by Marian Gray
“I’m sorry, my friend.” I patted him on the shoulder. “I’m a believer.”
“This is what happens when you let the temple get their claws in you.” He looked me up and down, disapproving. “You start believing nonsense.”
“What?” Dagur hissed. It was the first word he had spoken all night. “Why do you speak ill about the temple?”
“I was only joking,” Brungen said. But he wasn’t. He was only avoiding a quarrel that didn’t need to happen.
“Well, it wasn’t funny,” Dagur said, shifting his gaze around the circle. “We don’t speak about the temple in such a lowbrow manner.”
Brungen lifted his cup to his mouth, ignoring the man.
“Cirithe, where are you from?” Sigmun redirected the conversation. “You are unlike anyone I have ever seen.”
Cirithe held out his hands to the fire, allowing the heat to warm his dark skin. “I am from Sairasee. It is far from here—across the sea.”
“What is it like?” Sigmun pressed.
“Different,” he answered. “Very different. We are a young people with strong hearts and disciplined minds that are still trying to find their way. The men are brave and proud, and the women are pure and loyal. There are three main regions, and I come from the richest: the highlands.”
Sigmun eyed him, confused. “What do you mean by saying the women are pure?”
Cirithe shifted in his seat. I knew what he meant, but the concept was not a common one amongst Norrenders.
“Women are not allowed to have sex until they are married,” he explained. “We call this purity because they are untouched.”
“How does that make sense?” Ansel laughed again, releasing the hallmark hiccup chuckle. “Doesn’t the husband get jealous when she starts hopping on everyone’s dick?”
“No, no.” Cirithe shook his head. “She doesn’t get to have sex with anyone she wants—just her husband. That is the only man she will ever have sex with in her life, and she can only have sex with him after they’re married.”
The group was silent as the concept settled in their minds. I sat back and remained silent, curious to see where this would take the discussion.
“What if she had sex before she is married?” Sigmun asked.
“It is against the law. She will be executed,” Cirithe answered with such a matter-of-fact tone of voice.
It was the one thing that had always turned me off when it came to Sairans, Phiosans, and Ombrians. They were such a black-and-white people. They could never see the varying shades of gray in a decision. Everything was absolute. Everything was this or that with no in between.
It was antithetical to life and deeply opposed to our cultural outlook. Nuance was at the heart of a lot of Varundian beliefs, values, and laws.
“Remind me to never live in Sairasee,” Irska joked.
“I bet your men must die by the thousands,” Ansel said. “When I was in my teens, I couldn’t keep my trousers laced to save my life.”
The crowd erupted in laughter.
“I still can’t keep them laced,” Brungen roared.
“How did you ever survive not being able to have sex until you’re married?” Sigmun asked Cirithe.
“The law is different for men. While we are advised not to sleep around, we are not killed for it. Men, unfortunately, aren’t as strong as women when it comes to purity.”
I sat up, ready to challenge him. “You don’t see the hypocrisy in that?”
“No, there is none.” He shook his head. “Men and women are different. They have different urges, fears, and desires. So, we give them different rules to follow and live by. Maybe if you all did the same, you wouldn’t have so many children without fathers.”
“There are children without fathers because they died raiding,” Dagur said, his voice spiked with acid.
“No, that’s what you all just tell yourselves to cover up the situation but look at Arus. How many men jokingly recount the number of children they think they have while drinking with their buddies? It’s a big joke, and it’s wrong.” He crossed his arms against his chest. It was a defensive stance.
“I’d rather a child grow up without a father in the home who is still alive than without a mother because the ark killed her,” Dagur spat.
“I think,” I began loudly, “both sides deal with devastating cultural issues that are not going to be solved by the seven of us out here in the middle of nowhere. Every people has its own struggles. While we are together on this journey, it is best we remember we are all on the same side—especially when we are talking about homelands.”
“Iver.” I heard my name whispered.
Hot breath swam over my ear, flooding down my cheek. My senses stirred as my eyes fought to stay closed.
“Iver.” It came again, carried by a sultry, feminine voice.
A soft pressure landed on my chest and drew up to my neck. Its pace was slow and tender. My eyelids lifted, despite the fog of sleep still fighting to cloud over my mind once again.
A head of sandy hair with dark brown ends came into view. It loomed rather close. Her eyes were heavy with need as they roamed along my body.
“Irska?”
Her teeth pulled at her bottom lip as her fingers danced along my neck and up my jawline. “Please put out this wet fire inside me.”
“What are you doing?” I glanced around us, checking to see where the others were.
The fire had whittled down to a pile of ash that continued to smoke while its heart glowed red. Sigmun, Ansel, and Dagur all slept close together under one blanket with their boots pointed toward me. Brungen was splayed out with all of his limbs stretched, snoring like a bear. Off to his side, balled into a fetal position was Cirithe. Over him draped both a blanket and Brungen’s furs.
“It’s been months since I last had you,” she whispered as she nibbled my earlobe.
