Then she would speak to her father and leave.
Her mother had been the only reason she hadn't gone sooner, and without her, there was no reason for Sibba to stay. Nothing and no one would be able to hold her back.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sibba
What had Estrid been thinking?
Ari stood in the middle of the shield circle, the sword in his hand nearly as tall as he was, the tip brushing the ground since he was apparently unable to support its weight. Where had he gotten the sword anyway? It certainly wasn't his. She had never known him to own a sword, only hide behind hers. It was probably a loaner from one of the warriors who had joined the shield circle. One of the warriors who would, if Ari tried to escape, push him back into the brawl. Some towns, mostly those in the neighboring Grimsson territory, had fighting pits where trials and holmgangs, or honor duels, took place, but here, it was up to the warriors to keep the fight contained, and it wasn’t a job they disliked.
“You’re supposed to poke him with it!” someone called.
“That’s what got him into this mess in the first place!” someone else responded. The crowd guffawed and shrieked, taunting Ari whose cheeks flushed a bright pink, and not from the cold.
Sibba rose to the tips of her toes to see through the wall of bodies, and easily picked out her father who stood at least a head over any man around him. She felt nothing looking at him. The resemblance between them was obvious—their size, the same long nose, their faces twisted into the same scowl. His long, yellow hair, going white around the temples, was pulled back into a tight bun while hers was twisted and pinned, the choppy layers escaping from the short braids. But in spite of their similarities—in spite of the fact that he had fathered her and she had spent twelve years of her life under his roof—she felt only indifference at seeing him.
Beside him stood a girl in a plain brown smock dress, but she was the type who didn't need fancy clothes or silver baubles to be beautiful. In the last five years, Estrid had changed little except that she was taller and filled out the dress with well-rounded curves that had not been there before. Her black hair was intricately braided in the fashion of a wedded woman and held up off of her back with bejeweled pins. Tears streaked down her face but they made her no less beautiful.
It was apparent that Sibba wasn’t the only one awestruck by her. A gaggle of young men surrounded her. They were not part of the shield circle but warriors who had wanted to stand for her in the trial. But Estrid was oblivious to them all. She had eyes only for Ari.
Damn it, Estrid, Sibba thought.
The sound of ringing metal drew her attention back to the fighters. Ari she knew, of course. He was still small and too pretty for a man, his red hair in a long braid down his back. The other man, the one with the clear advantage, was not so pretty.
Sibba sucked on her bottom lip and bit it until it hurt to keep from cursing aloud and drawing attention to herself. So, Estrid had married Vyion, one of the chief's traders. He was a beast of a man, easily twenty years their senior, with a belly that entered a room several steps before he did. Sibba did not remember much about him except the way his eyes followed any girl that had the misfortune of being in the same room as him. Even fully dressed, he had always had a way of making her feel naked. Why had Estrid married him when she could have had her pick of any man—or woman for that matter—in Ottar? Had she changed so much that she would marry someone simply for wealth? So she could wear pretty jewels in her hair?
Vyion was toying with Ari. Wearing him down, running him ragged. And Ari was falling for it, dancing around Vyion's blade like a fool. Vyion drove him backward into the shield barricade, and the warriors there thrust Ari forward. As he slipped past Vyion, the bigger man smacked the flat of his blade against Ari's haunches. Ari scurried away like a kicked puppy.
After a couple of light, teasing jabs, Vyion's face went rigid and he struck hard. He didn’t move fast, but he was strong. Ari blocked it with his own blade, the force bringing him to his knees. Everyone tensed, leaning forward to see what would happen next. The men and women in the circle began to beat on their shields with axes and fists. If Ari was defeated, then it would be seen as judgment by Domaris, goddess of justice, and Estrid would be killed. Vyion raised his blade. Ari scrambled to stand, but it was obvious that he wouldn't be quick enough.
Sibba shoved her way past the warriors nearest to her, knocking through the shields and into the circle. So much for not getting involved.
