“Know this,” he said. “You will die either way. Perhaps Imeyna sees you as a sister, but to me, you are just a weapon. And sometimes, weapons break. I have no problem throwing you away.”
“Just like you've thrown away Imeyna?” she asked, working up the nerve to shove away his knife hand. He would not kill her now, not until she failed him again. He was giving her another chance, and she hadn't yet decided if he would regret it. “You're not going back for her, are you?”
“Imeyna has forged her own path,” he said, and he flipped the knife in his palm and offered her the hilt. “She'll have to figure this out on her own. Just as you will.”
The hilt was warm from his grip. She took it with practiced hands. He began to step away from her toward the door, but she stopped him with a question. “What about protecting your daughters?” Rayne asked before she considered whether or not it was pushing him too far.
But it wasn't anger she saw on his face behind the sharp shadows cast by the lamp. It was grief, even now, after all this time. It mirrored Rayne's own twisted heart.
“Fathers react differently to tragedy,” Wido said, his hand reaching for the iron handle. “Your father locked Edlyn up. I set Imeyna free.”
“By leaving her in chains?”
He did not respond, instead slipping through the door and leaving it wide open behind him. Whether or not he meant to, Rayne couldn't be sure, but she took the opportunity, sliding the knife into the sheath below her skirt and sneaking out behind Wido into the dark underbelly of the ship. There was no sign of Wido, but the ladder was nearby, and she climbed it to the deck.
She knew there was nowhere for her to go, but she wanted to breathe the fresh air and at least taste freedom before she was found and tossed back into her room. Every choice had been taken away from her, but she could at least decide to walk through a door when it had been left open for her.
The deck was quiet except for the howling wind. It seemed out of place—there were no storm clouds in the sky and the small trees lining the banks were still. But on the ship, the gale whipped the sails tight against their lines, dragging them forward against the current. There was a familiar tug in her gut but it didn’t feel menacing or hurried. It felt cozy, like she had swallowed a cup of warm cider on a cold day. It was the only warning she got before a gust of wind swirled around her, lifting her skirts and twirling them around her legs. The wind wove through her hair and pressed against her cheeks, and it felt warm somehow, even in the middle of winter.
The hair on the back of her neck prickled and she raised her eyes to the quarterdeck. The general was there, lit by the light of the moon, his hands clasped behind his back and his impassive gaze on her.
“I could have sworn I locked that door,” he said, giving no indication that he had sent the breeze to her.
Rayne gripped the railing beside her, ready for a fight. “Not all princesses consent to being locked away,” she said.
Something softened on his face and there it was—the smallest hint of a smile. It wasn't cruel or mocking, either, but surprised. Rayne almost smiled back but turned away quickly, her eyes on the dark waters of the Tor. The sails filled once more with air, the rigging groaning. She braced herself on the polished wooden handrails and turned her face south, toward Hail, toward her new home.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sibba
Sibba held her breath and ducked beneath the frigid lake water. The icy rain had stopped, the clouds drifting away to harass some other town. The sun had warmed the surface of the water, but as she sank to where its rays didn’t reach, it didn't take long for the cold to seep beneath her skin. Cheeks puffed out with air, she ran her fingers through her short hair, imagining the current carrying away the blood. Gabel's blood. Vyion's blood. How did Fieldings do this? Take lives so carelessly? She would never be able to rid her nose of the sharp smell of a dying body.
She had wanted nothing more than to lie down and rest, and told Estrid as much when the girl had led her away from the trial circle. They had not stayed to watch them hang Vyion’s body from the sutvithr tree. It would be hard and gruesome work with a man that size, but it had to be done for the sacrifice to be received by Domaris, the goddess of justice, who would decide Vyion’s fate in the next life. Her father had done nothing to acknowledge her or her victory, and Sibba had made no move toward him. She wanted only to get away. She didn't care where she went—she would have slept in a barn or beneath an overhang—but instead, Estrid had dragged her to the lake. It had once been part of the Rata River but had been cut off hundreds of years before as the river shifted and changed its course. It was small but clean, surrounded by a copse of trees at the edge of town.
