Chapter 2 #2
How strange.
We continue toward the castle and Odgar makes a sound as if he intends to say something but stops. He tries again. “The Zenith … I know they have this ridiculous plan, but what about your forces? Your guards? Army?”
My stomach twists. “Rheon isn’t just the leader of the Zenith, he’s the Lord Commander of the entire Royal Brigade. My guess is that he’s taken the crown for himself.”
“Well fuck,” Odgar says quietly. “So, a ruthless sadist with delusions of opening a rift to another realm sits on the Erleyan throne.”
“Yes, and I’m certain they all think I’m dead.”
“Do you want to explain that or—”
“No.”
I feel rather than hear his sigh. “Alright so …” He pauses long enough that I almost prod him to speak again. “My brother will ask you this, forgive me. But what do you have to offer to Uldarvik with an alliance?”
I stare down at my hands again and then at his on the horse’s reins. Briony is no longer staring straight ahead, but looking my way, curiosity on her face. “You said in Uldarvik, magic is considered a blessing from the gods, right?”
“Correct.”
“So, if I’m blessed by the gods, I’d say that’s fucking impressive enough to warrant an alliance. Two royals blessed by the gods?”
Odgar laughs, pulling the horse to a halt. We’re close to the massive black door of the castle, a guard posted on each side. He dismounts and stands below me, peering up with a brilliant smile on his face. “I’m inclined to agree. Now you’re thinking like a survivor.”
Beside him, Briony dismounts. She looks at the castle, her hands folded demurely in front of her as Odgar helps me down from the horse. He offers me the crook of his arm, and I hesitantly link my elbow with his. “Let’s go convince the king to let us be wed, then,” he says.
Guilt churns in my gut, but I can’t bring myself to tell him the full truth of everything. Not now. Not when it may very well scare him away, and not when simply talking about it may break me.
Guards open the castle doors for us to make our way inside. None of them are in uniform, but they’re dressed similarly in black and grey with leather armor and furs.
Our boots echo on the tiled floors as we walk toward the throne where a slim man sits. A crown rests atop King Freyr’s wavy blond hair, which falls to his lean shoulders. He casts a blue gaze down at us as Odgar announces our presence.
“Your Majesty, presenting Princess Carys Meredyth fa Rhodri, rightful heir to the throne and queen by succession of the Kingdom of Erleya. With her is High Priestess Briony.”
Impressive introduction, but I’ve arrived with no crown, nor coin, nor worthy possessions.
With a scarred body and bruised soul, my hair in shambles and a shadow of its former glory.
I curtsy weakly and it feels absolutely unnatural.
“Your Majesty,” I say, lifting my chin a fraction and pushing back my shoulders.
My body protests but I resist flinching.
“My gratitude for the warm welcome to your beautiful land.”
King Freyr raises a brow. “How odd,” he says. “We just received word of your death, Princess Carys.” His voice is not quite as deep as Odgar’s, but it booms across the large space, nevertheless.
Even with my chin still lifted, my heart falters.
“I—” My words run away. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to speak.
I clasp my hands before me, praying that no flames erupt.
“I—” Godsdammit, Carys. I draw in a breath, but pressure quickly builds in my chest. I resist the urge to squeeze my eyes shut—to turn and run and never stop.
“As you can see, brother, she’s very much alive.” Odgar’s voice is tight as he speaks.
“And you are certain this is the true heir of Erleya.”
“Seeing as I danced with her at the Feast, yes.” I stare at him wide-eyed; isn’t he pushing it with the way he addresses the bloody king of his land? “I would like to ask for Princess Carys’s hand in marriage.” His voice is unwavering and wrought with certainty.
I turn my gaze back to King Freyr and his eyes meet mine. “You have been usurped. What do you possibly have to offer Uldarvik by way of marriage?”
I swallow thickly. “The Erleyan throne is rightfully mine, Your Majesty. My ancestors have worn the crown for centuries. My father’s bloodline is descended from the sun goddess Agryna.”
Holding out my hand, I focus, willing a tiny blaze to my palm. Instead, a massive flame ignites, sending Odgar, Briony, and a couple of the guards scattering to get away from the heat. I quickly clench my fists, but not before tiny embers jump from the flame and land on the carpet.
It doesn’t ignite, however, and I notice Odgar’s hand at his side flick subtly.
Thank you, I think.
“Someone else may sit on the throne presently, but it belongs to me, and with the help of Uldarvik, I can take it back.”
The king is now sitting at the very edge of the throne, his face alight with anticipation. “You control fire,” he says, ignoring all else.
Control … that’s one way to put it. “Yes,” I say.
“What are the odds?” He glances at Odgar.
“The flame to my water,” Odgar says with a smirk.
If I’m not mistaken, the king returns his smirk.
“You’ve made quite a journey, Princess Carys.
Make yourself at home. Sumarvegr is upon us in a month’s time.
A marriage before that will not be accepted by the kingdom.
I advise that you both court each other, according to our traditions, make the journey to the Hallowed Wood, and upon your return—provided that Princess Carys acclimates to our ways and is accepted by our people—we’ll have a grand wedding immediately. ”
Odgar turns to me, waiting as if silently asking me for my thoughts.
“A month?” I ask, my voice shaky. My heart clenches. So much can happen in a month. Erleya could be destroyed. “Your Majesty—”
“Get some rest, Princess Carys,” Freyr says coolly. “And Odgar, make sure that the princess is settled in and made comfortable at the Hall.”
It’s a clear dismissal, and who am I to argue when I have nothing? So, I put on a smile and exude as much gratitude as I can. With another curtsy that strips away what little pride I have left, I say, “Thank you, King Freyr. I will not disappoint you.”
It’s a promise I cannot possibly keep.