The look of apprehension on her face was so endearing that Aster found herself pitying the young woman.
“I give you my word,” she said. “For what it’s worth. I’ll be here when you return.”
Ylva nodded with a little smile and disappeared, closing the door behind her.
Aster realised that this was the first time she had been alone since her escape, and before that… before that she could not even remember. She had been travelling with Adrienna and the Princessguard for a while, and before that she had been sleeping in the barracks most of the time, training vigorously for the journey to Karscha.
When she was not sleeping in the barracks, she slept on the divan in Adrienna’s room whenever the princess was worried or lonely. In fact, now that she thought of it, Aster could not remember ever having a room of her own.
She immediately removed her clothes, peeling them off with a grimace of disgust. She had not realised how much she reeked until now. But then, on the longship, everyone had smelled of sweat and sea-salt and smoke. She folded the clothes into a pile on a chair, the way she would have done in the barracks, and tiptoed over to the tub of hot water.
Stepping into the bath, Aster let herself slowly unfurl within the water, her head lolling back against the edge of the tub where a towel rested. A long sigh of relief escaped her as the hot water caressed her skin, sinking into her sore, weary muscles. Her feet were still aching from the time she had run away, and she had gone so long without shoes she feared the soles would never fully heal from their damage. Her hands were covered with raised, painful calluses from the rowing and her back, shoulders and neck burned where she had worked the muscles far too hard. She closed her eyes, revelling in the water’s warmth, the soothing sound of the fire crackling in the hearth, the distant chatter of voices deep within the castle.
Being alone with her thoughts was both a relief and a torment. Now she could finally process everything that had happened, and yet her fear loomed over her like a black cloud, threatening to burst. She forced herself to be calm, to breathe deeply and to not let her anxiety suffocate her.
She was in the very bosom of her enemy now. Now, her lie would save her life as long as she could maintain it. And in turn, that very lie would destroy Svagnar’s carefully laid plans. Aster did not want his plan to fail - his people did not deserve this relentless massacre. She saw that now, though part of her had always known it. Svagnar had not brought this war upon his people. He did not deserve to feel the weight of their deaths upon him; he did not deserve being the one to light the funeral pyres of those he sought to protect.
But in truth, what could Aster do? Confessing the truth would not stop the attacks. It would only get her killed. If she could confess the truth and barter for an end to the war, she would do so in an instant, but Owayn listened to nobody but himself, and who was Aster to change the course of kings and countries? She was a lowly bastard, elevated beyond all hope to captainship - nothing more.
And what of Adrienna? Had she returned to Hawksmoor yet? Was she even alive? If Svagnar had taken Adrienna instead of Aster, would his plan have worked? Owayn would never wage war against his daughter’s husband or country, not when he knew Adrienna’s sons would become kings. Aster closed her eyes, fighting the urge to cry. If Svagnar had succeeded and taken Adrienna instead of her, he would marry the daughter of a king and save Arkavik.
Aster had taken Adrienna’s place only out of fear that Svagnar would kill or harm her, but he had not even been unkind to her. He had seen to her injuries, fed her, kept her warm. He had tied her up and been most boorish in his manners, but he had made no attempt to hurt her, even though Aster could see how much hate he held for Veritians. He would have been in a perfect position to avenge years of loss and suffering, and he had not done so. Instead, he had been patient with her, had ignored her death threats. Even his men had shown her nothing but courtesy and affability.
The realisation that she had made a terrible mistake dawned upon Aster, crushing her with despair. Svagnar could have taken Adrienna - he would not have harmed her. He would probably have been charmed by her sweetness, her grace. She, in turn, would have gained respect for him over time, and perhaps even grown to like him. He was an attractive man, his scar was fearsome but his features handsome, his eyes striking. His manner was imposing yet graceful, and he drew nothing but love and loyalty from his men.
Adrienna could have grown to love such a man. Now, it was too late. Adrienna was lost, too far for Aster to reach. And Svagnar was stuck with a false treasure, clutching a jewel he thought priceless and would be revealed as nothing more than a worthless pebble.
