Gunnar, too, glanced at his commanding officer before he asked, “Where are they?”
Her answer was barely above a whisper. “Under the floorboards beneath Sassa’s bed.”
“And now that we all have our orders,” Colonel Raske said with feigned long-suffering, “Your Highness, you really are going to be late for dinner. Lang, I trust you will behave responsibly?”
“If you go anywhere near that filthy old man,” Inge said fiercely, “I’ll have you thrown into the king’s dungeons!” She spoiled her threat the next moment by asking, “Does the king even have dungeons, Colonel Raske?”
“He does, but stocks are a more common punishment for insubordinate soldiers.”
“But I can still order him to the dungeons, can’t I?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
Gunnar was certain he was dreaming, to see his little sister chatting with the Demon Scourge about dungeons as though they were the merest, most commonplace things in the world. He didn’t like it one bit.
“I won’t go anywhere near him,” he said bitterly, “but he deserves to have his gut slit and his entrails tied around a tree. Eirik and Einar were right to trap him under an outhouse!”
“What?” Inge shrieked, but Gunnar was already making his retreat. He thought he heard Colonel Raske laugh and found that he didn’t care at all if his sister met with the certain demise that was supposed to accompany that sound.
Chapter 8: The Unseen Threat
“How much did you overhear?” Inge demanded of Raske at the soonest opportunity. They were headed toward the great hall, Raske both guiding and guarding her as they went.
He arched that eyebrow again, to her annoyance. “I beg your pardon?”
“How much of our conversation did you overhear? You were eavesdropping.”
“A more appropriate term would be ‘standing guard,’ Your Highness, and for your peace of mind, I only overheard what you two chose to yell at each other.”
That didn’t give her peace of mind at all. She and Gunnar had discussed several private issues, and she couldn’t very well recall which ones had been yelled.
“What exactly did you overhear?”
“A fair number of insults.”
Inge had the grace to blush. “You shouldn’t have listened.”
“You shouldn’t have been allowed to meet with him. If Lang had been discovered there on his own, he would’ve been thrown into the stocks without question. As I said before, I was standing guard.”
Shame descended upon her. Colonel Raske had been protecting her and her brother both. “Why did you bring him, then, if it was forbidden?”
“Your brother’s a good soldier. For the month he’s been under my direct command, he’s followed every order I gave him to exactness, up until yesterday when he sneaked from his post to see his family. When he came today, against orders, I thought it must be something important. Was I wrong?”
She glanced up at him and then uncomfortably averted her eyes. “Our family is all we have. Gunnar would do anything he could to keep us all safe.”
“What about the you-know-what?”
Inge’s head snapped up sharply.
“Don’t look so alarmed,” said Colonel Raske. “I have no clue what the two of you were talking about, but it sounded like something important that you have, something more than family.”
“Right now it’s more liability than asset,” Inge said, “and it’s part of our family, anyway. Don’t ask any more about it.”
They continued in silence, until Inge’s worry gnawed her into speaking again. “The little ones will be all right, won’t they?”
“They’ll be fine,” he assured her.
“I guess this means I’m not going back any time soon.”
“It won’t be forever.”
That remark did nothing to assuage her feelings. She lapsed into silence once more. In this manner, Inge and Colonel Raske arrived at their destination.
The great hall, now freed from its nighttime invader, could return to its regular use. Over the past two days, a small army of servants had thoroughly scrubbed away any remnants of the monster. A huge, long table occupied the center of the room, laden with enough food to feed a small village.
For Inge, the so-called “royal family dinner” was an exercise in patience. She would have preferred to take her meal in her own quarters alone rather than alongside King Halvard and Princess Signe. Had it only been Halvard and Signe, she might have managed. A collection of fawning nobles were in attendance as well, though.
She recognized faces, but very few names had stuck. Poisonous, sidelong glances followed her to the head of the table, where she took her place on King Halvard’s left. Signe, on his right, smiled at her encouragingly. Inge discerned Lina Adelborg’s sour face further down the table.