“Stop!” she shouted loud enough to be heard over the chanting. From the corner of her eye, she saw the sutvithr tree's branches rustle. Then, just as the crowd finally quieted, Aeris let out a high-pitched scream as if punctuating Sibba's words, or shouting a warning, Sibba wasn't sure.
The surprise on Thorvald's face was brief, replaced immediately by a sly smile. “Well!” he shouted, spreading his arms wide. “Sibba. It seems you've come home just in time.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Vyion laughed and that was perhaps his first mistake. Luckily, he was the only one. The rest of the crowd fell silent, all eyes on the chief's lost daughter. How many of them remembered her friendship with Estrid? How many of them remembered how Sibba had humiliated herself?
“You want to fight me?” Vyion scoffed. His linen shirt was soaked through with sweat in spite of the cold. He wore no armor, not even a leather jerkin, and Sibba suspected it was because he could not fit into it. The only protection he had was an iron half-helm shoved onto his meaty head.
“Sibba?” Estrid spoke for the first time, but Sibba couldn't meet her eyes. The girl's voice was timid but carried with it a warning note.
Instead, Sibba looked only at her father, keeping her back to Vyion to show that he was no threat to her. Aeris was perched on a branch just above the chief, her head to the side so that one eye was on Sibba. “I claim responsibility for Estrid Fogthorn,” she said, her voice loud so that all could hear. So that all could mock her later.
Behind her, Vyion guffawed, and the shield circled tittered, no one quite meeting her eyes. They had not forgotten. “You do?” Vyion challenged. “She walked all over you and still, you are victim to the whore’s cunning smile.”
Sibba bit back her retort, keeping her eyes on her father even though a blush crept up her neck, warming her frozen skin. “I can pay the afrath to clear her of the charges.”
“You cannot afford the afrath!” Vyion's shout was not unexpected. For putting the horns on one of the chief's traders, the fine would be tremendous. But her mother's hoard had been large as well, and while it might not be enough to cover the cost of a ship and the afrath, Sibba would never be able to stand by and watch Estrid die. She had made the choice the moment she had decided to come to the trial, even though she hadn’t admitted it to herself. Love was painful, and worst of all enduring.
The chief watched them both, amused. He had not seen Sibba in five years, but his first reaction was not to embrace her or protect her but to see what she was made of. Sibba knew he thought her weak, always second best to her brother Jary, who was nowhere to be seen.
“I do not want your payment, anyway,” Vyion continued. “No payment can be enough to make up for the shame that my wife has brought upon me. Death is the only recompense.”
Estrid choked back a tortured sob, bringing a hand to cover her mouth. Ari was on his feet again, his back pressed to one of the shields, as far away from Vyion as he could get. Sibba couldn't blame him—Vyion could not be relied on for a fair fight. There was a tortured look on Ari’s face that Sibba hated. She wanted to knock him back to his knees, to shake Estrid until she understood that she was better than any of this.
Instead, Sibba turned to Vyion. “Are you prepared to die for your pride, then?”
He laughed again, the sound beginning to seep beneath her usually thick skin. When she crossed to Ari, no one stopped her. She took his shield, but when he handed her his sword, she waved it away, reaching instead to unsheath the crow blade. It was t
oo big for her, and she had not trained with a sword in years, but she was empowered by her anger—her hatred—for this man, and for her own weaknesses. The sword and shield seemed to weigh nothing.
The crowd pulsed with excitement. This was what they came for—death. Estrid's or Sibba's or Vyion's—they didn't care. Sibba could taste it, feel her own blood race with it. She remembered Gabel, his hands around his throat; her mother, her wide-eyes glassy and still.
“You don't have to do this,” Vyion said, and she thought maybe he was finally a little afraid. The sword was a piece of art, the swirls in the hammered steel glinting along its length in the waning sunlight. “She could have divorced me. But she chose—”
Sibba lunged. The borrowed shield on her left arm met his nose with a crack, even though it was partly protected by an iron helmet. He stumbled back as her sword grazed his upper arm, leaving a shallow cut just under his sleeve.