The sound of the door opening and footsteps pulled Aster from her thoughts, and she sat up in the bath, wiping away the tears that had welled up, unbidden, amongst her eyelashes.
“I’ve brought you some things, princess- Adrienna,” Ylva said from behind the curtain.
Aster sighed to hear the name she had stolen, a punishing reminder of her deception.
“Thank you,” she called out, forcing her voice to remain steady.
“You’re welcome. I’ve brought you some dresses, some undergarments, a brush for your hair… you’ve so much of it.”
Ylva stood by Aster’s head, peering at the long strands of dark brown hair coiled over her chest and against the edges of the tub.
“I was ordered never to cut it,” Aster explained truthfully.
“Oh! By your father?”
“No, by- by a friend.”
As a youth, Aster had worn her hair cut below the ears, short and practical. But Adrienna, revelling in their resemblance, had commanded her to let her hair grow. Aster obeyed, and as it grew longer and more troublesome, she had taken to wearing it in its severe plait over her shoulder.
“I’ll wash it and comb it for you,” Ylva said, fetching a chair and setting it next to the tub. Rubbing perfumed oils through the long strands, she brushed each and rinsed them with hot water, laying the gleaming strands over the edge of the tub. She was not as gentle as Adrienna, but swift, efficient and firm.
After a while, she said: “Svagnar will lead the death ritual tonight, to honour the dead. Perhaps… perhaps you will accompany us?”
“Yes,” Aster nodded immediately. She believed in paying respect to fallen warriors, be they Veritian or Karschan or Arkaviki. “Yes, I would like to accompany you. If… if it does not offend your people.”
“No, they won’t, they…” Ylva pinched her lips, thinking. “They know Svagnar is doing what is right. You are Owayn’s daughter, but we do not lay the responsibility of his actions at your feet. Even if some… even if some find it difficult to accept you, it is not your fault.”
“I don’t blame them,” Aster blurted. “I don’t expect your people to love me. I know - I know there is no love lost between our people. Perhaps Svagnar will mend this.”
She closed her eyes, wishing her words into reality. Could her deception still work? If Adrienna was not found… if Adrienna was dead… that was a terrible thought, a black and dreadful thought… and Owayn would still find out the truth, inevitably. No, nothing could mend her error. Nothing would end the war. Only the annihilation of one country.
Ylva chatted pleasantly as she finished washing Aster’s hair and combing it, but Aster’s mind roiled with dread and sorrow. Once she finished bathing she dried herself by the fire, stretching her limbs, and then took each garment Ylva handed her, putting each on dutifully.
There was a pale grey underdress, a garment of soft wool with long sleeves and a long, straight skirt. Then, there was a blue apron dress, fastened at the shoulders with plain pins. Aster plaited her long hair into its customary braid, tying it with the leather string she always kept in her hair or on her wrist.
Once dressed, Ylva passed her a mantle lined with fur, wrapping a similar cloak about her own shoulders, and lead her through the castle. Servants and warriors carrying torches were already beginning to file out through the entrance, crossing the c
ourt and marching through the city. Ylva took Aster’s hand and joined the quiet procession.
Down on the beach, Svagnar was exactly as Aster had last seen him: in the same clothes he had been wearing during the sea voyage, his face weary and drawn with anguish. Blood smeared his clothes and his skin - the blood of the fallen warriors that now lay upon towering pyres on the sand.
The sun had set, hidden by the mountains. The sky in Arkavik was so blue it was almost purple, a deep, velvet sky strewn with luminous stars. The moon rose in a pale crescent, mirrored in the calm, dark sea. The wind was icy and pure, flung straight from the mountains and sending the black waves lapping upon the shore.
In the penumbra, Svagnar was still working, carrying wood from carts on the dock to the pyres. A crowd had already gathered on the shore, facing the sea, the kin and companions of the dead standing with torches, their faces steeled or weeping, their eyes fixed upon the pyres. They waited for Svagnar, and it was Gunnar himself who took a fur cloak to Svagnar, laying it upon his shoulders, prompting Svagnar to begin the ritual.