“You're disgusting,” she had said, unwinding Sibba from her layers of furs and making her intentions obvious.
Sibba had wanted to push her away, not wanting Estrid's hands or eyes on her, not wanting to relive the shame. How could Estrid act like she had forgotten? Maybe she had. Maybe twelve-year-old Sibba's declaration of undying love hadn't been as big a deal for Estrid as it had been for Sibba. As beautiful as she was, maybe she got that a lot. It had just been another day for her.
But of course Sibba only stood placidly shivering as Estrid had removed Sibba's clothes and weapon belts, and then ran lithe fingers through her short, tangled hair. It was with relief that she waded into the water, going as fast as she dared even when the cold threatened to steal the breath from her lungs. The farther she went, the higher the water crept until she let herself fall beneath the surface.
When she thought her chest might explode, she emerged from the water's depths, brushing water and hair back from her face. She turned to the shore, where Estrid still stood bundled in furs, a hunk of her foul-smelling lye soap in her hand. Aeris, who had not yet decided whether or not to trust the girl, hovered in the highest branches of a nearby tree. Sibba wasn't entirely sure Estrid had even noticed the bird yet.
“Where's Ari?” Sibba called back to her. Had they left him at the trial circle to celebrate with the men or had he slunk away in shame? A part of her that she tried to ignore felt a tiny bit of triumph that Estrid was with her and not him, wherever he was. Either way, it was probably for the best that he wasn’t here. Sibba was furious with him, blaming him for putting her in the position to have to come to his rescue.
Estrid shrugged, the motion only just visible beneath her cloak, the fur collar already coming up to her ears. Her cheeks and lips were red with cold, and her bright eyes glistened with moisture. “Recovering, I suppose.”
“Hiding, more like,” Sibba retorted. She held her hands above the water and Estrid tossed the soap. It landed just short of reach, hitting the lake with a plop and sinking. She reached down into the dark water until her fingers wrapped around the slimy ball. “What were you two thinking?”
Instead of answering, Estrid looked away, and the dismissal sparked something in Sibba. She had killed Vyion for Estrid. Taken a life for her. Estrid owed her. The good part of her didn't want to hold it against Estrid, but her good side was fading fast. The other part of Sibba, the dark side, wanted something in return.
Sibba pressed her lips together and instead focused on washing, her breathing shallow so the smell didn’t burn her throat. She scrubbed the rough soap against her skin until it was pink. Even then, she still felt the death of the two men on her, smelled their blood beneath her fingernails. The darkness behind her eyes was full of sensations she longed to forget—the feel of an ax slicing through flesh, warm drops of blood splattering her cheeks, the sweep of a dead man's last breath against her lips.
“We weren't thinking,” Estrid finally answered when the silence had stretched taut between them. “We just— It was just— It just happened. I didn’t love Vyion.”
Five years ago, after an impassioned and unfortunately public speech about how she felt about Estrid, Sibba had leaned in to steal a kiss from those unnaturally red lips, and Estrid had turned away. Estrid had made it quite clear that
she had no such romantic intentions toward Sibba. That they were just friends, nothing more. Like sisters, Estrid had told her, trying to let her down gently. The next day, she had caught her with Ari at the riverbank, kissing and giggling. Laughing about her. That was when Sibba had built a wall around her heart; she stood on one side, Ari and Estrid and everyone else on the other.
“You just married him to prove that you could? One more notch on your belt.” Sibba felt bad as soon as she said it and occupied herself with rinsing the soap off her shoulders.
“That wasn’t kind, Sibba.”
Sibba looked up. Estrid’s pretty mouth was twisted into a frown, her lips trembling. “A kind person wouldn’t have killed your husband for you. Would you rather I be kind?”
“Have you changed so much? You’re just like everyone else now? Judging me before I even get a chance to speak?”
They were yelling back and forth across the water, their voices echoing in the stillness. “You could have married Ari instead.” Or me, Sibba dared not add.