The Lady Adelborg, overly-scented with perfume, was to Inge’s immediate left. She made a show of turning her back on the newly elevated prince and speaking boisterously to the man on her other side. As Halvard seemed disinclined to speak while eating (and who would want to converse with such a lunatic “father” anyway?), Inge retreated into her thoughts.
She worried over Gunnar and the little ones, worried over sending word to Nea in case she decided to visit, worried over where she might hide their father’s legacy. Beneath her bed seemed to be her only option, but that was hardly a hiding-place at all. Perhaps she could pry up some of the floorboards, like she had in the cottage.
Her thoughts crashed to a halt when Lady Adelborg sharply gasped. Even though the woman lowered her voice to a hiss, Inge could hear her perfectly. Most everyone else at the table could hear her, in fact.
“Oh, do you mean to say that that wicked Raske has been learning magic? He’s a handsome devil in his own way, but so dangerous! I wonder that the king would allow him to take up such a pursuit, especially considering what it did to… to you-know-who.” She chanced a look at King Halvard, who calmly sipped his soup while he ignored the conversation.
The noblewoman’s companion, a thin, reedy gentleman, realized his mistake in disclosing such a detail. “I’m certain His Royal Majesty knows what he’s doing,” he whispered. “Colonel Raske can be trusted, Lady Adelborg. Please, do not overreact.”
Lady Adelborg disregarded the hint for discretion. “His mother was a foreigner, wasn’t she? You never can trust foreigners, especially where magic is concerned.”
Inge’s eyes slid to the wall where Raske stood guard alongside Captain Bergstrom. Even though his face wore its customary indifference, an atmosphere of cold, palpable wrath hovered around him. She suddenly understood how Gunnar could be terrified of the colonel. Nor could she blame Raske for being angry. The remark about his heritage was bad enough, but the accusation of magic made it even worse.
Many saw magic as a black art, a means of summoning demons and controlling monsters. Its lore was arcane and jealously guarded by those who possessed it. Magicians carried a stigma that isolated them from their peers, even as they were held in awe and reverence. If Raske truly was studying magic, it would only serve to alienate him further than his reputation alone did.
In a way, Inge pitied him.
Lady Adelborg drew her attention again; the woman had turned with a predatory smile upon her. “I wonder if our new little prince would enjoy such a hobby?”
Inge had not followed their continued conversation. In embarrassment, she scrambled to think of an appropriately benign response.
“No,” said an abrupt voice to her right. King Halvard had broken his silence at last. “My son will have no need of magic. His training will be that of a traditional warrior. It will also include the standard courses of geography, literature, history, and other such subjects, as his tutors see fit.”
Inge’s eyes might have fallen out of her head, so wide they were with horror. He couldn’t—he couldn’t—be serious! She barely knew how to read and write, and was lucky for that!
“Do you have something to say to me?�
�� Halvard asked her curtly.
She snapped her mouth shut and dropped her gaze to her plate. “No, sire,” she muttered.
At least, she thought treacherously, the outspoken Lady Adelborg had fallen silent as well.
***
“You really should work on your facial expressions,” said Colonel Raske as he escorted her back to her quarters. “Your every emotion is transparent as daylight.”
“Geography? Literature? History?” Inge retorted. “What use is any of that to me?”
“It might help you pass the time.”
She couldn’t argue with that, so she snorted unhappily and lapsed into silence. Raske didn’t care, as he was not prone to conversation anyway.
Only a few seconds passed before Inge’s curiosity prodded her into a different topic. “Are you really studying magic?”
Grudgingly he answered, “Yes.”
A chill rippled through her. “Doesn’t it make you nervous?”
He paused in his steps and frowned at her. “Magic itself is neither good nor evil. There’s nothing to be nervous about.”
“But it can go wrong so easily. If you mispronounce a single syllable of the spell, or don’t have your ingredients properly measured—”
“You seem to know a lot about it,” Raske interrupted.