My breath rushed from me as my heartbeat increased. “Irska, I—”
But her mouth eclipsed mine before I could get the words out. There was an undeniable sense of passion and fervor behind her lips. However, I couldn’t meet it. For several months now, kissing her had felt like a hollow duty. Nothing stirred in me when I looked at her, touched her, or held her. It was as though something in me had just been blown out, and I couldn’t figure out how to light it again.
“Why aren’t you kissing me back?” she asked. Her face was still inches from mine.
“It’s just… not here. Not with Brungen and the Arusians.”
Her brow creased. “What? Are you embarrassed? We used to do this all the time when we were younger.” She grinned. “Remember? All those cold nights away from Varund that we kept each other warm.”
“I know, but I’m an ark now.”
“What does that matter?” The lust evaporated from her gaze. “Ark Ulfur still fucks my aunt whenever they’re traveling.”
“Behind the canvas walls of a tent. It’s not the same. I can’t behave this way in front of my new people.” I felt like such a rigid bastard as soon as the words had left my mouth. There’s no way she wouldn’t see through this. It wasn’t me. If I really wanted her, I’d take her and make her struggle not to scream out my name. She knew this.
“Your new people?” she repeated, rolling her eyes. “Get over yourself.”
I didn’t say another word as she crawled back to her makeshift bed of furs and blankets.
I ran a hand down my face. What the fuck was wrong with me?
This wasn’t the first time she’d come onto me and I’d rejected her. There was last night and the evening after we killed Oba and three times before we went after him and when we arrived in Arus and before we left Varund and and and…
Aside from the lack of desire for her, there was also just a general lack of interest in sex. I was certain if I wanted to, I could have a roll with her like any man would do with a nameless woman, but it felt wrong.
And I didn’t know why.
I hadn’t had sex in months. The Fest
ival of Nine was the last time, and yet I harbored no urge or need to take her—or anyone if I was being honest.
I no longer wanted someone that was just attractive or influential. I wanted someone that stirred and provoked both my body and my mind. Someone who was ambitious, chasing after their dreams. Someone who inspired and propelled me.
Irska wasn’t any of those things anymore. She was a supporter who followed. And for the last few years, that had felt like everything to me—all I needed. But she had lost herself between us.
A month ago, it had finally come time for her to step into the sunlight and out from under my shadow, but she chose to stay behind me.
My chest tightened as the memory of our last conversation in Varund flooded me. I was packing my tools when she walked into the forge and declared that she was following me to Arus instead of accepting her uncle’s invitation to be commander of the Varundian forces. It was a knife through the heart. I loved her, and so I supported her, but the disappointment was sharp and steep. Commander was something she had spoken about wanting since we were ten years old. I even almost passed up the assignment when Ulfur offered it to me because I knew how badly Irska wanted it.
With each passing year, her identity and drive faded until it was something of a distant memory. The more I achieved, the more she assumed a stance behind me, touting all I had done as though it were her accomplishment too. I didn’t want someone standing behind me. I wanted someone who would stand at my side, with her chin held high from her own success.
IX
Secret for Secret
I couldn’t help but to stare at the domes and tiled roofs and mosaic walls as we passed through the city. According to Svotheim, Rekkesov was built from bricks. The rich red color was clay that they dug out of the ground, and the white was from the ground crystal gypsum. The shimmering yellow domes were pure gold, cast by the best blacksmiths in the world.
He claimed Iver’s own great-grandfather had overseen the project a century ago, but I didn’t believe him. I thought he was testing me, trying to gauge my infatuation for Iver based on my reaction to the news.
“Let us through,” the harbor master called to the two men that stood by the palace doors.
They weren’t as armored or well-armed as the guards back in Varund. They didn’t wear thick menacing black wools and furs but dressed in red wine colored trousers and clean white shirts. A thick brown leather vest hung from their shoulders and short swords rested easy at their sides while large wooden disc shields were strapped to their backs.
One of the guards glanced between the harbor master and us. “Why do you want through? Who are they?”
Hafmar scoffed. “Who are you to question my judgment? I have been told to bring forward those that come in from the harbor and have business with the king. Now open the doors.”
“He isn’t going to be happy to see you, Hafmar,” the guard said as his hand gripped the huge gold ring attached to the door. “You keep bringing in any riffraff that demands an audience. He’s going to revoke that access one of these days.”
“Stand aside,” Harbor Master Hafmar demanded once more.
“Not everyone who says they have business with the king actually does.” The guard rolled his eyes at the brute and yanked on the ring in his hand. The hinges creaked from the weight.
Following Hafmar, we stepped into the palace entrance. Our boots tapped against the hard floor as we walked. Small, warm-colored squares formed patterns and designs that spread from the center of the round room out to the walls. I had never stood on tile before. It was much smoother than stone, and its beveled surface refracted the sunlight that poured in through tall windows onto the white walls.
Nine porcelain statues were posed around doors and columns. I recognized three: Athiss, Othun, and Fraith. I assumed the other six were also gods, but those who were dead and awaiting their cyclical return.