Svagnar took a torch and stood amongst the pyres. He opened his mouth and a strange noise, deep and growling and feral, escaped his mouth, thundering over the sound of the waves, echoed by the mountains. It was a chant, a chant in an ancient language that Aster could not understand, and yet it expressed a sorrow so raw and painful that she need not understand it.
Other voices joined him in the chant: his Jarlsguard, with their black tunics, the men and women who held the torches, then everybody. The night was full of the chant, the anger and grief of the Arkaviki witnessed by the sky, the sea and the moon. Aster wondered how this could not be heard all the way in Veritier, how Owayn could not sense the thunder of these voices wherever he was right now.
Once the chant ended, Svagnar stepped forward and set fire to the pyre next to him. The fire smouldered then grew, then the pyre roared into flames, bathing the shore in orange light. Aster could look at nothing but him: his feral hair glowing in the firelight, his eyes haunted by the flames as they burned the bodies of his people. She stood frozen, watching him set each pyre alight, and a feeling stole inside her that she could not understand yet.
Soon, all the pyres were burning high in the sky, ashes floating towards the sea like black wraiths. One by one, the mourners began to disperse. Eventually, there remained nobody but Aster and Ylva, and, still gazing into the flames, Svagnar.
“Come, let us back to the castle,” Ylva murmured.
Aster stared at Svagnar. Even his guard had one by one left, Gunnar last of all, and he stood silhouetted against the fires as though he were the only person in the world.
“What of your brother?” Aster asked, reluctantly following Ylva.
The young woman glanced back at Svagnar, the corners of her mouth drooping.
“Svagnar will stay until each pyre has burnt to ashes. Come, Adrienna. There is nothing we can do. Svagnar feels he must do this, and it is not for us to tell him how to serve his people.”
Aster nodded and followed Ylva away from the shore and back through the city. The dark streets were quiet now, flickering flames lighting the cobbled path up to the castle. Ylva led her all the way to her room and told her she should sleep. She exited the room, closing the door behind her, and Aster slowly undressed, blowing out the candles before padding over to the bed.
She sighed as her clean limbs slipped against the cold, fresh softness of the bedding. Laying her head into the pillows was a feeling of exquisite relief, and the bed stood by the window so that moonlight fell like a silver ribbon across the bed.
Yet exhausted as she was, and despite the bed being warm and comforting, Aster struggled to find sleep for a long time. For whenever she closed her eyes, her mind tormented with visions of the jarl of Arkavik, alone on the shore, watching his people burn to ashes.
Chapter VIII
Svagnar the Beast of Fjersfell
The familiar noise of Fjersfell awoke Svagnar: chatter and activity stifled by the stone walls, the muffled sounds of his guards sparring in the small court, the distant rush of the sea on the shore. He was finally home.
He had arrived back to the castle late into the night, too preoccupied with fury and regret to enjoy his homecoming. But it was a new day - he had done the best he could for his fallen warriors, and now he must carry on for the rest of his people. He had been too long away from Arkavik. Now, it was time to see to his country.
A bath had already been drawn for him and Svagnar washed vigorously, scrubbing the dried blood and grime off his skin. He had fallen asleep in the same clothes he had worn throughout his journey at sea, and the filth that came from his skin turned his bathwater to mud. Once clean, he shaved the hair at the sides of his head and trimmed his beard, which had gotten ragged and haggard over his journey in Veritier.
Feeling refreshed and a little less like a vagabond, Svagnar dressed in his simple dark wool clothes and leather tunic, leggings and boots. He usually wore no armour in Fjersfell, though he always had his axe strapped to his belt. Tying his hair back, he finally left his room in search of some food to break his fast with.
The castle was bustling with activity, and his servants and people greeted him warmly when he passed them. In the great hall, the tables were laden with bread, salted fish, honey and milk. Most of his Jarlsguard, sweating from their morning of training and sparring, sat at one end of the table. They were eating and making more noise than everybody else in the castle put together.