“I couldn’t have! Your father arranged the match to keep Vyion happy. What could I do about it?” Estrid clapped her hands to her face and sank to sit on a log at the water’s edge.
Wading to the edge of the lake, Sibba squeezed the water from her hair and swiped her hands down her torso, flinging away the droplets, trying and failing not to look at Estrid. She had done it again—pike by pike, the wall was coming back up. When she was nearly at the shore, there was a rustling in the nearby trees, the cracking of a branch. Estrid's head whipped in the direction of the sound, but Sibba froze.
“Who's there?” Estrid shouted, standing. She was understandably nervous. Just hours ago, she had expected to be dead and hanging in the sutvithr tree by now.
To make it worse, there was no response, only Aeris moving overhead, inching down the branch toward the girls. If it were someone out foraging or coming to bathe, surely they would show themselves, or announce their presence. It was the silence that got to Sibba. She was so tired—tired of fighting, tired of killing. Part of her almost gave up, but the other part of her lunged to the shore, fighting her way through the waist-high water.
“The ax,” she said, trying not to be too loud. Estrid looked at her but didn't move, her eyes wide with fear. Sibba couldn't help but remember Darcey, glassy-eyed on the ground. She would not let that happen again, no matter what it took, no matter how high the wall. “The ax,” Sibba said again.
Someone was close, creeping through the brush. Another branch cracked as Sibba fell on the ax, her fingers wrapping around the hilt. She spun to gain momentum, her feet scraping the rocky shore, and threw the weapon toward the sound.
In retrospect, she knew she shouldn't have done that. They had left the sword at Estrid's longhouse, bringing only the ax out of habit. A blind throw could have lost her their only weapon, leaving them defenseless against an unknown enemy. The ax flipped end over end until it struck the trunk of a tree, lodging firmly into the bark beside a stunned face covered with a bright orange beard.
“Ari!” Estrid shouted.
Sibba fell to her knees and clutched a fistful of the small rocks beneath her. Ari emerged onto the shore, wearing a brown tunic, matching pants, and soft leather boots. No wonder he had blended in with the winter trees.
“Gods, Sibba,” Ari said as Estrid rushed forward and embraced him. “After all that, you almost kill me anyway.”
Sitting back on her heels, Sibba looked across the shore to him. The water still lapped at her feet and bumps ran the length of her arms as the cold air brushed against her damp skin. Estrid came forward and draped the wolf-skin cloak over her shoulders.
“Why didn't you call to us?” Sibba asked.
“I wasn't sure you wanted to see me.”
“Does it matter?” Sibba stood, clutching the wrap to her shoulders. It fell against her legs, covering her. “Estrid almost died because of you. What were you thinking? You knew you wouldn't be able to protect her! You never have been.”
Here. This was where she could aim her anger. At this red-faced, toothy coward. Sibba was tired of fighting his fights for him. All through their childhood, he had picked fights with the bigger boys, the ones who trained for hours and wanted nothing more than to be a warrior. Then he would hide behind Sibba. She had whipped so many boys with her wooden training sword that she had lost count and eventually the others began to tolerate Ari because they didn't want to deal with the chief’s daughter.
“I didn't exactly force her,” Ari said, and Sibba exploded, throwing herself at him, sending them both sprawling to the ground.
The cloak fell from her shoulders and his fingers couldn't find purchase on her slick skin as he tried to hold her off of him. Her nails raked down his arms and she landed a punch square across his jaw before Estrid screamed.
It was a shrill, anguished cry that brought Sibba back to herself long enough for Ari to throw her off of him and scramble backward, putting distance between them. Estrid was red-faced and furious, the scream having died on her lips. Aeris, just overhead, echoed her scream and then hopped down to investigate.
“Are you okay?” Sibba gasped from the ground. Aeris stood at her side, spreading her wings protectively.
Ari pushed himself to his feet, his eyes on Estrid.
“Don't touch her!” Sibba snapped, throwing a handful of rocks at him. He ducked but ignored her, crossing the shore to Estrid.
