Sorrow's Peak (Serpent of Time Book 2)

by Jennifer Melzer

  He wondered if such magic would guarantee a letter into his sister’s care as well, but then thought better of asking. He didn’t have a letter to send to Rue, even though he’d thought endlessly about writing one. He’d thought to appeal to her senses, asking that she not only back Galfon if he chose to ally himself with the half-blooded U’lfer of the tundra, but follow him south with enough speed to get their people to safety before it was too late. What worried him was not that such a letter would never reach his sister, but she would ignore it when it came.

  Ruwena was angry with him, and if he made such a gesture she might very well spit on it and stubbornly refuse to come south just to spite him.

  His sister was an obstinate woman, and she’d never been angrier with him than she was the day he left her in Drekne so he could look after their younger brother once he was exiled. He stood by helplessly, watching as Cobin’s guards dragged her from the council chamber kicking, screaming, spitting and swearing vengeance so severe it cut deep into his soul. He could have done something, should have insisted they exile her with them, but he hadn’t. He’d just let them take her back to her prison, her spittle dripping down his face and the sounds of her raging screams echoing through him with the guilt.

  She may very well never forgive him for leaving her behind to tend to their brother, who in truth was anything but helpless, but what else was he supposed to do? Finn hadn’t been named reckless without reason. He was impetuous, foolish and since he found Lorelei in the fields he’d been driven to protect her at any cost.

  Finn hadn’t wanted him along on the journey, but Rhiorna confirmed Vilnjar was meant to be there, meant to follow the girl south, into battle, to the ends of the world if that was where Lorelei commanded him to go. Maybe he hadn’t believed it at the time, but part of him must have believed in it enough to follow. It couldn’t have been the simple need to protect and look after his brother that pushed him into exile with them.

  He was meant to go with them, and it had very little to do with Lorelei at all. Maybe Rhiorna knew when she sent him, maybe she hadn’t, but Vilnjar’s mate was in Dunvarak, waiting for him to find her there.

  And though the half-blooded beauty who carried a piece of his soul inside her probably had no idea the connection they shared, she liked him enough to ask him to work for her, spinning stories while she hammered steel into weapons and armor for the battle surely coming their way.

  Glancing up, he watched Hodon’s quill bob and dip across the parchment in a series of brisk scratches as he signed his name. He leaned back to allow the ink to dry. One hand held the parchment down and kept it from rolling in upon itself as the other dropped the quill back into the ink pot.

  “Before I commit this to Archmage Auden’s care, you are more than certain Galfon is the man?”

  It was a little late to reaffirm that, as the letter was already written and addressed, but Vilnjar nodded confirmation. “Cobin would never allow such a missive to see the light of day, or its contents reach the peoples’ ears.”

  Cobin seemed perfectly content to go on as they were, and why shouldn’t he be? He didn’t care about their people, about their future. He only cared about himself; once he was gone from the world what did it matter if his people weren’t far behind, winging toward annihilation?

  Hodon nodded, “Very well then. I will send men north at once and hope against all hope we are not too late.”

  “Is that a strong possibility, Father?” Logren spoke for the first time since they sat down at his father-in-law’s table, proving he hadn’t been dozing after all. Vilnjar wondered, having glanced several times in the other man’s direction only to find his cheek rested in the curve of his open palm, elbow planted firmly on the tabletop as he leaned into it with his eyes half-closed and an air of disinterest hovering around him.

  The circles rimming both Logren’s eyes were so dark and deep, he looked as if he’d been in a brawl, not lost a night’s worth of sleep to drinking with his long lost sister before she departed on a dangerous journey. Vilnjar heard the two of them long into the hours of the night, waking several times to the sound of their laughter, their murmuring voices and Finn’s big elbow in his back. The only time the house was actually silent was when the siblings left and went to the temple, where they stayed until only about an hour before sunrise.

  “A far stronger possibility than I’d like it to be,” Hodon answered, blowing one last time across the drying ink, then removing his hand and the weights from the corners so the parchment could roll in upon itself. “We need to get as many people out of the Edgelands as possible if we’re to make this work to all of our advantage, and we need to do it quickly.”

  “But Aelfric is an old man,” Logren interjected. “He was an old man when he fought against my father. Surely he will not move with the same speed and vigor he once did.”

  “There are always young soldiers in the king’s army, and besides, it is not just Aelfric I am worried about.”

  It was the first time anyone mentioned Lorelei’s betrothed, a young prince from Hofft whose name escaped him until Hodon spoke it.

  “Trystay of Hofft,” he said, as if the name should mean something.

  It did sound familiar, and as he rolled back through his memory for it, he found only loose references from Lorelei that made little to no sense at all. Logren did sit up a little straighter, a ferocity knitting his brow together and wrinkling his forehead as Hodon went on.

  “Trystay’s father, the king of Hofft, has been on the brink of war with Aelfric for decades, an old family feud that means next to nothing to me. I know only that it was some power struggle your sister was finally meant to bring an end to with the brokering of her marriage, and she botched it when she ran into the Edgelands.”

  “So like her mother, she ran?” Vilnjar mused.

