“Don’t,” I said, putting my other hand out to ward her off. “I can’t do this, don’t you understand? I’m married!”
Her laugh came louder, deeper now. “Myadar, you are precious. No one at court stays faithful to their spouse for long.” She took another step towards me, and my back met the wall. I’d hit the corner. “Everyone in Helésey takes lovers, Myadar. It’s part of court life. It can be quite political, in fact. But this isn’t political. I like you, Myadar. Don’t you like me?” She raised her eyebrows and made a pout, then laughed again. She knew I liked her. She knew the effect she had on me. Somehow, her knowing made me feel weak.
“I can’t do this,” I said, and my voice sounded pleading even to my own ears. “I can’t. Reister—”
“Reister won’t do anything, darling, because I won’t tell him, and you won’t either,” she said, her voice lowering to a whisper as she closed the distance between us. One of her hands slipped between my legs as the other grabbed the skirt of my dress and hiked it up.
I moaned as she stroked me, my breath catching. She kissed my throat and I felt her teeth on my earlobe. I closed my eyes.
I heard the door open and laughter, and my eyes flew open to see three patrons of the gambling hall stumbling in. They stopped when they saw us, covering their mouths and laughing louder. They apologized and backed out of the door, but their interruption horrified me. They had seen us. Who would they tell? Would Reister hear of it? I pushed Finnarún roughly away and made for the door, trying to straighten my dress. The stupid, loose thing felt like nothing covering me.
“Myadar!” she called after me, but I didn’t turn around. My face burned and tears filled my eyes as I searched the main gambling hall for the people who’d seen us. I spotted them near another door to a private room, still laughing and hanging on each other. I didn’t know who they were.
It didn’t matter. I had to escape. I didn’t know my way back to the tunnel we had taken to the walkway, one of the spokes that led to the Torc, but I could find my way back through the front of the Perle, to the bazaar. But from there? I supposed I might find a taxi.
“Myadar!” Finnarún called from the door of the private room. I cast a last look at her. Her lipstick was smeared and she stared at me, her eyebrows knit in apparent concern. I had to get out of here. How had I let her take me alone to that room in the first place? If Reister got wind of this, I might never see Bersi again.
I ran from the gambling hall through the storefront that disguised it, out into the night, where the glass ceiling of the Torc held off the falling snow.
Sure enough, three taxis loitered not far away. I hurried to the closest.
“Myadar, wait!” It was Finnarún, emerging from the store. I ignored her and let myself into the back seat before the driver—a human—had a chance to get out and open the door for me.
“To the palace,” I said sharply.
As he pulled away from the curb I allowed myself to look out of the window. Finnarún stood, hugging herself, in the doorway of the store, watching me go. After a moment, Liut joined her.
~~~
“What game are you playing, Myadar?” Reister exploded.
I bit my lip and looked at the floor, studying the black lines that made geometric patterns in the rug, touching the foot of an ebony desk.
“You leave Vaenn’s soirée early—in a taxi—with no money to pay the driver—”
“Please, Reister, I had to,” I murmured. The trouble was, while that was true, there was no way to explain why to him.
“Do you have any idea how incredibly rude you’ve been, Myadar?” he raged. “Jarldis Vaenn’s invitation was an opportunity! You’ve squandered that opportunity! You’ll—once again—be the talk of the court. Everyone will have something to say about this!”
“But how will they even know—”
“Don’t be an idiot, Myadar! You were seen arriving home in the taxi. The opera isn’t over for another two hours! You left Jarldis Vaenn’s party early and everyone will be speculating as to why. I want to know why!”
I raised my eyes to his face, trying to plead with my expression. “Please, Reister, believe me, I had to. Nothing good would have come from that soirée. It would not have made you proud of me—I can’t associate with people like that.”
Reister slammed his palm on the desk. “Intolerable!” he shouted. He spun on his heel and began pacing. “Jarldis Vaenn is a favorite of the konunger. Do you have any idea what it means to insult her?” He glared at me, silencing any reply. “I’ll have to speak with her myself. Tell her you took ill and snuck away out of shame. Promise that you’re eager for another opportunity to enjoy her hospitality—”
“Reister, you can’t say that!” I said. “I can’t see her again!”
