“Several weeks passed before Caoilinn was well enough to travel and return to her sisters. But upon their return, they discovered Caoilinn’s bevy had gone.”
“Where did they go?” Kallan asked.
“From the devastation Tryggve described, another faction had come in his absence.”
Kallan’s face fell and Roald continued.
“Lost to her sisters, Caoilinn implored Tryggve to keep her. So it was, after five years, Tryggve, son of Lodewuk, returned to Gunir with his beloved Swann Maiden. By then, her adoration for him had grown and that midsummer, they wed. In less than a year, Rune and Bergen were born. Roughly seven winters after that, sweet Swann followed.”
“Swann?”
Roald nodded.
“Named for her mother’s gift and blessed with a beauty that paled Caoilinn’s. She was a precious, little thing,” Roald recalled with a weighted grief in his eyes. “The family’s jewel.”
“What happened to her?” Kallan asked.
“That year our war began, the year of the massacre. While gathering the willow branches for the Feast of Austramonath, Swann was slain. The boys found her in the dalr.” His voice cracked.
“Dalr.” Kallan spoke the word in comprehension. “Swann’s Dalr.”
“Swann’s Dalr.” Roald nodded. “We heard the boys howling and we came running. Bergen was kneeling on the ground cradling what little was left of Swann’s little, perfect body. She was stripped down to her bare bones and drained of her blood—” Roald swallowed a tight knot in his throat. “After being broken, stripped, and raped, she was gutted and left to die in a pool of her own blood.”
Roald tightened his jaw as he blinked at the burning in his eyes.
“Swann’s death shattered the family. Caoilinn was devastated. Right there on the steps of the keep, she pulled every bit of her powers to save her daughter. But she gave too much. She drained the power of her own life source and it still wasn’t enough. Instead of saving her daughter, Caoilinn killed herelf. Her death marked the end for Tryggve. His grief consumed him. The man was too far gone. His heart, too broken. With madness, Tryggve rose up from Caoilinn’s death and, with sword in hand, vowed revenge against the Dokkalfr who killed his Swann and destroyed his Caoilinn.
“He was gone so quickly… There was no time. We tracked him, too late, to the main road that leads to Lorlenalin. All we found when we got there was the massacre left in Tryggve’s wake: the mothers hewn as they clasped what little was left of their children’s bodies.
“We returned to Gunir to find Tryggve still drenched in the blood of the Dokkalfar babes, weeping at Caoilinn’s side and begging her lifeless corpse to forgive him…and when she didn’t answer, he shoved his own blade through his heart.”
For some time now, Roald stared beyond Kallan, who silently wept, unable to meet her eyes.
“The tragedy struck Bergen hard. After taking up his father’s vow, Bergen fled to Svartálfaheim to rally the Dvergar against Eyolf and finish what his father had started. We would not see Bergen again for one hundred years.”
“A hundred—” Kallan gasped.
“Rune,” Roald whispered. “He ascended the throne without father, mother, sister, or brother. Suddenly orphaned and alone, the King of Gunir stood against Eyolf’s wrath knowing someone had to answer for the Massacre of Austramonath. Rune had no criminal to hand to Eyolf and no Dokkalfr to name for Swann’s slaying. Desperate to survive, Rune matched Eyolf’s rage as his own grief formed a hole that began with the image of Swann’s gutted body. The grief-stricken mother so absorbed by sorrow that it killed her… Caoilinn’s death taking the heart of Tryggve until a shell of a man rose against the Dokkalfar in a berserker state…and Bergen, his only brother, lost to an unknown fate.”
Roald’s voice had started to shake, forcing him to pause to recollect his nerve.
“The one hundred years,” Kallan whispered. “Where did he go? What happened?”
Roald met Kallan’s eyes.
“We’ve been trying to figure that out for centuries. Bergen’s story came in pieces after years of silence. What little we know, we managed to piece together in between the tales he spins. Instead of hearing him out, the Dvergar captured Bergen and imprisoned him in the bowels of Svartálfaheim for nearly one hundred years. Enslaved and forced to work in their mines, he endured the Dvergar’s prisons until even the shirt on his back reminded him of the hole in the ground where he lived all those years.”