  “Not exactly,” Hodon shook his head. “I don’t know all the details, and I wasn’t given time with her before she departed to discuss them, but Yovenna made mention before her coming. She said Lorelei’s life was threatened the night she ran onto your lands.”

  “By the man she was meant to marry?”

  It made sense once he could put it all into perspective. Finn said she’d been running the night he found her, and though his brother seemed to know what chased her, he’d never shared his insight, claiming it was up to her to decide who knew her secrets.

  No secrets were safe in the eye of a seer, though, he supposed. He doubted there was much of anything about Lorelei, or her life, Yovenna hadn’t been privy to long before the day she stepped up to meet her at the gates of Dunvarak.

  “I’ll kill the bloody bastard with my bare hands if he so much as even thinks about crossing that mountain,” Logren declared.

  “He won’t cross it alone when he comes, and he will come. Men such as him rarely overlook having their agenda thwarted, and make no mistake, he had an agenda.”

  “Did Yovenna say how many men he would bring with him?”

  “Yovenna told me nothing beyond the words: war is coming. Be prepared. We spoke briefly on the details of Lorelei’s involvement with Trystay, but that was all. Mark my words, if even half of what I’ve learned from the traders in Port Felar about this Trystay of Hofft can be believed, he will work her slight to his advantage with Aelfric and bring every man in the king’s army with him. He’s as manipulative as an old Ninvarii, that one, and I hear he has Ninvarii on his side to make matters that much worse.”

  Vilnjar resisted the urge to remark on how useless seers were if they couldn’t actually tell anyone what they saw and shifted the subject back to the letter at hand. “How long will it take your riders to reach Drekne?”

  “Three days if the weather on our side of the mountain isn’t dreadful. Four or five if we see storms.”

  Four to five days suddenly seemed an incredibly long time. Would it be enough?

  Logren’s thoughts were in the same vein. “If this Trystay has already marched…” he started, lowering his arm to the
table. He was still scowling, a sibling’s instinct to protect Vilnjar himself was all too familiar with. He stretched both shoulders across the back of his chair with a groan and shook his head. “If we are too late…”

  “Then we are too late,” Hodon resigned. “There is not much more we can do than what we have already planned.”

  True as it was, they could have sent word earlier, couldn’t they? Announced their presence in the south to the people of the Edgelands and extended an invitation after they’d established themselves in the tundra. It wouldn’t have made much difference, Vilnjar realized. Such an invitation would have been ignored by the council, never even revealed to the people they ruled over.

  Sometimes he felt like such a fool for devoting so much of himself to the Council of the Nine.

  “Lorelei is on her way, so for the time being there is hope she’ll be safe. We are doing what we can. That’s all that can be done.”

  The discussion was settled, and for a few moments no one said anything at all. It was so quiet Vilnjar could almost hear the sounds of the city beyond the walls, people calling out to one another in the streets, horse hooves clomping along the stone, a blacksmith’s hammer clanking metal on the forge across the way.

  “Logren, I want you to take the day,” Hodon finally went on. “Go home and sleep off the grief and drink. You can return to your duties tomorrow.”

  “I’m fine,” he insisted, “really.”

  “You’re not fine. You’ve been dozing at the table since you sat down, and perking up at the thought of wringing some scrawny little princeling’s neck doesn’t count as being awake. It’s been a long, tiresome journey, coming this far, and I know you’re worried and filled to the bristling rim over it all, but I won’t have you falling asleep on the job. Not now, when so much depends on you. Home with you. Rest. I’ll find someone to fill in for you today.”

  “But the training exercises…” he started.

  “Can be overseen by someone else. I’ll send Miken over. He’ll whip the whelps into shape.” Logren opened his mouth to further protest, but Hodon narrowed sharp blue eyes and added, “Don’t argue with me, boy. Go home and sleep off this day. Spend time with my daughter and grandson. They both miss you. Tomorrow is another one, and there will be just as much work to be done when the sun comes up.”

  “As you wish,” he gave in, though there was still reluctance in his voice and Vilnjar actually wondered just how well he would obey the order he’d been given.

  “And I don’t want to hear any tales about you visiting the taverns today either.” Turning his attention toward Vilnjar, he said, “Logren tells me you’ll be working for Broehn Black-Hammer’s daughter, Frigga, at the forge?”

  “I…” He hesitated, a flush of warmth darkening his cheeks as he lowered his gaze. “I wouldn’t exactly call it working. She’s asked me to entertain her with stories while she works, that’s all.”

  “Storytelling is work,” Hodon declared. “Especially if she’s paying you for it. She is paying you for it?”

  Nodding reluctantly, it felt odd talking about Frigga. He knew it was absurd to think he could keep her all wrapped up inside his own mind, save for the moments he was with her, but discussing the job she was paying him to do felt like a strange invasion into his private thoughts.

  She’d asked him to work for her, telling her stories she’d never heard before while she worked. For each story new to her ears, she would give him silver pieces until he earned enough to pay her to craft him a sword she felt fairly certain he would one day need. Even after he confessed to her he had no interest in the brutal arts of war, she insisted and he’d relented so easily because the opportunity to sit with her while she worked, to get to know her felt like a gift.

