by Zaya Feli
“What's your problem, Eskal?” Steinar pulled Eskal back by the shoulders, out of range. All around them, the crowd was growing impatient, no doubt eager to return to their feast and the warmth of the hall.
“The Halafjell Runik must have warded him or something. Strip him and check his body,” Eskal hissed, inspecting his hand. When he turned it over, Rakkian glimpsed wet bone amidst the blood in his palm. His stomach turned.
“I didn't do anything, I swear.” Rakkian's voice trembled. One of the men came forward to strip him, but a gesture from Isa made them pause.
“Enough fucking around. Let me try.” Isa glared at Eskal as he came forward. Some of the people around them wandered off, ale and roasted pork more enticing now that it was clear there'd no longer be a sacrifice. Rakkian had no idea what to think. Isa had exposed him as a Sjaelir. What would happen to him?
Isa's hand was gentler than Eskal's against the side of Rakkian's head. Rakkian stared into his eyes, looking for some hint of compassion or kindness, but whatever plan Isa had for keeping him alive, Rakkian couldn't find any clues in his expression. All Isa had done was promise he wouldn't kill him. That didn't mean he wouldn't use him like some kind of work animal. They weren't children anymore.
Rakkian braced himself for the rush of intense revulsion.
A wave of power surged through him instead, too strong to be contained. It expanded and grew, too much for his body. There was no choking. Instead, Rakkian gasped, filling his lungs with air as the feeling inside him pushed at the boundaries of his body. Light filled his vision. Sparks of colour danced through him like painless wildfire.
A deafening crack startled them both and Isa pulled away, staring at Rakkian with wide eyes, his shock mirrored in the faces of the others. They were no longer looking at him. Rakkian lowered his gaze. Between him and Isa, the platform planks had cracked, tiny, sharp splinters sticking up in all directions like crashing of waves frozen in time. The crack zig-zagged its way from one end of the platform to the other, a lightning bolt of destruction that continued past the platform onto the ground and between two of the wooden statues.
They looked at each other in silence. Isa opened his hand. Where the rune pendant had been, there was only dust.
“Take him.” Steinar was the first to move, gesturing to the two large men who'd been holding Rakkian, but who had backed away several steps when the platform had cracked. Now, they approached with more caution, until one of them decided to grab him like a dangerous snake, with a sudden, hard grip at the back of his neck, forcing his head down.
“Don't hurt him,” Isa added, letting the rock dust fall from between his fingers.
CHAPTER THREE
The servant girl's hands were gentle in Karel's hair, raking through the dark strands to will them into smooth locks. “You should let it grow,” she said. “Then we can do a longer braid.”
“But keep the sides short. Or it'll get in my face and I'll shave it all off with my knife,” Karel said, resting his elbows on his legs to lean closer to the fire.
She gasped.“And leave me to fix your mess? Your father would disapprove.” She tied the tiny tuft with a leather band before tugging on it to emphasise her point, making Karel flinch.
The mention of Karel's father had wiped the smile from his face. “I know,” he said. “Have you seen him today? What's his mood?” He stretched his hands towards the flames, the only source of light and heat in the massive hall. It was always cold here. Except upstairs.
“I haven't seen him,” she said, putting Karel's combs away. “He's been with your sister all morning, I believe.”
She held out Karel's coat, but he stopped her with a gesture and got up.
Ylva.
Even though Karel's sister hadn't left her room in eight years, traces of her were everywhere. Karel passed her trophies on the way to the stairs. Her axe, sword, and bow hung on the wall, opposite the engraved skull of the moose she had shot the year before she fell ill, its massive antlers curling outwards like reaching hands. The servants even kept her clothes clean and free of moths and dust.
The stairs creaked as Karel climbed and he tensed his muscles in an attempt to step lighter. He paused in front of the heavy oak door, hand hovering before he knocked. “Father?”
Silence.
Gingerly, he pushed the door open. “Father?”
The room was dark except around the open fireplace constantly kept burning. The chair by the bed was empty, so Karel dared to go inside.
Ylva lay on the bed as she always did. She looked like she was sleeping, but Karel knew she wasn't. At least, not the kind of sleep people woke up from every morning. She was breathing and her heart kept beating, but that was all.