“I don’t!” she protested, startled and annoyed that she had not chosen her words more carefully. “It’s just… there was a magician of sorts in our old village, and… and he used to warn us against trying anything. He was always very stern about it, that magic wasn’t something to meddle with.”
“It isn’t something to meddle with,” said Raske, “just like a sword isn’t something to meddle with. It’s a weapon, and you can get hurt if you use it foolishly.”
Inge’s misgivings still showed plainly on her face.
Raske sighed. “Magic is much more pervasive in our society than you might suspect. You said there was a magician in your old village—well, there was probably more than one. Most artisans use magic in their crafts, in some form or another. Certainly the master-artisans do—why, the master-smith Torvald Geirson famously used magic in his weapons, and they’re considered all the more valuable for it. You don’t need to look so ashen-faced about it, either. As I said, magic is neither good nor evil. It depends on the magician.”
She tried to swallow the sudden, panicked lump that had risen in her throat. “And you would be a responsible magician, of course,” she said weakly.
He favored her with a reproving glance—obviously he would be, it seemed to say—and resumed his path toward her chambers. Inge kept pace alongside him.
“I’ve heard of Torvald Geirson,” she said.
“Who hasn’t? The king declared a day of mourning when we received word of his death. My father was a great friend of his as well—Master Torvald made his blade especially for him, the very first of the famous Virtue Swords.”
“Valor,” Inge murmured thoughtfully. She knew she had heard the name Lukas Falk before.
Raske started. “What did you say?”
Her expression shifted to innocence. “Valor—that was the name of the first Virtue Sword, wasn’t it? Everyone’s heard legends of the Virtue Swords.”
He studied her again, and she made a conscious effort not to look suspicious, which was probably suspicious in its own right.
If he thought so, he made no sign. Instead, he curtly nodded. “Valor was the name of my father’s sword. It was buried with him when he died, his most prized possession. I didn’t realize its name was so widely known, but it suited him well.”
They had arrived outside her bedroom. Inge thought that she should probably make a retreat, but impulse compelled her to continue the conversation. “So you’ve actually seen one of the Virtue Swords, then? They’re supposed to be quite magnificent.”
A very solemn light entered Colonel Raske’s eyes. “I’ve seen more than one. Captain Bergstrom’s sword and my own are both works of Master Torvald.”
Inge recoiled. She took issue with Captain Bergstrom possessing one of the Virtue Swords, but more importantly, “Your sword?” she cried. Her suspicious gaze immediately went to the blade at his side. “Don’t lie. Gunnar said it was called something horrific—Bloody-something-or-other.”
“Bloodfang,” Raske murmured, and he closely watched her reaction.
“Torvald Geirson never made a sword called Bloodfang,” Inge declared with all assurance of truth in her words. “The Virtue Swords were named after warriors’ virtues—valor, loyalty, bravery, fidelity, and such things.”
“Mercy,” he said.
Inge scowled. “What?”
Raske carefully removed the blade and hilt from his belt. “My sword’s name is Mercy. Captain Bergstrom didn’t believe that was ferocious enough for a warrior, so he put about the tale that it was called Bloodfang instead. Go on—inspect the blade for yourself, if you don’t believe me. Its name is inscribed just above the hilt.” He held his sword aloft on two hands, reverently so.
She hesitated, her eyes shifting between the weapon and his intent gaze. Even without handling the sword, even without seeing the naked blade, she could tell that its craftsmanship was exquisite, and that Raske took the utmost care of it. Inge raised one hand, but caught herself the next instant.
“I believe you,” she said quietly, and she backed away a step. “Mercy. Do you think it’s not a ferocious enough name for a warrior’s weapon?”
He carefully replaced the sword, a faint smile upon his lips. She’d never imagined he could make such a mesmerizing expression.
