“Nonsense, my darling,” the man said, sounding amused. She could see half a smile on his face, but he remained staring down at the army. “You're just as soulless as the rest of us. You know you used magic as well, and you know how warped you became. None of us managed to escape from that.”
Frida looked down at her arms and saw that they were, indeed, also black, as though she had been burnt and only ashes remained. She started to say something else to the man, but before she could formulate the question, she felt the scene changing and disappearing, until suddenly she was just sitting there in the darkness of her own mind, as though she'd been there all along.
She woke up with a start, and it took her a moment to figure out where she was. Then, she slowly disentangled herself from Daegal's arms, holding her breath and expecting him to wake up at any moment.
She had to leave. So she dressed as quietly as she could and gathered her things, glad to hear that Daegal continued to sleep soundly, his breathing heavy. When she was ready to go, she paused for a long moment, staring down at Daegal's sleeping form, thinking back to the previous night. But she couldn't let her personal feelings get in the way of her destiny. She could feel the magic roiling inside of her, just begging for her to use it. And she knew exactly how it was meant to be used.
Slowly, she untied both the horses and swatted Daegal's on the rump, sending it cantering away from her. Daegal would have no choice but to walk from that hut back to Daelfjord, costing him valuable time. Frida would be far away from him by the time he was able to secure another horse, she hoped. Although she felt bad for making the man walk such a long distance in this cold, she knew that if he managed to catch up to her, he would have her headed back north.
But that wasn't the way her heart was pulled.
Of course, Daegal could also change into his dragon form and fly, but she doubted he would choose that option. First of all, it would be difficult for him to spot her if he was up in the air and she was moving stealthily through the forests that dotted the northern landscapes. But more importantly, during these times of war, anyone could be mistaken as an enemy—and no one wanted to see a dragon swooping out of the skies onto their farm. He wouldn't risk the injury.
Nodding her head resolutely, Frida swung up into the saddle of her own horse and clucked her tongue softly, urging her horse southwards. Derithan, the man had said. And although she doubted that his army would still be there when she arrived, she supposed that was the best place to begin looking. She would hear more about the army's movements as she traveled.
It would be a long journey, and she only hoped she wasn't too late.
Bonus Book #2
The Dragon Soul
Rachel Robins
Chapter 1
The bar was dingy, built into a smoky nook in the wall of Daelfjord. It wasn't in a nicer part of the town—in fact, it was a place that frequently doubled as a brothel, at least when they could find women who needed work. Even on a “clean” night, the place was filled mostly with ne'er-do-wells and a rough mix of soldiers, sailors, and workmen. The beer was served in heavy tankards—usually chipped and rarely cleaned.
It wasn't the kind of place that Frida would usually find herself in, but that night, she had no choice. She wasn't there just for a drink; she was there because… Well.
Frida stared across the room in disgust, watching through the smoky haze as Culjer, the captain of Daelfjord's guard, continued to get utterly smashed with Fiske, his second-in-command. It had been two weeks since she'd been back, trying to warn people about the threat of a war to the south—but with the fighting still far off in the Borderlands, no one really cared. What they didn't seem to realize was that by the time the fighting reached them, it would be too late.
They needed to work together, to unite the people of Kjota against this threat.
She stood up and stalked across the bar, grabbing the two tankards of ale in front of the soldiers and dramatically pouring them out onto the rough, wooden floor, heedless of the mess that she was causing. This floor had had worse things on it than beer, she was willing to bet. And she doubted it had been cleaned at any point during her lifetime, even.
“Hey!” Culjer cried, getting to his feet.
Frida couldn't help but sneer at the way the man wobbled a little, unsteady on his feet after the amount of drink he had already consumed. And he was supposed to be on guard that night. Not that that was any of her business, except—“What the hell do you think would happen if Daelfjord were attacked right now?” she spat. “With the captain of the guard and his second-in-command here, in this bar—three sheets to the wind!” She didn't care what they did on their own time, but when it came to the safety of Daelfjord…
They had been attacked by raiders from Groenthjal not long ago now—just a few months before. And Frida and a few of the others had been taken as hostages by Agnarr the war-king. Frida had been lucky enough to escape (with the help of a friend she made amongst the men of Groenthjal), but that didn't mean she would be so lucky if the raiders were to return.
Culjer looked like he was trying to figure out what to say in response, his face going through a complicated twist of expression. Before he could string five words together, though, Fiske pointed a thick finger at Frida. “I know who you are,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “You're that damned girl who keeps shouting in the marketplace about war, just trying to stir up trouble.”
Frida rolled her eyes, thinking back to her dreams, thinking of the rumors she had heard about the horrific fighting in the south. “I'm not trying to stir up trouble, I'm trying to–”
“We have enough to worry about with the sea-king raiders,” Fiske interrupted, wagging his finger at the woman. He stood as well and clung to Culjer for a moment. “Let us be gone from here,” he said, clearly trying to keep his voice down so that Frida couldn't hear—but in his current level of drunkenness, he didn't seem to understand just how loud he was being.