Kallan closed her eyes, remembering her own imprisonment. Those two weeks shackled in the Dvergar caves had felt like a lifetime. She couldn’t begin to imagine one hundred years of that Hel. She returned her gaze to Roald.
“Long after his silver-blue eyes formed to the sunless caves,” Roald said. “Long after the thick walls of his cell closed in on him, Bergen escaped. When he returned…darkness pervaded his core. The black of his eyes would no longer adjust to the day’s light, clothes proved a constant reminder of the cell that suffocated him, and the cold…the intolerable cold of our winters no longer fazed him.
Roald shook his head. “But something else…something else happened within those caves. Something changed him. He will speak of it to no one.”
Roald hung his head, recalling a grief he had fought so long to forget. He gulped several times, forcing his eyes dry as Kallan rolled his story over until she remembered every word.
Catching a single phrase, she found her voice several minutes later.
“Why...” she asked, forcing Roald’s face to hers. “Why did Tryggve believe Swann’s death was carried out by a Dokkalfr?”
“An arm ring bearing your mark…” Roald pointed indifferently to the signet ring upon Kallan’s finger. “Rune found one near the body.”
“I see,” Kallan said, lowering her eyes to the floor. “And Tryggve was grief-stricken.”
Roald nodded.
“Rune reached out to Eyolf, desperate to be heard… But—”
“There is no honor in this… No excuse that will ever justify the slaughtering of those children,” Kallan said, quoting her father. She had heard him say those words so many times before.
Roald pulled in a long, deep sigh.
“By summer’s end, the war was in full scale and alone, Rune stood his ground against Eyolf’s army.”
Kallan nodded, unable to look Roald in the eye as the final word closed his tale. His feet shuffled against the stone, forcing a desperate cry from her lips.
“Roald.”
The large, burdened man looked back and waited.
“I’m sorry,” she found the breath to say.
With a heavy eye, he gently smiled.
“We all are, lass. Every last one of us.”
He trudged away, and the door clicked close. A breeze cut through the thick air of her sitting room, drawing Kallan’s attention to the moon.
“Swann,” Kallan whispered, aligning the pieces Roald left to her. “Bergen and Rune.”
Questions still unanswered pulled her darkened eye toward the keep.
“Borg.”
Rune stared at the fire through the plume of pipe smoke. The door of his sitting room opened and clicked close. Rune took another draw as Roald came to stop at the door.
“Be gone, Roald,” he grumbled as the smoke billowed with his breath then lofted as the next stream pushed into it like rolling clouds.
He took another, longer draw from his pipe. Without a word, Roald sat in the vacant chair beside Rune, who stared through the smoke. Resting his elbows on the armrests, Roald emitted a long, loud sigh and stared into the fire, ignoring Rune’s persistent scowl.
“She knows,” Roald said.
The words stopped Rune’s hand and he glared, awaiting an explanation.
“You told her?”
Roald nodded then tipped his head back at an angle.
“She had no idea,” Roald said.
Rune released another puff of smoke in thought.
“I suspected she didn’t.”
The flames licked the stone as they flickered wildly in the hearth.
Indifferent to his guest, Rune silently picked at the embers in his pipe.
“Any news from Gudrun or Daggon?” Roald asked, easing closer to the subject at the front of his mind.
“No,” Rune said curtly and took another mouthful. “I sent Joren out to keep an eye on Aaric’s movements. I’ve asked that he also keep a look out for Gudrun and Daggon while he’s there.”
A chill pushed in through the window, bombarding the bubble of heat that the fire and pipe created. The smoke plumes spun about in silent disarray then found their way again as the breeze subsided.
“Rune?”
Rune peered up from his pipe, the bit resting casually between his lips.
“When all this comes together and Kallan is forced to fight—”
“Kallan will not fight.” Rune said.
“She won’t sit still,” Roald warned.