Reister bared his teeth at me. He rushed me then and put his face up to mine. This time I didn’t want to lash out at him, only to shrink away and disappear. “Myadar,” he growled through his teeth. “You listen to me. Eiflar-Konunger has brought a new order. No one knows quite where they stand—except maybe for Jarldis Vaenn and her friends. You will befriend her. Do you understand?”
I closed my eyes. At least it was starting to make sense. Reister needed me because he wanted an ally among the new konunger’s favorites, and he couldn’t befriend Finnarún himself. Why not, I couldn’t guess—they clearly knew each other. Perhaps there was some history between them. It didn’t matter. I now had an inkling of Reister’s motivation—the reason for his bizarre insistence on my attending Finnarún’s soirée. He just didn’t realize that Finnarún would end up disgracing him through me.
“I’m sorry, Reister. I can’t befriend her. I just can’t.”
He grabbed a handful of my hair and my eyes flew open as I gasped. “You can and you will,” Reister said through gritted teeth.
I squeezed my eyes shut tight. “Reister, let me go. I’m sorry. I’m no use to you. Just let me have Bersi back, and I’ll leave, and you can take a new wife—”
He yanked my hair and then thrust me away from him, releasing it. I grabbed my head, my scalp, stumbling against the wall with a cry.
“You can forget Bersi,” he spat. “You’ll never see the whelp again, unless you do as I say.”
“Reister, please!” I said, tears spilling onto my cheeks and making my vision blurry. “I can’t!”
“You can and you will, Myadar! Do you hear me? Forget your son. You are not a mother anymore—you are my wife, and you will do as you’re told.”
“No!” I cried, and launched myself at him. It was a weak attack. I tried to claw at his eyes, but he caught my wrists. My strength seemed to have deserted me. He threw me to the side and I landed hard on the ground. I collapsed there, sobbing.
“Pull yourself together. Tomorrow I will call on Vaenn. I’ll invite her to come visit you, my sick wife. You’d better be ready to play the part. Am I understood?”
He didn’t wait for a response, but stormed out of our apartments. I raised myself on my elbows as he went, watching the door swing shut behind him. I rubbed my eyes with my hands, and they came back black with cosmetic paint. The sight of it infuriated me. A howl of rage built up from deep inside me, and leaked out in an animal whine as I got to my feet. I’d lost a shoe, and kicked off the other. I staggered to the door of Reister’s rooms and yanked it open.
I would find where he’d sent Bersi. I would go and get him out of whatever school it was myself. Reister had to have some record of it somewhere.
I pulled open every drawer of his desk in his study—the room one had to cross to reach Reister’s bedroom. Emptying every drawer onto the floor, I raked through the papers. Nothing. I opened every ledger, turning through the pages so violently many ripped. Nothing. I snatched books off the shelves, flipping through, looking for any business card, any paper. Nothing. Passing through to his bedroom, I attacked his dresser next, opening each drawer and rifling through his undergarments, socks, shirts, belts… Nothing. His huge closet was next, y
anking jackets, trousers, and suit coats off their hangers, I searched the pockets—each time so fast and roughly that many fell to the floor of the closet before I got to them, so I knelt and pawed through the ones there. I saw a box at the back of the closet and dragged it out, yanking off the ribbon that closed it. It was full of papers and I grabbed each, searching for Bersi’s name, tossing each aside when it revealed nothing about the location of my son.
With a cry of frustration I shoved the box back into the closet, but it caught on something. I wiped my eyes with the back of my left hand and pushed the box tentatively with my right. It rocked against a fold in the carpet that covered every inch of the floor of Reister’s room, even inside the closet.
Shoving the box aside, I pulled at the fold. It didn’t budge; the carpet was glued down. For a moment I considered leaving it. Why would Reister hide Bersi’s whereabouts under the carpet? I couldn’t picture him folding up some piece of paper with the record of his transaction with that awful woman and then finding a way to slip it under the carpet. But the more I thought about it, the more urgently I needed to at least check.