Karel crept closer. She looked like a shadow of her former self. When she'd last been awake, Karel had been eleven winters old and Ylva had been powerful and strong. Now, she was thinner than the servant girls who worked downstairs. The Runiks and healers kept her alive with a steady supply of energy and liquid food poured down her throat with a funnel, but just barely. She was so vulnerable.
I should kill you, Karel thought. It would be so much easier on Father. And on me.
Father would never forgive him if he found out Karel had killed Fenrisborg's warrior princess, daughter of the gods. But if he didn't find out... Perhaps, with time, Torvald might remember he still had a son. A son who was strong and capable and awake.
Karel reached out. The skin of Ylva's face was soft and warm. He brushed her hair back from her brow. She'd been his hero when she'd been awake. Now, he hated her. By no fault of her own, he knew – but he still hated her.
“Karel.”
Karel flinched so violently he bumped the bedside table and knocked over the bowl of wash water so it splattered down his leg and onto the floor. He steadied himself firmly, bending to retrieve the bowl. When he straightened, Torvald was right in front of him, and it took everything Karel had not to step back. He placed the empty bowl on the table and lowered his head.
“You know I don't like you being in here.” Torvald's voice was cold.
“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry.”
“I forgive you,” Torvald said, much more easily than Karel had expected. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“About what?” Karel hedged a look into his father's eyes. They were almost the same height, but Torvald carried himself in a way that made him seem a head taller.
“Not here.” Torvald didn't wait, but walked past Karel and down the stairs, leaving Karel to catch up.
With a gesture, Torvald cleared the hall, the servants gathering their things and leaving silence in their wake. Torvald sat on a bench beside the central fire and leaned forward to warm his hands. Karel took the hint and grabbed more firewood, stirring the embers with the poker.
“Last night, Fenrisborg's Runiks felt something,” Torvald said, gesturing for Karel to take a seat. “A burst of power, similar to when the Varg was killed in Ulfheim.”
“The Varg?” Karel took a seat next to his father.
“I visited the seer this morning. She felt the same thing. If the Varg is still alive, then Ylva has a chance.”
Karel swallowed, struggling to keep up with his father's train of thought. “What does the Varg have to do with Ylva?”
Torvald's jaw tightened. “The Varg is beyond the seers' gaze,” Torvald said. “The beast is hiding from them in human form. Do you understand now?” His eyes bored into Karel's. Karel couldn't remember the last time they'd looked so ablaze with conviction. “The Varg is a god amongst creatures. That kind of power in a human soul... It would bring my daughter back to me. With Jera, we can control it. All we have to do is track down both. You know what they say: the Varg’s ravens see everything. They can lead us to it.”
Karel's brow furrowed. “A Jera rune... When last was there a Runik strong enough to use a forgotten rune? Let alone carve one? Helgrinn the Bloody died in battle almost forty winters ago.”
“Don't patronize me,�
�� Torvald growled. He stood and walked around the bench.
Karel stood too, studying his father's profile. “I'm sorry. It wasn't my intention.”
“Our Runiks have known of the existence of a Jera rune for a while, now, only its location remains a mystery.” Torvald sighed and turned back to Karel, assessing him with a glance. Karel straightened, pushing back his shoulders and raising his chin under his father's scrutiny.
“If we know the Varg is in Ulfheim...” Karel hesitated. “Can't we simply strike now and take the beast? We have enough warriors for an attack.”
“Do you fathom nothing, boy?” Torvald's voice turned sharp and he rubbed his brow. “It's a god, not a dog. If we attack, it could vanish and we'll never find it.”
Karel swallowed, scolding himself for the misstep. “I understand.”
Torvald sighed deeply. “I know you can't help the way you are.”
Karel met his father's eyes, and struggled to read his expression for once. He stayed where he stood when Torvald came forward, reached around Karel's neck, and drew him in against his chest. Torvald bowed his head, and for a single, heart-stopping second, Karel thought his father might offer him the first embrace of his life.
“It should have been you instead of her.”