“I’ll lock her up in her room.” Rune shifted his eyes to the flames. “I will post guards at the door. I will bind her with rope, if I have to. I will not see her forced to choose between siding against me and killing her own.”
“Choose?”
Roald furrowed his brow as Rune drew from the pipe, determined to ignore him. He leaned closer to better force his ear. “She has her city, her people, and full intent to return to them. I have no doubt the girl would provide an entertaining romp, but what makes you think she would ever choose the life of a Ljosalfar over a Dokkalfar?”
“Kallan believes she can stop it,” Rune said. “She is convinced that once her people see her, they’ll know she lives and will follow as they once did.”
“You seem doubtful.”
“Wary.” A plume of smoke wafted from Rune’s mouth and he lowered his hands to his lap. “Her plan is…simple.” Rune brought the pipe to his mouth once more. “Too simple. Kallan isn’t stupid. Her training was thorough. Rigid, even. I have no doubt she can hold her own in battle against any of us, but against her own?” Rune shook his head. “I don’t see her capable of looking her own men in the eye and running them through with her blade. And now that she knows the lives and faces of the men here…” Rune shook his head.
“Will you go to her?” Roald cut in, too impatient to wait for Rune to sidestep the subject further.
“What?” Rune said, looking over from his pipe. “Tonight?”
Roald leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees.
“She’s willing, cousin.”
“I don’t have the luxury to cloud my judgment with her bed.”
The words affected Rune more than he wanted to admit. Slouching ever so slightly, he stared back at the fire and released a rather large plume while feigning contentment with his decision.
“Oh, come off it, Rune!” Roald’s voice stabbed the lethargic warmth of the bedchamber and forced Rune to jerk himself awake. “You kicked her out of my bed to keep that precious treasure all to yourself, and now you’re planning on leaving her un-rumpled?”
“Your bed?” Rune said from between the bit. “I found her clinging to the side of my keep.”
“The intent was there. The metaphor stands,” Roald insisted. “You sought to trash my night with the lady. At least have the decency to bed her in my stead… Odinn knows, one of us should.”
Roald fell back into his chair, an arm draped over the back, plagued with his pondering.
“Has Bergen had her yet?”
Rune’s grip visibly tightened on the bowl of his pipe, oblivious to the heat.
“Ah…” Roald grinned. “He has—”
“I will not bed down with something I can’t keep,” Rune said stiffly.
“How is this any different than any other wench you’ve had?” Roald asked.
“She isn’t any ‘wench’ I’ve had, Roald. She isn’t anything I’ve had.”
Rune sighed, releasing the edge off his temper.
“She is different,” Rune agreed.
At once, enlightenment swept Roald’s face and he straightened his back to peer closer.
“Oh… You want her to wife.”
Rune scoffed.
“Because I won’t bed her?”
“Because you won’t bed her,” Roald reiterated, ignoring Rune’s brooding.
Making a loud click, Rune bit down hard on the mouthpiece and grumped.
“I can’t risk angering a monarch we’re at war with over a single night of indulgence.”
“Hm. How convenient for you,” Roald said and waved his hand, indifferent to Rune’s argument. “Arrangements are made all the time to unite fylker and clans.”
“Yes, fylker,” Rune agreed, lowering his pipe. “Allied fylker. Not two peoples on opposing sides of an ancient war. And not when one of them can throw fire!”
Roald shook his head smirking at Rune’s stubbornness.
“Besides,” Rune dismissed. “She won’t abandon her post, my people won’t accept her as queen, and Bergen refuses responsibility.”
“And yet, you still want her to wife,” Roald said.
Rune rolled his eyes.
“Good night, Roald.”
With a heavy sigh, Roald lifted himself from the chair.
“I never said I didn’t approve,” Roald added before closing the door behind him and leaving Rune alone with the only fire to warm him.
Kallan pushed open the thick oak door of Borg’s cell, spilling light across the stone that struck the bloodied mass hanging on the wall like a tattered tapestry. With a flick of her wrist, a single ball of light rushed to the ceiling where it hovered, casting a tinge of blue around the room as she closed the door behind her.
