Chapter 42
Lux
Longships bobbed on the shore in the distance.
I clutched Brynhild’s journal to my chest, my gaze fixed only on the water.
The sea stretched it’s long fingers over the ruddy sand, foamy and bubbling as it receded.
Each time it pulled back, I felt Drak slipping away, tangled with grief, reckless hope, and rage.
So much fury swelled within me as the sea flowed, and when it ebbed, grief muted it for the briefest of moments.
I glanced at Ingrid on the horse beside me, another witch bound for Drukna despite the care she had shown Silver all those years ago in the dungeons.
Of course, if my sister would send our own mother to her death at sea, why not throw away Drak’s mother too?
My heart sank as I watched her frail frame hunch forward, her eyes darting through a confused haze.
She looked ready to slip from the saddle at any moment, but the executioner leading her neither noticed nor cared as he yanked the reins and barked for the horse to gallop faster.
“Ingrid,” I said, my voice hoarse and quieter than I intended.
Her head lolled, but she did not look up.
“I don’t know if you can hear me, but I want you to know that your son isn’t gone forever.
Drak will return.” I had faith because there was no other choice.
If I didn’t, I knew I would not survive the journey across Drukna.
For the entire horseback journey to Einnland’s shore, I pressed the journal harder and harder against my chest, as if I could absorb it the way Brynhild described the Draugr’s body absorbing the crystalized light of the soul.
I embodied her account, thinking of nothing else, drawing each breath as if I could blow it into Drak’s mouth and give him life.
It felt within reach, and yet impossible at the same time.
The only distraction from this account was the reminder brought on by the horse’s steady gait. The last time I rode on horseback was when Drak had brought me from Skaldir to Mara. He’d sat behind me, his firm chest pressed against my spine, and his warm hands wrapped around my rigid fingers.
Now the tips of my fingers faded to a pale blue, the same color as the dress I left behind in Mara’s Keep, trading soft skirts for the beige single-layer fabric of a commoner’s dress so that I could move with ease.
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I also chose it because the simple clothing comforted me.
As if I were Myrah, tilling fields and chasing after lost sheep when I wasn’t studying the sagas and recording the history of Old Skaldir by Rune’s side.
Memories of our marriage—our true marriage—surfaced more often now, clearer and full of detail that tugged at my heavy heart. A heart that still skipped painfully, not only when I thought of what we could have had but also when I hadn’t slept well or when I pushed my body too hard.
Now, though, I didn’t push it. I didn’t run myself ragged in hopes of a vision. Freya had cursed me long ago with blood made of tears, and the curse stretched into this lifetime, into this body, wearing down my heart until it was so weak I could hardly breathe.
But I had enough breath. When the rage swelled again and I drew a long intake of sea air, the salt stinging my tongue, sharp and awakening, I knew that my breath, however weak, would be enough to push into Drak’s lungs if I could restore his body and soul.
“Huntress,” a voice hissed. The hair at the back of my neck stood on end, and my hands shot to my temples. Panic tightened my throat, even though I knew the gods were no longer in my head. “Daughter,” the voice spoke again.
My head whipped toward Ingrid. Her spine was straight, her neck tall, and her eyes shone brighter than I had ever seen, as crystalline as Drak’s icy blue eyes had once been.
“Daughter?” I echoed without even thinking.
“Are you not Drakkar’s wife?”
An unexpected warmth spread across my chest, matching the blush heating my cheeks. “Yes,” I said, my eyes suddenly brimming. We had never actually sealed our marriage in this lifetime, but I could not think of that now.
“You should be queen,” she said. I didn’t know how to respond, because despite Drak’s plans to improve Vylheim, we would have been better off returning to a farm.
Keeping our weapons sharp and our skills honed to protect the kingdom on the ground.
Ingrid blinked slowly, one eye at a time.
“You must sit on the one throne, Moljnir’s cousin. ”
“What?” It sounded like nonsense, but Ingrid’s eyes were crystal clear.
“Do whatever it takes to take the seat on Vylheim’s one throne. Swear it!” Her voice grew shrill, and I resisted the urge to clamp my hands over my ears. Swears and demands like this sounded too much like what I had endured from Odin and the gods these past months. I couldn’t take any more.
