by A. E. Rayne
Eddeth was up early, cold and hungry, but excited, for she had seen the strongest image of Alys in her dreams, finally convinced that Alys was with her children in Orvala.
‘Then I guess we’re going in the right direction,’ Jonas grinned, feeling a lift.
Ollo couldn’t stop yawning. He’d slept in a deep bed of snow, gripping his sword, fearful of death coming to claim him in the night, and though he’d woken shivering but alive, he felt even more tired than when he’d gone to sleep. ‘We need to kill something today! I want meat! Not a fucking mushroom. Not some dried-up piece of stinking fish or scrawny bird. I want meat!’
Vik laughed. ‘Well, with all that bellowing, what are you hoping to catch? Everything with legs will be running and hiding by now. Everything with wings would have flown away!’
It was true, Ollo realised, and he clamped his lips together, eyes darting through the trees. For though there was some comfort in being away from the great white fields that offered no protection from their enemies, who knew what was hiding in the forest.
‘We need to hurry!’ Eddeth cried, wading through the snow, arms flailing. ‘We need to get moving!’
Ludo rubbed his eyes, just as eager to get going as Eddeth, though the cold made it hard to think with any clarity; hard to move with any speed.
The horses were alert, though, ears swivelling, muzzles covered in snow, searching for something to eat. Stina was with them, scooping out handfuls of oats from the feed sack. ‘What’s the hurry?’ she called. ‘Have you seen something?’
Eddeth nodded. ‘Up there!’ And she tilted back her head, looking at the sky. ‘Storm’s coming!’
Aldo followed her gaze, seeing the clouds gathering like a swirling pool of dark water, and frowning, he hurried to his horse. ‘We have to find shelter.’
‘We do,’ Jonas agreed, stepping past him, frozen feet in frozen boots. ‘That looks like a nasty one.’
‘There’s a village half a day’s ride away,’ Eddeth said. And reaching Stina, she dragged her cloak out of the snow, shaking it violently.
‘Is there?’ Ludo looked surprised as he joined them, patting his horse, who he’d decided to name Isold. She almost looked happy to see him, sniffing his hand, wanting some of the oats Stina was feeding Frostbite.
‘Well, I said so, didn’t I?’ And hands on her horse’s saddle, Eddeth turned back to Ludo. ‘No time to waste! No time at all!’ Her stomach rumbled, but ignoring it, Eddeth lifted up a boot, quickly realising that it was too packed with snow to fit in the stirrup.
‘Here,’ Ludo smiled, grabbing her boot in one hand and scraping snow away with the other.
‘You’ve always been a good boy,’ Eddeth grinned as he lifted her up into the saddle. ‘A little on the slow side, but always so good and kind. Now, hurry, hurry!’ And wrapping her hands around the reins, she flicked them, wanting to encourage her horse to move, though the little mare appeared more interested in what Stina had in her hands. ‘You want to go and see Alys, don’t you? Then what are you waiting for? We’re not going to find her if we’re lost in a blizzard!’
And just the thought of that had them all running to the horses.
He was a prisoner, so Sigurd rode with his hands bound before him, his horse tied to Ilmar’s. Gudrum rode beside him, full of questions about Ottby. Sigurd didn’t want to tell him anything about Ottby or his family, though he very much wanted to live. He thought of Raf, who rode somewhere behind him, and his determination to keep on Gudrum’s good side intensified.
‘And your father still lives?’
Sigurd nodded. ‘When I left Ottby, he was alive, yes, though he’s not a well man. He’s wasting away.’ That was hard to say but true. The father he’d loved and admired for nearly thirty years was no more. He thought of Tulia, who’d been taken away from him so suddenly, and his father, who was still alive, but just as lost.
Never coming back.
‘Wasting away? And your brother? You’re happy with him being the lord, are you? Not looking to become one yourself? Or maybe, a king?’
Sigurd frowned, arm throbbing. ‘Not likely. I saw my father as a lord for years. I’ve seen my brother since my father took ill. Power’s nothing but a weight to carry. A great burden you can never put down. You think that appeals? Is that what you want?’