The door’s thud jarred the room and encouraged Borg to raise his head. Streaks of black flowed free from the nape of his neck and painted the back of his shoulders. Kallan clenched her teeth against the rising need to vomit.
“So,” Borg grunted. “Ever victorious, the Queen of the White Opal appears.”
His black hair dripped with blood too thick and too fresh to dry. Something white, which Kallan guessed was a bit of his tooth, rested on the floor beside him. His hands were mangled balls that churned her stomach. Only one of his eyes seemed to function, despite being bloodshot and blackened from his crushed nose.
“Who are you?” she asked, ensuring she kept her distance.
A low, throaty chuckle filled the cell.
“I’d expect no less from the likes of you, Your Highness…” he sneered.
Kallan dared a step closer, desperate to recall the outline of his face through the mass of blood.
“Who sent you?”
Borg released another low chuckle and coughed.
“So that’s it now?” He relaxed back onto his chains, allowing the shackle to tug at his limp arm pulled from its socket. “I didn’t break under the grunt Hel-bent on watching others writhe so that he has something to jack off to tonight…or the noble captain who justifies his own sickness in the name of his queen.”
Borg spat on the floor. Blood splattered the stone and sprayed the hem of her skirts.
“Such heinous acts, too many, are already justified in the name of a queen, their gods, and their country,” Borg said. “No… Now they’re sending the dogs, the Seidkona herself, to bend and break me.”
He managed to curve his swollen face into a malformed smile, confirming that more than just one tooth was missing.
“Who are you?” Kallan whispered, fighting the rising wave of nausea. “What dishonor did I do that you would turn your venom on me?”
Borg dropped his smile and peered with his one eye at his queen.
“I hate you more for failing to even remember.” He inhaled against the sharp pain of his crushed ribs.
“Can’t I undo this?” she asked.
“So quick to walk…to stomp on those beneath you, all so you can stand tall,” Borg rambled aloud, paying no mind to Kallan’s question. “You don’t bother to see who it is you’re standing o
n while you reach for your stars, princess.”
“I have done nothing to you,” Kallan said.
Borg gazed at Kallan as if seeing her there for the first time.
“You, Your Majesty, have done the most to me.” He spat his bloodied saliva as he spoke.
“Did I know you once?” Kallan asked.
“So prestigious in your own that you can’t even remember the lives of those you’ve crushed beneath you.”
“Then help me remember so that I may right my wrong,” Kallan pleaded.
“If this was a wrong that could be fixed, I wouldn’t hate so much!”
Sweat pooled in Kallan’s hands as she clenched her fists and took a step closer.
“There is a chance to end this,” she offered. “King Rune desires peace for our people. There coul—”
“You think I want peace?” Borg bellowed.
“Don’t you?”
“Never…would I want peace… You and your peace,” Borg scoffed. His face twisted as he spat. “Your dance never changes. The song you play is always the same. All you ever spoke of in the warrens was your peace…you and your peace!” Borg met Kallan’s eye through the pale, blue light. “I will see no peace for any Ljosalfar, and will not rest until each of them is dead!”
His chains rattled as he shook with rage, but Kallan, disconnected, drifted into the back of an old memory.
“The warrens,” she whispered. “Borg… No.” Slowly, Kallan shook her head. “Borg was your brother’s name…”
Comprehension blanketed Kallan’s eyes.
“The day was cold and gray. A fog had fallen over the massacre that was Austramonath… Austramonath,” Kallan gasped. “Kovit,” she said and remembered, lifting her eyes to the bloody mass supported by chains on the wall.
Kovit sneered at the sound of his name and made a derisive sound.
“The ravens were feasting upon the dead when a small boy—you emerged from the fog carrying a corpse. You were the first,” Kallan said. “Eilif and I began collecting the orphans that day. Oh, Kovit. Little Kovit.” Her face fell with grief as she played through the dark memory. “Is this what you have become?” she asked, but he didn’t answer. “You left us with no notice.
Fire and Lies Page 25