And I didn’t have to wait long. The executioner guiding her mount moved ahead of us and took the lead in the procession. Ingrid must have wanted me to become queen because she understood the horrors Silver was capable of. That was the only explanation for her words about me on the throne.
Loose hair caught against my wet cheeks where my tears had yet to dry. Brackish wind threaded through the tendrils that I’d left loose on one side, while I wore the other half of my hair pulled into three tight braids that followed the arch of my skull from my temple to the back of my head.
I wiped the tears with the back of my knuckles, my other hand still clutching the journal. This grief over the chance Drak and I had lost had to end. I needed to leave the pain behind on this shore and embrace the rage burning beneath my ribs.
A shriek ripped me from the thoughts simmering and spilling through every crack in my mind. I blinked, trailing my gaze across the shore.
Hundreds of men and women dotted the landscape; masked executioners now served as guards, traveling with the witches and the others who had to search and conquer land beyond Vylheim. Sand the color of my dress sank deep beneath the horse’s hooves.
We’d finally arrived at Einnland’s shore.
Like the other witches and those captured in Vylheim and chosen for this venture, heavy cuffs encircled my ankles, preventing any attempt to run.
The weight made it difficult to lift a leg, let alone swing both over the side of the horse.
But the executioner, disguised as a boar, paid no mind to my struggle.
He grabbed me by the back of my head, my braids and loose hair pulling taut at my skull.
“Get off and get moving,” he snarled, his breath stinking of sour mead and dried cow meat.
This suddenly felt all too familiar, like the time the executioners dragged me from Skaldir to King Drakkar.
Long before either of us realized it, he had always felt a strange pull toward me.
I would never forget the way he looked at me the first time, across the path of the footrace at the edge of my tiny village.
Like he wanted to devour me, take me, and bind me to him, though even he didn’t know why.
The call of the past took me so much longer to recognize and answer, and I’d never forgive the gods for that.
Not only for stripping my memories of the man I’d come back to Midgard to find, but for taking control of my thoughts and wrecking my very identity.
“Fuck you all.” It slipped out with my breath, and the boar-faced executioner whipped his head in my direction. Without warning, he smashed the heel of his other hand against the base of my skull. He released his grip on my braids and let me fall. My hands flew out, catching me before I ate sand.
Some of these damn executioners loved their job way too much. These were the wretched men and women who followed Silver and her vampires. Only people obsessed with these fleeting moments of apparent power would choose the side of blood and death.
But this bastard had no clue that if I quieted my mind, I could see his next move.
He was about to step left, so I swiftly extended my ankle into his path, causing him to stumble.
Because the mask’s shape obscured his vision and his muscles were thick and slow, his reflexes were not as fast as mine.
The boar fell face-first into the sand. I scrambled to my feet and moved away before he could grab me.
Tripping him had been a foolish choice, offering only a fleeting thrill, but I felt deliciously reckless.
Reckless, ruined, and ready for something drastic.
Being around Silver had that effect. Being manipulated by Silver doubled that effect.
A familiar voice yelled my name from across the beach. “Lux!”
I spun, scanning the sea of faces for my mother, squinting against the glow of the full moon shimmering across the foamy waves.
Before I could spot her, the boar was on his feet, yanking at my hair again.
My back arched and my neck was forced into an awkward angle.
He thrust me forward and marched into deeper sand, and even in that uncomfortable position, I saw the one who had called out for me.
Among the masks, the frightened witches, the men taken and mandated to explore and conquer, was the angelic, heart-shaped face of a loyal friend. Unlike many of the others, she’d already boarded one of the longships and stood at the back.
“Stasia,” I said. That same warmth spread over my chest at the sight of her, and I almost smiled.
The small-boned woman was dwarfed by a mane of white-blond hair that tumbled over her shoulders.
Though she looked thinner than she used to, an unusual sense of hope, or perhaps peace, softened her slim features in a way that none of the other panic-stricken faces around her could match.
Her pink lips flashed into a quick smile when we locked eyes.