He recovered too quickly and sidestepped to swing at her right side. She blocked, stepped and swung again. He got past the shield and the tip of his sword ripped the leather at her hip but didn't break the skin. Laughing, he stepped back, and suddenly the face wasn't his anymore but Gabel's. Dirty and chiseled, light brown eyes mocking her. Malstrom bitch.
Sibba knew she had to bury the rage and instead take advantage of her speed. Without taking a breath, she struck at him again, slamming the shield into his face for a second time and bringing the sword around to his gut. This time it sliced through skin. Blood welled through the gash in his stomach and from his nose where it dripped into his mouth. She thought Estrid might have screamed but she wasn't sure. There was nothing now except for this fight.
He spat red onto the ground and attacked, but he was letting his anger get the better of him. It was Sibba's turn to laugh; she was practically dancing circles around him as he swung blindly, the faceplate of his helmet having caved in from the second blow. The banging of axes on the shields around them grew deeper, faster, and she knew that she had to end it. But it was different than killing an attacker, this premeditated murder of someone she knew. Someone who had been wronged. She had said she would kill him, and so she would, and thereby prove Estrid's favor in the eyes of Domaris, whether or not her mother approved. Whether or not it made her heart clench with nerves.
She feinted to the left and then struck on the right, aiming for his already weakened arm and missing. The glancing blow knocked Sibba off balance, and next thing she knew, he was lunging for her. She made the mistake of raising her sword instead of her shield, and the force of Vyion's angry strike sent the blade flying out of her hands and skittering to Thorvald's feet. The chief bent to pick up the sword and stood holding it, smiling. Always smiling. Maybe she would kill him, too.
Vyion didn't waste any time, taking advantage now of her distraction and plowing into the shield, knocking her to the ground. The dirt was cold, slick mud, churned by their feet. She scrambled backward, grasping for purchase and finding none. He hit the ground again and again with his heavy sword, missing her each time by just a hair's breadth as she rolled back and forth. He was drunk with victory and that made him cocky, so he did not kill her right away, which would be his second mistake.
The ax was still at her hip, and instead of scrambling backward, she paused and reached for it. It came out of its halter easily, as if it had been waiting for its moment to shine. The base of the head was still stained with Gabel's blood, and now she would give it another taste.
Her feet swept beneath Vyion's and sent him tumbling forward so that he landed on her legs. The crowd bellowed and Sibba swung blindly, the ax biting through the flesh of his sword arm. He screamed like a dying pig, forgetting his shield and grabbing for the wound in his arm. She must have severed muscle and tendon because his fingers no longer closed around the hilt of his sword. She could have taken it from him, but instead, she knocked it aside and moved to straddle him.
Leaning forward, Sibba whispered in his ear, “This is for Estrid.” She didn't know if he heard her over his bellowing, but he was quickly silenced when the ax chopped into his neck. Droplets of warm blood hit her face as the crowd seemed to exhale with relief.
She couldn't say how long she sat there astride Vyion's body before Estrid came and dropped to her knees beside her.
“Sibba,” was all she said. Estrid put her arms around Sibba's shoulders, the touch breaking through the years of frost that had developed between them. The tears came without shame as Sibba realized that no matter how she tried to deny it, leaving Ottar would not be as easy as she had imagined.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Rayne
Every part of Rayne ached. The wound on her stomach alternately itched and burned, even in sleep. The medic who had stitched it closed had assured her it was healing, but even now, days after the wielder prince had made the cut, she still found blood on her shirt when she woke. Then there were the bruises on her arms and shoulders and a particularly nasty one on the small of her back from where she had been beaten by falling boulders beneath the streets of Iblia. But maybe worst of all was the iron fist squeezing her chest. This had perplexed the medic; she had no injury there—none that could be seen, at least.