I felt along the edge of the molding that met the carpet along the wall. I dug my fingers under it, at last getting a grip on the carpet and pulling. The first time, my fingers lost their purchase and the friction burned them as I came away empty handed. I tried again. The second time I crawled into the back of the closet, digging into the corner. The carpet made a tearing sound, and I yanked the corner out from under the molding. I hauled at it, straining, and with jerk the carpet came up. When I uncovered the part where the fold had been, a panel in the floor appeared.
It was slightly askew. When I moved the box so roughly, I’d managed to dislodge it from its resting place. It was definitely a hiding spot. I grabbed the panel and set it aside.
The rectangular hole it had covered, spanning more than a quarter of the floor in the large closet, contained a dusty case. No one had disturbed this hiding place for many years—that was obvious. I almost left it again. It couldn’t tell me anything about Bersi, anyway—not when it was so obviously abandoned, and Reister probably didn’t even know about it. I wondered how long these apartments had belonged to the Sölbóis. Perhaps this hiding spot held treasures of some ancestor of Reister’s. Of Bersi’s, when it came to it. That made me pause.
Whatever was in there, it belonged to Bersi.
I reached in and hefted the case out—it weighed at least ten pounds. I used one of the legs of a pair of Reister’s trousers to wipe the thick layer of dust off of it. Underneath, it was gilded.
There were hinges along one of the long sides of the case, so I grasped the other end and lifted it open.
Folded crimson silk. I pulled it out and held it up in front of me. It was a mask. It had finely stitched golden thread decorating the eye holes, reminiscent of a famous red clay mask sacred to Luka, the fiery god of chaos.
Under it lay more fabric—velvet this time, and black. I pulled each piece out—britches, a black silk shirt, black silk hose, and folded black leather boots, and a black leather hooded vest. I stared. I knew what this was.
When I was a child, people told stories of a highway robber known as Raud Gríma, or “red mask.” What, by the gods, was a Raud Gríma costume doing in a hidden panel under Reister’s floor? Had some long-forgotten jarl dressed up as Raud Gríma for a fancy dress ball? It seemed the only explanation—but then, why hide the costume?
Out in the main room, I heard voices.
My breath caught. I looked around the room—it was a disaster. Papers covered everything, many ripped—books lay strewn across the floor, as well as garments. And yet I had found nothing, no clue to bring me closer to my escape with Bersi.
I cursed Reister and cursed myself. Who was out there? Was Reister back already? Who could he be speaking to?
I started to shove the costume back in the case, but something stopped me. I didn’t know how, but it might be useful someday. Instead I pulled off the rose quartz necklace I wore and dropped it in the case, closed it and put it back in the hole. I replaced the panel and tried to flatten the carpet over it. Reister would notice it, without a doubt, but maybe he would believe that the case had always held the necklace—I had faith that Reister would not have taken note of the necklace when it hung from my neck. So long as he never showed it to his mother, my ruse might hold. I gripped the costume to my chest and scrambled to my feet. I could take the corridor to my own room without passing through the salon, and find a place to hide the items there.
I had just closed the door to my room when I heard footsteps in the corridor. Wasting no time, I went to my knees by one of my trunks. I heard a shout. So Reister had discovered the state of his rooms, then. I pulled out folded garments as carefully as possible in my hurry. The costume I tucked at the bottom of the trunk, then I placed the garments back on top. Closing the lid of the trunk and snapping the lock shut, I stood up.
My door swung open, slamming against the wall. Reister crossed my room in four strides and grabbed my wrist, hurling me down and landing a hard kick to my ribs. I yelped and then moaned in pain, clutching my side. He kicked me again, hammering my fingers in the process, and another cry burst from me. The third kick landed in my abdomen.
He grabbed my hair and heaved my head back. I tried to see his face although he pulled me too far back. His mouth was in my ear. “If you ever go into my things again, I will kill you.”
“I’m sorry,” I gasped.