“Captain Bergstrom and I have different ideals. I’ll admit I was embarrassed when I first received it, but I respect Master Torvald immensely, and he presented me this sword with his own two hands. I must believe there was some purpose, even if I sometimes regret that I was not given a stronger virtue, like courage or determination.”
“Mercy’s a strong virtue,” said Inge wryly. “At any rate, it’s better than obedience or patience.”
Raske suppressed a laugh. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if he’d given me a sword called Obedience or Patience. I probably would’ve hidden myself in shame.”
“There’s nothing wrong with obedience or patience,” Inge said stiffly. “I didn’t mean to disparage them as virtues—both are necessary for a good warrior to control the chaos of the battlefield.”
His intent expression had returned. “You say some very curious things, Your Highness.”
She felt a blush rise to her face but before she could answer, voices sounded further down the hall. Both she and Raske turned to watch Gunnar come around the corner with his fellow soldier Dalstrom behind him, a bulky roll of carpet hefted upon their shoulders. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on their foreheads. Inge scrambled to open her chamber door and motioned Gunnar inside.
“The ‘you-know-what’ is a rug?” Raske inquired in disbelief.
“It’s a special rug,” said Inge lightly.
“What does it do, fly?”
She favored him with a quick glance but did not respond. Gunnar and Dalstrom dropped their load onto the floor and stood panting.
“That is without a doubt the heaviest carpet I’ve ever encountered,” said Dalstrom.
“I’m just glad I had a cart to bring it to the castle,” Gunnar replied. “Thanks for your help. Have you met my s—I mean, have you met the prince? This is Dalstrom, Your Highness.”
He spoke her title with a sarcastic twist to his voice. Inge made a face at him. “I met Dalstrom this morning.”
“Don’t you usually roll a carpet with the pattern inward?” Colonel Raske suddenly inquired. He was frowning down at the load. “Come to think of it, wasn’t that the rug in your main room? I remember that border.”
Inge and Gunnar exchanged a nervous glance. “No questions,” Inge said firmly.
Dalstrom and Gunnar both gaped at her, but Raske merely raised an eyebrow. “I think it’s time to leave the prince alone
,” he said to his subordinates. “Lang, Dalstrom, come along.”
They duly started toward the exit, but Inge called after them, “Wait!” Her eyes honed in on her brother. “Have the children gone away safely?”
He nodded. “I waited around until after they left.”
Her gaze flitted toward the carpet roll. “And the you-know-what?”
Gunnar smiled grimly. “Don’t worry. Everything’s there.”
With no further explanation, he left. Raske followed in his wake, seemingly unconcerned, but Dalstrom paused to cast a curious glance at the so-called prince.
“Thanks for your help, Dalstrom,” Inge told him as an obvious dismissal.
He bobbed his head and hurried after his commanding officer, confused about the whole ordeal.
Inge shut her bedroom door and locked it tight. Then, laboriously, she unrolled the carpet across the floor so that its back faced upward. Sewn into the weave was a series of fabric strips used to secure the precious, heavy cargo that the carpet had concealed. Inge counted the pieces before her, each individually wrapped in its own shroud of cloth. Her fingertips brushed across a certain few in particular.
“Hello, Patience, Obedience, Loyalty, Respect. It really is a wonder that the boys haven’t stolen you away yet.”
The great sorrow of Ingrid Norling was that she was not Ingrid Norling at all. The surname had been adopted in the middle of the night, when she and her siblings had hurriedly vacated their home, the place she had lived all her life. No one had questioned the name as they traveled. It rolled off Inge’s tongue now quite easily, even if the stab of shame that accompanied it had not diminished.
For Inge, calling herself Norling rather than the patronymic she had used all her life seemed to indicate that she was somehow ashamed of that patronymic—or worse, of the man from whose name it had been derived. It had been a necessity for her family, the anonymity of a surname unconnected with their past, but Inge would have much preferred to introduce herself as Ingrid Torvaldsdotter instead of Ingrid Norling.
The Legendary Inge Page 8