It was a familiar sensation, nearly identical to what she had felt years ago when Madlin had taken her last, gasping breath and Rayne had left her entire life behind. Now she thought of her friends lost in the fire. Of Merek buried beneath the rubble. Of her sister and the way that looking at her had been like looking into the past, revisiting everything Rayne had thought she had left behind, feeling every emotional connection to the Crowhearts that she was supposed to have banished. The band in her chest tightened with the memories, and Rayne knew what it was. It was heartache.
The cold water numbed every pain except for it. She floated on her back in the small offshoot of the Tor River that passed just behind the home she shared with Imeyna and Tamsin, Imeyna’s partner. Her shortened hair fanned out in a dark puff around her head. Tamsin had cut off the ends, which had been matted with blood and brambles from their mad ride home, and now the curls hung just to her shoulders, making her head look almost triangular. Rayne hated it but knew she should just be glad to be alive, so she had said nothing. Then Tamsin had rubbed Rayne's bruises with the salve the medic had left, her gentle fingers working in small, deep circles to break up the blood pooled beneath the skin. The next day, the bruises had been an angry purple color, but Rayne still didn't complain. Imeyna ignored her and Tamsin fussed, and Rayne sat in silent surrender.
When they received word from Torlan that Wido was coming, Rayne had escaped to the river, hoping to avoid his arrival and delay their meeting, if not somehow avoid it entirely. Wido Cliffbane, the leader of the Knights and the president of Shade, rarely left Shade's capital city of Torlan, also known as the Hidden City, where he held court in the caves and issued orders via black ravens and riders who could traverse the mountain paths. Hidden as it was in the arms of the Silver Hills, it was the safest place in the country. For him to leave, to come to her in person—well, she doubted it was to provide her comfort in the wake of so much loss. She wondered if he wasn't coming to finally kill her, as he had wanted to when he first saw her.
Rayne had left Dusk in the middle of the night after watching the palace slaves toss Madlin’s body into the Cobalt River. It was so small that it had barely made a sound. Rayne had also been small, and leaving was easy, but finding where she wanted to go after that was not. She knew only that there was a group of people that hated her father almost as much as she did, and she wanted to find them. She had gone on foot to Flagend, the slaver’s capital, and from there, caught a ride with a caravan to Alas on the Shade-Hail border. On the way, she worked as a serving girl and a stablehand. She tended the animals and the people, and in exchange, had a trouble-free passage. After hearing the gossip in Alas about a nearby faction of rebel Knights, she had wandered into the Silver Hills, hoping against hope that the Knights would find her.
And they had. Or m
ore specifically, Imeyna had. Even at twelve, Rayne knew it was fate that had brought them together. It was her punishment, her way to atone for what her father—what all of them—had done. Madlin had been stolen from the Cliffbane family when she and Imeyna were visiting Alas to commission more weapons for the Knights. The girl had wandered too far, right into the hands of slavers, who made their living snatching lost or abandoned children off of city streets. The fact that her father perpetrated this kind of behavior was just another item in his list of crimes against Casuin, another reason he had to be stopped. Another reason that Rayne’s failure in Iblia stung sharply enough to draw Wido from his cave.
Rayne had met the leader of the Shadows just once, five years ago when Imeyna had presented her to her father for judgment. Wido's cold, deep voice still echoed in the halls of her mind.
“Death,” he had easily proclaimed. “A daughter for a daughter.”
It was Imeyna who had saved her, who had promised her father an assassin, someone who could break past the Crowheart enchantments and bring an end to the family that had both founded Casuin and then brought it to ruin. Her family.
Imeyna and Tamsin, who would never have children of their own, became her new family. Tamsin had always been kind to her, the one who held her in the middle of the night when the sounds of a cracking whip woke her. Imeyna was harder. She was the one who doled out punishments and dragged Rayne from bed at dawn to train. But she was also the one who’d brought Rayne a birthday cake from the Bricboro bakery on her thirteenth birthday, and the one who had cried silent tears when Rayne was inducted into the Knights. Imeyna hadn't spoken to her since they returned from Iblia. Rayne figured she was working through her own grief, and probably anger. Rayne was her responsibility, and Rayne's failure was her failure. And now she would have to own up to her father.
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