  The mere thought of her made him feel giddy as a young pup, and he was so elated he could scarcely hide the grin twitching at the corners of his mouth, a grin he was sure was bound to get him into trouble sooner or later.

  “Well good for you,” Hodon decided, though Logren didn’t seem to agree because he rolled his eyes and lifted a hand to stifle a yawn indicating boredom with the whole topic of conversation. “But I’d advise you keep your head down and your eye on her father. Don’t get on his bad side, Vilnjar. Broehn is very particular about who spends time with his daughter. We will need him working the forge night and day to ensure we have weapons enough to arm our men and women if it comes to battle. I don’t want any trouble with him.”

  “Of course not,” he agreed.

  “Now, I’ve other things to attend to today, so if the two of you don’t mind I’ll take my leave. I meant what I said, Logren,” he added. The archmage tucked the roll of parchment into his robes and shuffled backward as Hodon pushed his chair away from the table with a loud scrape of wood across stone. He narrowed a serious glare at his son-in-law and added, “I don’t want to hear a single word about you working today, or drowning your sorrows in the taverns, are we clear.”

  “Yes, sir,” Logren offered a reluctant nod, and lazily wrenched himself from his own chair, stretching the muscles in his back as he rose. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s told Viina to lace my ale when I get home so I pass out,” he muttered after Hodon left. “There’s too much to be done, too many preparations to be made. How he can expect me to sit by and do nothing…”

  “Perhaps he only wants you at your best,” Vilnjar interjected, falling into step behind the other man as he headed toward the doors. He followed him through the hallways leading to the double doors opening into the city, nodding politely at the guards before they passed through and into the brisk morning air.

  He instantly wished he’d worn more than a cloak, the bitter flutter of wind cutting straight through the fabric of both cloak and tunic and teasing goose bumps across his skin. He could feel the hairs on his chest and arms tightening and rising, and he shook off the chill with a visible shudder that garnered a strange look from Logren he soon realized was an unspoken response to his statement.

  Everyone else dressed in the same manner, and he hadn’t heard anyone complaining about the cold, but all morning he’d been shivering against it and longing for a day as warm as the Edgelands in summer. Drawing the folds closer and hugging his chest with both arms, he ignored Logren and thought of warm things.

  “I am always at my best,” he growled.

  Vilnjar didn’t argue. He’d learned during the last few days it was pointless. Logren was always right, at least as far as the man himself was concerned, and there was nothing he seemed to love more than someone fool enough to bicker with him.

  Without the challenge of a reply to egg him on, Logren didn’t bother trying to goad him into another argument he couldn’t win. Instead, he cut across the cobbled street, heading away from Hodon’s hall and toward the blacksmith across the street. Strange, he thought, the other man’s unwillingness to try and keep the banter going.

  Since the Light of Madra and her two companions departed on a quest that promised to wake the wolf spirits trapped within every man, woman and child in Dunvarak, Logren was almost muted and sullen. Not so easily riled as he’d been even just the day before, Vilnjar wondered if not having his sister to show off for brought him down a few notches, closer to the man he was on a day to day basis, rather than the one he’d tried to be to impress Lorelei and win her over.

  From the moment they’d met at the base of Great Sontok, Logren was as boisterous and obnoxious as his father, Rognar, had once been. Inexhaustible, arrogant about his capabilities and ready to take on the world, the man walking beside him on the street was no longer any of those things, and he suspected it was only a matter of time before he wouldn’t be able to fight how tired he was or Hodon’s insistence he take a day.

  His gaze shifted across the street, toward the blacksmith’s porch where Broehn Black-Hammer worked the forge alone. His eyes scanned the area for signs of Frigga, but he didn’t see her and his heart instantly sank. He’d been hoping for just a moment’s contact with her
before he took his place the following morning at the forge, but all he managed was a glimpse that morning during the procession as the three heroes-to-be departed from the city on their horses.

  How his spirit soared when she spied him and smiled almost shyly as they made eye contact. It was almost enough to tug his mind from the troubling thoughts worrying him as he watched his little brother’s horse disappear through the gates. He’d looked for her at the smithy when he and Logren made their way to the hall, but she hadn’t been there.

  The giddiness that came with the anticipation of just a glimpse of her faded, and he quickened his pace to catch up with Logren. The other man barely noticed, even when he stumbled over his own feet and bumped shoulders with him as they walked.

  Vilnjar righted and steadied himself again, his face flushing with the foolishness of his behavior, and then he cleared his throat to broach the subject of his residence. He’d been thinking about it since he’d laid down for bed the night before. Surely now that Finn and Lorelei were gone, Logren and his family wouldn’t want him around. He couldn’t expect to impose on them, not when he took into consideration how frequently the two of them were prone to arguing—especially when they drank.

  Only a few hours passed since the Light of Madra and her two companions made their way through the city, departing on the quest meant to wake the wolf spirits trapped in the flesh of every man, woman and child in Dunvarak and all he could think about was how out of place he felt. How distant from his own people and from his family, he felt, as if he had no place in the world anymore at all.

  “Logren, I wondered if there might be somewhere you could recommend for me to stay while I’m here? Maybe a room in one of the taverns or something?”