Gudrum laughed. ‘It’s what I’ve got! Have you not seen those men behind us? My men. You don’t think I know the burden of lordship? But you grew up the son of a lord, a wealthy man with a big fort. You see things through different eyes than most. Most men scrape together whatever they can find, moulding it into a life, hoping just to survive. They dream of power because they believe that power will set them free.’
‘And you? You want to be a king?’
Gudrum grinned, scarred skin stretching tightly across stubbly cheeks. ‘Well, that’s between me and the gods, wouldn’t you say? They’ve got a plan for all of us, even for those who don’t believe in them.’ He stared at Sigurd, remembering something Raf had said. ‘Though perhaps my mind’s less on being a king and more on having the resources I need for what I want to achieve. Resources I can buy with all your brother’s gold.’
Sigurd feared what would happen when Gudrum discovered that Reinar had no gold at all, and he realised that he needed to start thinking about ways to escape. ‘How will my brother find me?’ he wondered. ‘If we keep moving, how will he know where to go?’
But Gudrum only laughed, turning around to wink at Raf.
Mirella watched Tarl.
Her symbol bowl was as powerful as an ancient well, and with it, she could find her way across Alekka, searching out those she chose to keep an eye on. Over the years, she had watched her father and his friends, her mother too, though rarely had she sought out her daughter. Once she had given Alys away to her parents, the child had ceased to become hers, and she had shut that door to her heart. After leaving Jesper and Hakon and Ivan behind, it had remained permanently locked.
Though, she had to admit, Tarl Brava had been knocking loudly on it, threatening to break it down. She blinked, almost smiling as she watched him riding alongside Ulrick, pleased that Ulrick appeared to have his full attention.
Alari was right, she couldn’t contain Tarl like a sheep in a pen. She had to give him his freedom to rise. He wanted the throne, so he would do whatever it took, no matter the discomfort he might feel going against his natural instincts.
With Ulrick by his side, he would do what was right.
Mirella’s own feelings of discomfort didn’t ease, though she realised that perhaps it was more about who was in Orvala now than who had gone. She turned to the door, breaking her trance, listening to the sound of laughter and footsteps, hearing the occasional bark. And frowning, Mirella tried to focus her mind on what she wanted to achieve.
Eutresia.
The first Goddess of the Sun, benefactor of kings.
Murdered by Thenor.
She was owed vengeance; the Brothers of Eutresia had taught her that.
The Bear Stone they had built their ancient temple around, told of the man who would come to deliver that vengeance, and Mirella had found him in her dreams.
Helping Tarl Brava fulfill his destiny was all that mattered now.
She shut out the children’s laughter, turning back to the bowl, inhaling a deep breath as she took herself back into the trance.
32
Solveigh smiled, watching the puppy chase the children.
She was twenty-four years old, but her own childhood felt like a lifetime ago. It had been a happy one, with two sisters, two brothers, and too many pets to ever keep track of. Her mother had always grumbled about the number of creatures Solveigh brought home from her long walks in the forest, wanting to care for them all. Some had stayed, some had run away, but the house had always been filled with the noise of beasts and brothers and sisters.
Who were all now dead.
Burned alive by Tarl Brava, who had held the flaming torch to the locked hall
himself.
Her family’s screams were the only sounds in her ears now, and sighing, Solveigh turned her head, deciding to go back to her chamber, wanting an escape from the pain.
‘Wait!’ Lotta slipped her hand into Solveigh’s. ‘I need to give Puddle some milk. Don’t you think? Something to eat?’
‘Where’s your mother?’ Solveigh asked, eyeing Magnus.
‘Gone out. I don’t know where.’ He frowned, wondering why his mother hadn’t wanted to tell him. ‘She left us with her.’ And he pointed to Bathilda, who had cheeks like wrinkled sheets, and a mouth that appeared upside down, always frowning.
‘Oh.’ Solveigh didn’t want to stay with the children. She needed to go back to her room, where it was dark, and she could be alone with her memories.
Lotta squeezed her hand, sensing her desire to leave. ‘Please can you help us get Puddle some milk? Please?’
Those eyes were so sweet, so innocent, and Solveigh was lost in them for a moment, eventually nodding. ‘I’ll take you to the kitchen.’ And she glanced back at Bathilda. ‘We won’t be long.’