“Shut up!” he shouted, thrusting me away from him. He lunged at me and slammed his hand against the base of my throat. The air left me as the force of his blow rammed my body against the wall, and still he held his hand to my throat, squeezing. I clawed at it, trying to suck in air. “You have to learn, Myadar,” he said, straightening up. His tone was strangely calm now, but his grip only tightened. “You just have to learn. I own you. You are mine. Your days of free will are over. You’ll learn that, eventually. When you do, you’ll realize that obedience is your only choice.”
Stars popped in my vision, and then everything went black.
Part 2: Myadar’s Betrayal
Finnarún came to visit me the day after Reister attacked me. My sleeping gown hid the bruises on my sides and abdomen; a scarf hid the blackening ones around my throat. I played the part of the sick wife, despite the fact that I knew she wouldn’t believe it. She knew why I’d fled her soirée, and Reister’s intervention would do nothing to convince her otherwise. I had no interest in leaving my bed, however, so the charade suited me well.
“Ah, Myadar, I was so sorry to learn that you were ill,” she said, sitting on the edge of my bed and reaching for my hand.
I pulled it away and hid it under the covers. “Your concern is very kind, Jarldis,” I said, and turned away. My body ached but the pain in my heart was worse. I had lost any chance of finding Bersi. I couldn’t think of anything else to do to find him. If I defied Reister again, he might very well kill me, and from what I had read of the Book of Tyr, no one would punish him for doing so. The future stretched out in front of me like a bleak road I must walk. I would be Reister’s docile wife, and I would be lucky if I saw Bersi again before he finished school.
It was, in part, Finnarún’s fault.
“Quite a sudden onset, wasn’t it?” she said, her tone teasing. My eyes slid to meet hers, and she must have seen something in my expression because she stopped smiling.
“I don’t know what game you’re playing,” I said in a low voice. “I don’t care. Just leave me out of it.”
She frowned. “Myadar, are you really unwell?”
I sighed and shifted to my side and pulled up the covers so they would hide my face. “Thank you for coming,” I said. “Please see yourself out.”
Reister would no doubt have strangled me again if he heard me dismiss Finnarún that way, but he wasn’t there, and Finnarún left without another word. I burrowed deeper under the covers. I felt so cold. I just wanted to be warm. And to
be left alone.
It was not to be. I had another visitor the following afternoon. Aside from brief trips to the bath, I had not risen from my bed since the altercation with Reister. He seemed to be avoiding me. Mother Tora had made a brief appearance the day before, but after that she left all care of me to Sveinn, who brought me trays of food I didn’t touch. Now the robot appeared at the door of my room and intoned, “Jarl Liut Krigr to see you, Jarldis.”
Rising on my elbows, it occurred to me to worry that I hadn’t brushed my hair since yesterday, before the thought disintegrated under the weight of my apathy.
Liut entered. He held a bouquet of pink flowers—I couldn’t place them, we didn’t have them in Söllund. The thought of Söllund sapped what energy I had, and I let myself fall back against my pillows again.
“Jarldis Sölbói,” he said warmly, handing the flowers to Sveinn, who disappeared with them. “It’s a pleasure to see you. I’m terribly sorry to have learned you’re ill.”
I sighed and just gazed at him. He really had strange eyes, although the color was lovely—dark amber. But his pupils were oval. He had dark eyelashes fringing his eyes, and thick, dark eyebrows. His coloring was unusual for Ódalnord. His hair, true to form, resisted the strict slicked-back style and a few strands escaped in curls on his forehead.
“Do you have a sore throat?” he asked, gesturing to the scarf that hid Reister’s handprint on my throat.
I looked away and touched the scarf with the tips of my fingers, still saying nothing.
“Mm.” Liut pulled the chair from my vanity and sat down by my side. “Myadar,” he said, his voice warm and quiet. “I am concerned. Tell me what’s happened.”
I turned my face towards him like a flower to sunlight. His brow was knitted and he gazed at me with such sympathy. I felt tears well up in my eyes and I blinked rapidly, wiping them away with one hand.
“Myadar, I know we have only met recently,” he said, taking my hand, which was wet from my tears. “But I would very much like to think that we have become friends.”
The City Darkens (Raud Grima Book 1) Page 9