Frida slammed the tankards down on the crude table, unable to keep from showing her disgust. “There are worse things that could happen than anything the sea-kings might do to you,” she hissed. The last time the sea-kings had come to Daelfjord—sure, there had been bloodletting. There had been whoring and raiding and feasting on food that wasn't theirs. But it was nothing like what these sorcerers from the south could do to them. They would raze the entire kingdom to the ground.
Anyway, it wasn't as though these men were protecting Daelfjord against any threat at the moment. Warriors could attack them from the sea or overland and they'd still be sitting ducks if the captain of the guard didn't sober up.
But the captain of the guard and his second-in-command weren't listening. Instead, they were already moving towards the door, no doubt already planning the next stop of the night, where they would drink another five or so tankards of ale between them. It was utterly disgraceful—but there was very little Frida could do about it.
The urge struck Frida to chuck one of the tankards after them, but before she could make a move, someone snaked out a hand and caught her wrist. “That was quite the performance, but that's not the way to get them to listen,” the man murmured, his lips brushing Frida's earlobe as he leaned in close to her.
She yanked away from the man, turning to face him, wondering who would be so incredibly audacious. But despite the fact that she had grown up in Daelfjord, she didn't know who the man was. He must be just visiting, but…
She swallowed hard, eyes scanning his chiseled face for some sort of a clue as to who he was. He was startlingly attractive, whoever he was—tall and muscular, but in a lithe sort of way. Perhaps he was a warrior; he seemed to be familiar with Culjer and Fiske. She still was pretty certain that he wasn't from Daelfjord, though.
Something about his face, was, in fact, familiar—but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't seem to place him. Probably he just looked like someone else that she knew. The comparison would come at some point.
“We have a lot to talk about,
” the man said, holding out a slender hand towards her. “Come.”
Frida eyed his hand mistrustfully and took a couple of steps away. “Who the hell are you?” she snapped. “And what would we have to talk about?”
The man smirked at her. “See, there's your problem right there: if you want to unite people, you need to learn to pay attention first. Your name is Frida Grimsdottir, and you grew up here in Daelfjord. Your grandmother was a healer, and you have followed her into that profession. After a brief disappearance to Groenthjal, you have returned home—and the people of Daelfjord mistrust you for it. You've been telling everyone who will listen about the war to the south—about the sorcerers who will ruin the entire kingdom, including their homes. But unfortunately, not many will listen, and those who will listen are unable to do anything about any of it. Does that sound about right?”
Frida frowned at him, folding her arms across her chest. “You've done your research,” she said, her voice grudgingly appreciative. “But I still fail to see what we should have to talk about.”
“Your magic,” the man said simply, shrugging a little. He eyed Frida keenly. “You must feel it there, bubbling just below the surface. You must know the sorts of things you could accomplish.”
Frida stared at him for a long moment, then glanced around, her eyes searching fearfully for anyone who might have overheard the man. Fortunately, there was no one within earshot; after her show with Culjer and Fiske, it seemed that a lot of the other patrons had cleared out, leaving only Inge and Halvard sitting in one of the dimly-lit back corners, their hands roving under the table. She had no doubt that the bartender must be about ready to throw her out given that she'd scared off most of his customers, but it seemed that the man was holding off while she talked to this strange man.
“Don't make talk like that around here,” she hissed under her breath. Magic was a highly taboo subject in Kjota, especially out in the countryside like this. After the wars with the sorcerers that had happened decades ago—which had been an absolute bloodbath for all involved—no one wanted anything to do with magic anymore. “If any of them knew about...” Then, she frowned, staring at the man in confusion. “Who are you? How do you know about...”
“Your magic,” the man said, placing an emphasis on the second word, although he thankfully still kept his voice down. “Get used to saying it, darling. It's time you learned how to use it.”
Frida gaped at him and then shook her head. “Who are you?” she repeated.
The man smiled silkily at her and held out a hand towards her again. “They have called me many different names over the years, but you may call me Brynarr.”
Something stirred in the back of Frida's mind at that, but whatever thought was there, it wasn't tangible enough for her to really get a grip on it. She slowly reached out and took the man's slender hand in her own. Her magic responded to his touch, crackling under her skin as though he were somehow stoking the fire inside of her. Around the bar, the candles flickered madly, as though a sudden breeze had caught them.
Frida quickly pulled her hand away, glancing around to see if anyone else had noticed that. But Inge and Halvard were still preoccupied with one another and the bartender had retreated to the back room now that business had quieted for the night, no doubt ready to consume a few drinks of his own.
Frida turned back to Brynarr and stared at him for a long moment, considering him. “What do you want to discuss?” she finally asked. There were a lot of questions that she wanted to ask him—how did he know that she had magic, how did he know that she needed training; the list went on and on.
“This is not the place for discussions of magic,” the man said, though, and Frida nodded in slow agreement. “Come, I have a room in the Stirling Goose. We can talk freely there.”