Svagnar took a seat on the bench between Eirik and Kylan. Kylan was the same age as Eirik, but where Eirik was sagacious, Kylan was impulsive, and where Eirik was calm, Kylan was prone to bouts of strong emotion.
Nevertheless, the two men had always been close friends. Often they battled side by side or back to back. Like Eirik, Kylan was a warrior who seemed unable to find death on the battlefield, no matter how reckless he was. The Jarlsguard nicknamed both him and Eirik Without-Death for this very reason.
“By the gods, who is this handsome stranger sitting at the jarl’s table?” Kylan bellowed, slapping Svagnar’s back bracingly and handing him a plate of food.
“This is no stranger,” Eirik responded serenely. “Merely the jarl, careful to appear beautiful for his new bride.”
“Eirik, start this again and you will hang from the tallest tower of Fjersfell by your neck,” Svagnar growled, biting into a piece of bread. “Where is my bride anyhow? Care she not for breakfast?”
“Why?” Gunnar called across the table. Chicken bones littered his plate and yet he was still eating with the hunger of five men. “What are you looking to have her do now, jarl? Shine your boots? Sharpen your axe? Clean every chimney in the castle?”
Before Svagnar could stop him, Gunnar set about recounting the tale of Svagnar’s tyranny. He recounted how Svagnar slept all morning whilst forcing the young Veritian princess to row. The tale seemed to gain new elements of cruelty and pathos every time Gunnar told it. In this version, there was even mention of Svagnar shrieking at his bride and cracking a whip over her back when her rowing became too slow.
Eirik was laughing at the tale, but he turned to Svagnar and said: “She’s already eaten, jarl. Your sister has taken her to the market since you brought her with nothing but the rags on her back.”
Svagnar shrugged: “There was no time to collect her fineries. Did Ylva take some guards?”
“I don’t think the thought even occurred to her,” replied Eirik.
Svagnar sighed in exasperation. He was not the best role model, often going unaccompanied by his Jarlguard, but that streak of intrepidity in Ylva worried him. She went about the world as though she had nothing to fear. But danger always lurked near the shores of Arkavik. He thought of joining his sister and bride in the marketplace, but perhaps it might serve the princess well to be away from him for a while. Being away from her, he was already beginning to be himself again.
After he had broken his fast, Svagnar set about his many tasks: he me
t with his advisors and his blacksmiths to arrange the repairs of the fortifications destroyed in Veritier’s latest attack. He sent messengers to the largest port towns to ensure that they were safe, and to send scouts if they spotted any Veritian ships.
He met with his housecarl Mikkel, the man who was solely responsible for the smooth running of Fjersfell. After greeting him warmly, he asked him to prepare a feast and send invitations out to his guests. His wedding might be nothing more but a political manoeuvre, but they would celebrate it for what it was: the herald of peace in Arkavik.
Afterwards, Svagnar went to visit the wounded, ensuring that they were recovering well, ensuring that they had all they needed. The families of his warriors thanked him gratefully, offering him mead and food, reminding him of the necessity of what he was doing. He noticed a new atmosphere in the city now that the news had spread of his successful mission: it was a kind of elation in the air, a fresh breath of hope filling the lungs of the city.
He returned to the castle near dusk and found Eirik, who sat by the fire in the hall having his head wound inspected by a healer.
“You’ve been busy,” Eirik commented when Svagnar sat next to him.
“Aye, plenty to do,” said Svagnar. “I want to talk of Veritier. Will you send a raven to our man in Owayn’s court? He made this plan possible, and I should much like to talk to him. I thought we might entrust him with bringing back the message of my marriage to the king.”
“You want him to come to Arkavik?”
“I’d like him to come to the feast, yes. He might be useful in creating a link between our countries beyond that of a forced marriage between a jarl and a stolen princess.”
“Aye, I see,” Eirik said thoughtfully. “He might have difficulty coming here. I believe he is somewhere high in Owayn’s service, but he wishes for peace as much as we do. I’ll send a raven anyhow.”
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