The words chilled Karel to the bone and he tried not to react, but knew he must have. When Torvald pulled way, his cold eyes glinted with a hint of satisfaction. Karel scolded himself for that childish hope, the trap he never learned to avoid.
“I'll find Jera and I’ll locate the Varg,” Karel heard himself say as Torvald once again put distance between them, his back to Karel.
“Don't come back until you do.”
“What about Ylva?” Karel asked, fighting the urge to leave the hall that suddenly felt cramped despite its size.
“See the Runiks before you go. They'll make the proper adjustments.”
Karel nodded, glad he'd decided to eat a hearty breakfast. He took his coat off the bench where the servant girl had left it.
“Karel.” Halfway to the doors, Torvald's voice made Karel pause. “This is a very important task I've given you.”
Despite everything, hope swelled in Karel's chest. “I won't disappoint you, Father,” he said, gathering his coat around himself and leaving the king's hall.
* * *
“Someone's gloomy.”
Isa looked up from the dagger handle he'd been carving. The sound of Alma dropping her quiver of arrows startled Skygge awake on Isa's shoulder and made her squeak indignantly.
“I'm not gloomy,” Isa said, turning his attention back to the curve of the dragon's tail, rounding it carefully.
“You're always gloomy.” Alma pulled a fresh rabbit leg from her pocket and wiggled it in front of Skygge, who tilted her head in interest but left it alone.
Isa took the rabbit leg from Alma and tossed it into the air without looking. Skygge leapt from Isa's shoulder, twisted her body in mid-air, and grabbed the rabbit leg with both feet.
“That's amazing,” Alma said, watching Skygge land on the back of a chair in the centre of the hall and go to work ripping a hole in the fur. Alma dropped down beside Isa and toed off her boots. “Are you going to tell me what in all the realms happened with you and that servant boy?”
Isa sighed, putting aside the knife handle. “I don't know what happened.”
Alma frowned, swinging her long braid over her shoulder. “But you must have felt something! What was it like?”
“I can't explain it,” Isa said, looking down. He lifted a hand to his chest where the curse mark lay.
“What, you think the curse did it?”
“I don't know, Alma. Even before the Varg attack, he—” Isa stopped, slamming his jaws shut, but it was too late.
“Before the Varg attack? You knew him then?” Alma sat up.
Isa groaned, dropping the carving knife on the furs next to him. He rubbed his brow. “I only met him once when we were children. In the woods.”
“I sense a story,” Alma said. She narrowed her eyes in the way that meant she'd latched on and wasn't letting go.
“A story I'm not telling you.”
Alma glared at him. “You know, the reason you don't have any friends is because you keep them all at an arrow's distance.”
Isa huffed and looked away.
“What really happened that day? You did kill the Varg, right?”
“Yes! I wouldn't lie about that.” Isa hesitated, looking across at Skygge tearing muscles and tendons from the rabbit leg, gobbling it all up with snaps of her beak. He'd never wanted anyone to know, but maybe Alma was right. Rakkian showing up was bound to bring trouble. Alma would have his back, at least to a point. It might prove useful. “I wasn't alone in the woods that day. The Varg didn't push through the ward by itself.”
Alma's frown grew deeper as she moved to place herself in Isa's line of sight. “What are you talking about? Are you saying you let it in?”
“It wasn't like that.” Isa clenched his jaw when Alma's eyes grew wide. “There was a boy on the other side of the ward. I wanted to help him, so I let him through. I thought I could control the ward. I thought I'd sealed it properly.”
“Why didn't you tell anyone? Steinar would have understood.”
“The boy was a Sjaelir, Alma. From the Western Isles. You know what they'd have done to him.”
“Wait,” Alma said, raising both hands. “Are we talking about the same boy? The servant boy?”
Isa nodded. “The Varg went for him in the woods and I killed it. Then I told him to run so the others wouldn't find him.” Sighing, he gestured to his shoulder. “Don't you see? I did this to myself. It was my own fault.”
Realisation replaced the confusion on Alma's face and she sank back against the wall. “Oh Isa,” she said softly. “I didn't know you used to have such a big heart. I guessed the boy being a Sjaelir wasn't the only reason you wanted Eskal to spare his life. But how did he hurt Eskal? I'm not a Runik, but I've never heard of a Sjaelir doing something like that.”
