitting on the dresser, still full of mead.
He tosses the remnants back and pours a full cup of water from a pewter pitcher.
“Here.” He places the drink in Argnier’s hands, surprisingly scarred from use for a man as artistically inclined as he.
He finishes the cold water as Calder strides out of the room to give him privacy.
“Wait.” Argnier’s weak voice halts him at the doorway. “Would you wait ‘til slumber overtakes me? I hate to disrupt your sleep, but…”
Before he can finish the flagon, Calder refills the water and sits in the empty chair beside the bed. He silently waits for his friend’s snoring to fill the chamber, finding peace in the older man’s brief calm.
Sleep, my friend. Lavinia’s tendrils cannot poison your soul tonight.
Present
September 20th, Year 21, 10th Era
Coldheart Keep, Skalor
Calder studies his reflection in the mirror above the washbasin in his bedchamber.
His beard is thick and curling, streaked with white and gray in his once-mahogany hair.
He examines the old battle scars on his chest and arms, which blend well with his ink.
The scars on his face become more pronounced each winter, making him appear less like a middle-aged man and more like an intimidating villain.
Appropriate.
Calder and Gunni have upheld strict Jarlship duties over the last week, which allows him to distance himself further from the Princess after marking her upon his throne. He convinces himself that he has not crossed the line with Aura because he has not taken her cunt.
Who am I fooling? My indecent thoughts every time she walks into a room are grounds for Sigvid to revoke my Drengr oath.
To protect her from the likes of the slimy Lords of his Hold, Calder publicly announced to his court that she was his pleasure slave. A dark part of him yearns to tie her to his bed and make good on the town’s perception of him using her sweet pussy at his whim.
More importantly, betraying his long-held beliefs against maintaining slaves keeps Aura safe in his Keep, well away from the mislead intentions of the hold and Lavinia.
None of his misfit team believes that Harvart is the only Lord under Lavinia’s thumb.
Since announcing his plan to uncover Makt’s weapon, their motley band settled into a routine.
During the day, Edmund scours the Gothi temple and delivers a thick stack of books for Aura and Argnier to read and note any interesting information, while Thora serves as their shield.
However, today began roughly for everyone.
Chaos erupted when Edmund ate the last piece of bread at their morning meal, and Thora nearly strangled him. Argnier somehow set himself on fire, an event he claims was an accident, but Calder watched the debacle and begs to differ.
Only Aura has remained the single light for them all in the Abyss of Coldheart Keep.
As he concentrates on his reflection, he pushes aside his thoughts to focus on cutting his hair. This weekly process has been disrupted since returning to Skalor, leaving him feeling bedraggled despite Edmund’s insistence that gale winds couldn’t shift his cropped locks.
He lifts the straight razor to his head when a little squeal scares him more than his inevitable journey to the Depths.
“Gods, Aura!” He looks into the corridor from his bedchamber to find her intently watching him.
The oversized pair of trousers she uncovered somewhere in the keep are rolled up past her ankles, exposing her bare feet.
He recognizes the dark tunic, which clings to her arms and stops at her wrists, as one of his own.
Judging by the crooked stitching and her exposed shoulder, he wonders if she took a needle and thread to the linen while drunk.
“You are going to scalp yourself. Here, please let me help.” She steps inside with her hand outstretched.
He hesitates, yet still places the blade in her palm. “I have done this myself many times.” The stool creaks under his weight. Even when he is sitting, she is still not as tall as he.
“Then you must have protection from a god not to have sliced your head open. Although I know you don’t believe in their blessings.”
Not after they ignored Lavinia’s antics over the last century.
They can all fuck off.
Through the mirror, he watches as she slices his hair closer to the scalp, still leaving a fingernail’s length amount. Her hands are firm and gentle, swiping off the cut strands onto the floor.
“You must do this weekly to keep it this length.”
“I do.” A slight smile crosses his face as he watches her actions over his head.
“You could allow it to grow into a Salt braid. You are a Drengr, which seems to overshadow the general Salt Warrior culture nowadays.”
He plucks some hair from his shoulder and twirls it between his fingers. “I enjoy the short hair. It feels like me, and I like that I can be different.”
A wide smile curls along her lips.
She is stunning when she finds happiness.
“I appreciate your uniqueness, Jarl Calder.” She places the razor beside the ceramic washbasin adorned with Skalor knots around the lip.
He pulls her onto his lap, savoring how she melds against his chest as if her body was made for him.
She inhales sharply, as this is the first physical interaction he has allowed since the throne.
Aura has a way of shattering his control, overruling his senses.
“I loved the mink picture you drew for me, but with everything that happened, I am sad to say I lost it. I would like it if you could draw another for me.” He traces her jaw with his nose. “I believe a small family of them are not far from here.”
Aura leaps up with a twinkle in her beautiful eyes. “Yes! I've felt so detached from everything lately. I would love to rejuvenate my senses in nature.”
“Let’s take a day off from research.”
Aura beams and his heart nearly burst from his chest. “Truly? Oh, thank you!”
The happiest he has ever felt in his home is following her energy as she collects her sketchbook and a collection of charcoal sticks. They are almost to the back deck when Gunni halts him.
“Trouble in town, boss. It seems Lord Harvart’s brother is taking issue with you killing him and their men.”
A week later?
He glances at Aura, who is excitedly dancing on her toes.
“Tell him to submit a request like everyone else, and we will discuss it at my next open summit.”
Gunni shakes his head. “I did, and I told him to write to you personally. He is on a vendetta. The family has always been in Lavinia’s pocket.”
That family is a fucking disgrace.
“Aura,” he pulls her away from Gunni and meets her gaze. “I’m so sorry, sweet girl. I need to take care of some things in town.”
And dammit, her shoulders slump, and her bottom lip quivers the slightest amount.
“I won’t be long, beautiful. Stay in the Keep until I return.” He kisses her forehead despite his better judgement and strides out with Gunni, cracking his knuckles.
Calder scrubs his face with a rag from his pocket, removing a small amount of blood speckled across his cheeks.
I cannot believe I let the older Harvart boy get a punch in. He will have fun in the city jail until I see fit to release him.
As he approaches Coldheart, he spots a woman holding a basket standing at the rampart’s summit. One of his front doors opens, revealing a smiling Aura.
He slows as he hears the visitor, whom he recognizes as his neighbor, who often delivers baked goods for him.
“Is Jarl Calder home?” He can hear her curtly ask.
“No, I’m sorry,” Aura’s tone remains pleasant, “he is in town. Is he expecting you?’
The woman bristles as she takes in his girl’s bare feet and charcoal-stained hands. Even with the leather belt cinched at her waist, she clearly wears a man’s shirt that drapes around her knees. Trousers are not commonly worn by women in Skalor, which makes Aura stand out more than she should.
“You must be the slave his lordship hauled off the boat from Treland.”
This time, it is Aura’s turn to bristle.
“I see you for what you are, a power-seeking harlot. Jarl Calder is a lonely man who needs an understanding woman his age to warm his home. Not some jezebel tramp from Salt to parade about in trousers.” He can almost hear the lip curl from his neighbor.
“Our relationship is none of your concern!” Aura bites back.