When he reached her, they spoke quietly, their foreheads pressed together. Ari used the pad of his thumb to wipe a tear from Estrid's cheek. It was an intimacy with which Sibba wasn't familiar, had never known. Their closeness, their comfort. She slammed the final pike back into place, locking her heart tightly back up. Maybe she couldn’t choose who to love, but she could choose whether or not to show it.
Standing, she slunk to where Estrid had dropped her clothes, stepping into the breeches and slipping a jewel-blue tunic over her head. It belonged to Estrid, who must have dyed it herself. She found her belt discarded on a rock and fastened it on, then jerked her ax from the tree trunk, all while the two of them spoke, heads together, hands on each other.
She was turning to leave when Estrid’s voice reached her. “Do you feel better now?”
Sibba narrowed her eyes at them where they stood hand-in-hand on the rocky beach. How could she explain to these two, who were looking at her with gleaming eyes and half-smiles, that she didn’t think she would ever be better? But she had been able to yell at them both and even punch one of them. “A little,” she admitted.
“Good,” Estrid said, striding forward and grasping Sibba’s cold hands in hers. “Let’s go celebrate.”
✽ ✽ ✽
The drinking horn was empty.
How had that happened?
Sibba slammed it down on the table, angry. She was so incredibly, unbelievably angry and she couldn't understand why. It wasn't fair to put it all on Ari and Estrid. Was she angry at her mother, who had kept secrets from her? The circlet was still tucked in one of the inner pockets of her cloak, and every time her hand brushed it, she was reminded of how much she didn't know. Or maybe it was anger at her father, for any number of the man's crimes, the most recent of which was standing by while Sibba had fought for her life in a trial circle.
Estrid laughed, the sound a beautiful bell against the ugly night, in stark contrast to the rage that bubbled beneath Sibba's skin. She imagined she could see it raising boils on her bare arms, writhing and spilling over, red hot, onto the dirt floor.
Why was she even here? She hadn't wanted to come, but Estrid had begged her, and Sibba was nothing if not a pushover for the pretty girl.
“You're my hero,” Estrid had told her when she had objected. “Domaris smiled on us today.”
“It would be in bad taste not to celebrate,” Ari had agreed, having forgiven Sibba for the bloody lip and bruised cheek, admitting that perhaps he did deserve it a little bit.
And even though it was the last thing Sib
ba wanted to do, she had let them lead her into the warmth of her father's longhouse, where they practically poured ale down her throat. Her father was nowhere to be seen, but she didn't want to talk to him like this anyway. She needed a clear head for that conversation.
“Is this the infamous chief's daughter I've heard so much about?”
Sibba looked up to see a boy about her age sit down on the bench across from her, two horns of ale in his hands. He was slender and soft, with a clean-shaven face. He would look almost gentle if it weren't for the angry red scar on his cheek that ran from his ear to his nose. His bare arms were covered in strange black lines that looked almost like runes but seemed to blur before her eyes. Estrid, who was beside Sibba, looked at him distrustfully. She didn't know him, which meant he wasn't from Ottar.
“That depends,” Sibba answered, trying not to slur her words. “Who's that ale for?”
He grinned, one side of his mouth lifting higher than the other, and passed the cup across the table to her. “For you, Sibba Hallowtide. Evenon Feathermark, at your service.”
Taking the drinking horn, she held it up and he clinked his own against hers, ale splashing over the rim. Sibba appraised him as the dark ale burned down her throat. His deep brown hair and delicate features were reminiscent of Estrid’s, but he was one thing that Estrid would never be—a stranger. He didn’t know her past and would have no bearing on her future. She smacked her lips as she lowered her horn and smiled in what she hoped was a charming way. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be so bad. And tomorrow—tomorrow, she would be on her way, finally able to leave this place and its ghosts behind.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sibba
“Dead!” The word seemed unreal in Sibba's mouth. “Dead, dead, dead,” she repeated, trying to make sense of it, the D’s clicking strangely against the roof of her mouth.
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