The old woman stirred as though she was preparing to put down her knitting and follow them, but sniffing, she turned her attention back to her lap.
Lotta was pleased, and grabbing Solveigh’s hand, she pulled her down the corridor after Magnus and the puppy.
Alys hadn’t wanted to leave the children with Bathilda, but Mirella had given her no choice. And though she felt like a prisoner in Orvala, she could wander freely around the city, for her mother knew that she would never abandon her children.
Alys sighed, glancing at Arnon, who walked beside her as they wound their way through the crowded marketplace. It looked nothing like Slussfall’s market, where every stall had been cramped together inside the square, customers and traders fighting for room, elbowing their way to tables, arms in the air, haggling and shouting. Orvala’s market was on the busy docks, a wide swathe of icy street separating two long rows of tables, most covered in fish. There were no colourful awnings and few smiles, though there were plenty of goods to draw the eye.
Hot food too.
Alys walked in silence, for though she had sought Arnon out, being near him made her uncomfortable, and she felt deeply reluctant to talk to him at all. He was the only person she knew in Orvala besides her children and Mirella, and she needed his help.
Arnon was pleased to see her, though he felt on edge, unsure how to act around his wife anymore. ‘Why is your mother so fixed on keeping Lotta, then? What use has she for a little girl?’
Alys swallowed, feeling ill. ‘She’s... making plans she doesn’t want me interfering with. She’ll keep Lotta until she’s done. And if I want to see her, I have to stay here and help.’
‘Help her do what?’ Arnon’s eyes lit up at the sight of an old woman selling hot flatbreads, and touching Alys’ elbow, he moved her to the left, digging into his pouch for a coin.
‘To overthrow the king. She wants Tarl Brava on the throne.’
‘And if she achieves that, you’ll be free to leave?’ Eyes still on the flatbread seller, Arnon’s voice betrayed only a hint of interest.
But Alys could hear it, surprised to realise how the balance of power had shifted now, and though she hated her mother for what she was doing, she felt a lift. ‘But we can’t wait until then, Arnon. Mirella wants to return a tyrant to the throne, and what will that do to Alekka? Tyrants don’t seek anything more than power, just as the Vettels did.’
Arnon snorted, handing over his coin, stomach growling loudly. ‘What do you care about Alekka? What’s it got to do with us? Freedom is freedom. If Tarl Brava makes it to the throne, we’ll take the children and leave.’
‘What freedom will any of us have when he’s on the throne? I remember my grandfather talking about what Jorek Vettel did. What his father had done before him.’ Alys stopped, realising that she was talking about her own family, and it horrified her.
‘What?’ Taking the flatbread, Arnon turned back to Alys. ‘What?’
Alys shook her head. ‘Nothing, but I can’t stay here, Arnon. I have to get out, find help. Warn the king about what they’re trying to do.’
Mouth full of hot bread, Arnon started blowing out urgent breaths, and finally swallowing a doughy lump, he rubbed a hand over his lips, eyes on his wife. ‘You want to go against your mother? That bitch? She looks dangerous to me. Winter’s here, so there’s little we can do anyway.’ Arnon had coins, his crew, good ale at the tavern and a comfortable cottage he’d quickly found, thanks to the very accommodating taverner’s wife. And though he felt odd about Alys, he was suddenly much less inclined to cause trouble for himself. ‘Sea’s freezing as we speak. Borr and his men have settled in. They know the place well, said they’re going to show me round, introduce me to a few people, so I should have plenty to keep myself occupied with over winter.’
Alys stopped, frowning at her husband, watching as he gulped down his flatbread, oblivious to anyone else. No matter how many times she’d tried to help Arnon de Sant, she’d always been let down. ‘So you just want to stay here? Not do anything? Not help me?’
‘You heard your mother, Alys. If I go near you, she’ll hurt me. Do something to me. Put a spell on me! You think I should play that game? How could I help you then?’
‘I think you brought us here, Arnon, and now we’re trapped. You owe us more than a shrug!’ Alys’ voice rose, but the angry howl of the wind was louder still, and she turned away from him as he dug into his pouch for another coin.