Frida could feel that same something there in the back of her mind, as sharp as the alarm bells that the guard used to signal an attack on the fortress. But there was no reason to be worried, she reasoned, and she followed Brynarr as he led the way to the Stirling Goose.
Chapter 2
Sigrun, the innkeeper, raised an eyebrow at Frida as she walked into the Stirling Goose with Brynarr that night, and Frida fought to keep from blushing. It was none of the other woman's concern if Frida wanted to go upstairs with the handsome traveler. Of course, she probably suspected they were going up there to share a bed—why else would Frida be headed upstairs with the man? But that didn't give her the right to judge.
Frida tossed her dark hair back and gave the woman a haughty look, daring her to intervene. She was glad to see Sigrun duck her head and go back to scrubbing at the bar. Good.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, though, she was glad that someone had seen her with Brynarr. She still didn't feel quite right around him, and she hoped that if anything bad happened to her… Well, at least someone would know where she was.
Up in Brynarr's room, Frida turned to face him, her hands on her hips. She was surprised when the man caught her in his arms and pressed her back against the wall, kissing her passionately. Her first instinct was to fight the man, but there was something gentle and familiar in the way he kissed her—a tenderness that she craved. So she allowed him to kiss her for a moment, his lips moving against hers, his tongue slipping inside of her mouth.
When he pulled away from her, she was breathless as well as confused.
She brought her hand up to her mouth, her fingertips lightly stroking her lips, trying to figure out why the kiss had felt so familiar. She was sure she had never met Brynarr in this lifetime, but…
Reading her confusion, Brynarr said, “You don't remember me, of course, but you and I have quite the history, darling.”
Frida shook her head, but she couldn't look away from the sharp angles of his face, trying to de-age it or add some weight to it, as though if she looked hard enough, she could find clues of who this man was and how he seemed to know her.
But nothing came to her. “You must have me mistaken for someone else,” she finally said, pushing him away from her with two hands on his chest.
Brynarr laughed a little and caught her hands. “Easy, darling,” he said, his thumb stroking the back of her hand. “They did an impressive job on your memory with their wards, and I'm sure the soul-jump through the decades didn't help either. But I'll help you remember.” He pulled her into a hug, and Frida went along with it stiffly, too confused about all of this to protest. “I've missed you, darling. Things haven't been the same without having you at my side.” He stroked her hair and kissed her forehead.
Finally, Frida had had enough. “I don't know you,” she said, pulling away from him. She was halfway to the door when Brynarr caught her wrist in the same grip he had used when she'd made to throw the tankard at the captain of the guard.
“Wait,” he said, his voice momentarily full of emotion. He cleared his throat, looking suddenly uncertain. “Perhaps we can start again,” he said slowly. “I can forget about all this—I can help you to remember me. And I can help you regain control of your magic.”
“I don't think so,” Frida said, shaking her head firmly even though there was something inside her that wanted to go along with it. If she hadn't been so startled by his insistence that they already knew one another, if he had just approached her and tried to get her to go to bed with him—well, she might even have gone along with it. She wasn't a prude, after all, and he was very attractive.
Besides, as he'd said, the people of Daelfjord were holding her at an arm's length since the war-kings had spirited her off to Groenthjal, worried that friendship with her might bring the war-kings' attention to their families. It would be nice to have someone…
She swallowed hard and shook her head again, that nagging sense of alarm still there in the back of her head. Even though she knew it couldn't mean anything, she knew that her dreams had proven prophetic even before her magic had been free of its former wards. “How do you even know about my magic?” she asked. She hadn't even known about it until
mere weeks ago…
Brynarr cocked his head to the side, studying her as though he was trying to see if she really meant the question. He reached out to stroke the area around her, as though there was something tangible in the surrounding space. “Because I can see your energy,” he said simply. He frowned. “Can't you see the energy in the world around you, or have they taken that from you as well?”
Frida shook her head slowly, looking around as though she might suddenly be able to see this energy that he talked about. But everything looked dull, just like normal. “I don't know what you're talking about,” she admitted.
Brynarr sighed and reached out a hand, cupping her cheek. “Let me help you to find it again. Let me help you learn to access your power again.”
With his hand on her cheek, the alarm bells in Frida's head started going nuts. She pulled back away from him. “I don't think so,” she repeated.
“Who else is going to teach you to use your magic?” Brynarr asked, a slight sneer on his face. He seemed to be losing patience with her—but for some reason, that was almost soothing, as though Frida were one step closer to being rid of him. “Anyway, you say that you want to fight the sorcerers of the Borderlands before they take over all of Kjota, right? You want to protect Daelfjord. What if this is the only way to do that?”
“There will be other people who can help me learn to use my magic,” Frida said, but doubt crept into her voice when she said that. Across the kingdom of Kjota, the fear of magic was standard. She didn't doubt that there were sorcerers out there, but she didn't know the first thing about finding one of them. And she also had the sneaking suspicion that with the way magic had become such a distant memory, her teachers wouldn't be able to teach her to the full level of her abilities. There had to be a lot that had been forgotten.
Seduction of the Bear (Bear Kamp Book 1) Page 15