Isa shook his head. “I just know he's strong. Really strong. He saved Skygge in the woods. He used his energy somehow.”
“What? Sjaelir can't do that.”
Isa shrugged.
“You think this kid's too strong for Eskal to handle?” Alma chuckled. “Might be good for him to get knocked down a peg.”
Skygge raised her head and leapt off the chair. Isa held out a hand to stop her from choosing his knee as the perfect place to finish her lunch, but she only pecked his hand to give herself more room. She slapped the half-eaten rabbit leg across his thigh and dug in.
“Gross, you goose,” Isa murmured, prodding the side of her body. She bowed her head but went for the tender inside of Isa's thigh instead of the food. Hissing, Isa let her be.
“At least it'll stop Eskal from trying to drain your friend again.”
Alma was right, and it was the only good thing about this mess. Isa tried not to think about how he'd just doomed Rakkian to the fate he'd tried so hard to save him from. The Sjaelir were the most valuable part of any village, but the people from the Western Isles weren't held in the same regard as their own. It was truly fortunate Eskal couldn't draw from him. He'd have to think of a way to convince Steinar to go easy on him without seeming suspicious.
“Speaking of Eskal,” Alma said, drawing Isa from his thoughts, “He's talking about sailing west again, bringing all the ships we gained from Halafjell.”
Isa's brow furrowed. “What does Hjalmar say?”
“Hjalmar is getting old, Isa. Everybody can see it. It won't be long until he's going to have to pass on the torch to Eskal.”
“Then what do the people say?”
“You know what the people say,” Alma said gently. “They want to raid. They're tired of sitting idle. Each year, Fenrisborg claims more and more of the Western Isles for itself, and Eskal thinks we need to stake our claim before Fenrisborg takes it all.”
“And the people agre
e,” Isa said.
Alma didn't answer. “Have you spoken to the boy? What's his name? He seemed dazed.”
“Rakkian. No, I haven't.”
“It's been three days and he hasn't left the Sjaelir hall. Maybe you should.”
It was Isa's turn not to answer. When he didn't say anything else, Alma took her quiver and left. Skygge went, too, abandoning the stripped bone on Isa's knee to perch on one of the dragon head beams instead.
Isa went to the fire. He looked over his shoulder; the doors were closed. Stripping out of his vest and tunic, Isa ran his fingers over the dark spot on his shoulder and the tendrils snaking out from it. They had grown in the last three days by nearly an inch each, he was sure of it. Whatever unusual power Rakkian possessed, it had fuelled not only Isa's magic but the curse, too. With a shiver, Isa dragged his undershirt back on, covering the mark. He didn't want to see Rakkian. He shouldn't want anything to do with him. Isa didn't need more trouble in his life, particularly not of the mysterious, powerful kind. Isa had saved Rakkian's life twice now. It wasn't his responsibility anymore. He ignored the voice in the back of his mind telling him he hadn't really saved him and headed for the doors. Some training would clear his head.
* * *
The Sjaelir hall was, Rakkian had to admit, an improvement on the dark, cold room he'd been stuck in the first day. It was spacious, with furs on the benches and a central fireplace. The beds at the far end were covered in blankets and shielded from the rest of the hall by a large curtain patterned with the twisting, branch-like weave these Norsemen favoured. The beams running the length of the hall were carved into shapes of birds and different animals, thankfully not as ominous as the dragon heads in the dining hall. Still, Rakkian would have preferred an image other than birds. Despite the comfort of the Sjaelir hall, the birds served to remind him of his own lack of freedom. From the day Jarl Torvald had sailed him across the western sea to Fenrisborg, locked away with other servants and the spoils, he'd been a prisoner. Halafjell hadn't been a bad place to live by some standards. He'd been safe, adequately fed, and warm. Jarl Orlan mostly ignored him so long as he did his chores on time. Orlan's nephew's son had been born half a year after Rakkian arrived, suffering from a painful disability. Taking care of him had given Rakkian purpose. Running away had seemed less appealing then, but now he regretted his own complacency.