Sighing irritably, Alys walked towards a fur seller, wanting to buy herself a hat. The wind was like a belt of ice, whipping her venomously, and she felt a desperate need to be buried in thick furs. Wrapping her fluttering cloak around her chest, she caught a glimpse of one of the symbols stitched into its lining. It reminded her of Eddeth, and she felt the loss of her guidance and company. And then she smiled, feeling an unexpected warmth heat her chest, buoyed by a growing certainty that Eddeth was on her way.
Vik finally had his bearings, and he took the lead, turning them back north, head bent as the snow came at them in cold, white waves. It was nearly impossible to see, but somehow, Vik had managed to make out a familiar mountain range, and he aimed for it, pushing his miserable horse on through the swirling snow.
‘Aarrghh!’ Eddeth cried as she knocked into a low branch, getting a dump of snow for her trouble.
‘We need to stop!’ Ollo barked from behind her, Destroyer struggling to keep up with the rest of them. Ollo could feel the horse almost giving up, and he slid down from the saddle, cloak tangling around his shoulders, hood flapping around his frozen face. ‘We need to stop!’
No one heard him. The whistle of the wind was drilling into their ears, so loud and mournful now that they heard nothing else.
No one stopped.
Heads low, slumped over their struggling horses, they followed dutifully after Vik, hoping he knew where he was going.
And Ollo, realising that they weren’t stopping for him, grabbed Destroyer’s reins, tugging him along.
‘Where’s this come from?’ Tarl grumbled, too surprised to feel annoyed by the blizzard, though it had slowed them down to a crawl. He wondered if it was a sign from the gods that he wasn’t supposed to meet Gudrum. Perhaps Eskvir and his friends were trying to turn him back?
Or maybe he was meant to go, and Thenor was showing his hand?
Ulrick, who’d been watching the storm approach for some time, just shrugged. He’d mentioned it earlier, though Tarl had appeared far more interested in a joke Alvear was telling him on his other side.
A scout needed eyes everywhere. He had to sniff out every threat before it arrived, whether it was lurking in the trees or the sky, for that scout needed to advise his lord on the right path to take.
Though a scout could not make his lord listen, it appeared.
Tarl had ridden ahead of him for most of the morning, with Alvear and Offa and his steward for company, all four
of them either oblivious to or not caring about the trouble that lay ahead. And now they were wading through that trouble, unable to see an arm’s length in front of their faces.
Ulrick held down his hood with one hand, trying to keep out the snow. ‘We need to look for shelter, my lord! Before it gets worse! We’ll get lost if we’re not careful. Injure the horses!’
Tarl nodded, turning back around, happy to take that advice, and leaning towards Uukko, he sent the boy ahead to tell Alvear and Offa to lead them off the road.
If they were even on the road anymore.
Tarl turned back to Ulrick. ‘They say Ulfinnur’s one of Thenor’s most loyal gods! You think he’s trying to tell us something?’
Ulrick’s horse stumbled into a hole. Unbalanced for a moment, he quickly pushed himself back to the right, releasing his hood to give the horse an encouraging pat. ‘I don’t know, my lord! We just have to find shelter!’
They heard a loud cracking behind them, and turning, Tarl’s eyes widened as a tree came tumbling down. ‘Move!’ he bellowed, wheeling around, though his voice barely carried over the screeching wind, and more than one rider was knocked to the ground, horses roaring in pain as they were hit by the weighty tree. ‘We have to stop!’ he shouted at Offa, who had returned to his lord, not understanding Uukko’s instructions. ‘Offa! Tell your brother that we’ll wait here, help the men! You find shelter! Come back for us!’ He turned to Ulrick. ‘Pull everyone into the trees.’ But stopping, seeing the broken tree before him, and hearing the cries of panic and pain, Tarl wondered if that was a good idea, though there was little choice now. They couldn’t see a thing. ‘I’ll go help!’
Ulrick nodded, pleased to see that his new lord was capable of caring about someone besides himself. And swinging a leg over the saddle, he dropped down into the snow.
Snow rushed towards them until it was in their eyes and mouths, settling on their cloaks, freezing in their beards. Reinar stood by Bolli and Bjarni, trying to decide what to do.