“This way.” Hafmar directed our attention to a small side door hidden behind the splendor of the room.
The doorframe was a bit smaller than usual, forcing Svotheim to duck in order to pass through. “Where are you taking us?” Svotheim’s voice had an ounce of uncertainty in it.
The hallway was narrow and built of rough red brick. There were no windows, no source of light other than dying torches that were perched in random sconces.
“Servants’ passage,” Hafmar answered. A rat’s squeal and scurrying of dotted his sentence. “It’s easier to get to the king’s wing using these halls, rather than the palace ones that are stock full of guards and checkpoints.” Hafmar sighed. “It really is quite troublesome to get around.”
Svotheim and I shared an uneasy look. Using the servants’ route, while convenient, didn’t exactly allow us a respectful or formal entrance. Svotheim may have been just a boatbuilder in Varund, but here he was the ark’s ambassador. He couldn’t be sneaking through the palace walls of Rekkesov.
This wasn’t going to make for a good first impression.
We wove through the dusty tunnels in silence, passing in a single-file row. The passageway was barely big enough for two shoulder-to-shoulder. After climbing a narrow staircase with a sharp turn, our guide stopped without warning. He raised his fist and knocked twice on a simple slab of wood.
“Damnit,” a voice boomed from the other side. “What do you want now, Hafmar?”
“Forgive me, King Erlend,” the big brute said as he slid the plain door open and bowed his head. “Two strangers arrived on our shores moments ago. They requested your presence, claiming they spoke on behalf of some ark.”
“Ark Ulfur,” Svotheim clarified.
I heard a scoff. “Well, let them through then.”
“Yes, King Erlend.” Hafmar entered the room and swept his arm in a gesture for us to proceed inside.
Bright light flooded in from the slender windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. The red-bricked chamber was long and narrow with a rectangular table in the center. Scarlet, white, and gold tapestries lined the walls, embroidered with scenes of victory and godly praise.
It was oddly similar to the Hovve of Varund in design, but the strong sun and warm colors created an entirely different environment. It was open, airy, and decadent. Jewels and metals encased every portrait and adorned every tapestry hanger. Rich red velvet lined the seats and gold beads dotted the chair backs.
It was a room meant to hold many, but just two sat at the great table. Before them were cups for drinking and small wooden figurines spread across a painted tarp—battle plans. I had seen Ulfur, Iver, Brungen, and Svotheim using similar miniature men in Askaden.
“The Ark Ulfur? The ruler of Varund?” King Erlend lifted a dark eye brow. His white tunic was decorated with sparkling emeralds and several thin gold chains. Thick brown hair burst from his chin and rose up to hide round cheeks.
“Yes.” Svotheim folded his hands behind his back, standing as tall as his height would allow him. His back was straight from butt to neck, and his chin drifted upward at a slight angle. “He has sent us here to speak with you, King Erlend, and your brother, Prince Torram.”
The other of the two men showed little interest in the announcement. His slender eyes peered at us, unamused. Dark ash blond hair tumbled to his shoulders with the sides shaved close to his head. He didn’t wear fine clothes but a basic gray tunic with a white keyhole neckline. He was rather easy on the eyes, and I despised myself for thinking so.
“Well, here we sit.” The dark-haired man spread his arms wide. “I am Erlend, King of Rekkesov, and this”—He clapped a hand on the other man’s shoulder—“is my dear brother, Torram. I know you have traveled far, and it looks as though you have been down to visit the trolls. I’m sure you’d prefer some clean clothes, a warm meal, and a bit of sleep before we are to speak.”
My stomach fluttered at the prospect of slipping under the covers of a warm bed and drifting off to sleep with a large meal in my belly.
“We’d be ever grateful for an opportunity to bathe and
eat in order to better present ourselves.”
“As you wish.” King Erlend turned to a finely dressed man who stood not far from the royal seat. “This is my steward, Solvild.” He was lanky like Svotheim and had tiny black pyramids painted around his left eye. “He will assist you in retrieving a meal from the kitchen, fetching a proper bath and clothes, as well as seeing that you receive quarters within the palace and a warm bed.”
Svotheim bowed his head. “Thank you, King Erlend. Your generosity will not be forgotten.”
“Anything for a brother from Varund,” the king answered. “And Hafmar, you may return to your post at the harbor.”
The harbor master bowed and slipped back into the servants’ passage.
“If you’ll follow me,” Solvild began in an unusually high-pitched voice, “I’ll show you to your room, using the palace’s public halls this time.”
Svotheim grinned. “That’s so kind of you, not that I mind the servants’ passageways.”
The tension of formality broke as the king released a small snicker.
My eyes slid across Prince Torram as we crossed the room to a pair of tall doors. Unlike his rotund brother, he was well-built, with a defined set of shoulders and pointed chin. He met my gaze with a brooding but sultry glance. There was something behind those eyes that chilled my body. His permanent scowl both intrigued me and made me uneasy. His body language was unwelcoming, and he stared at us as though we were a nuisance, yet I was drawn in.
As soon as the doors shut behind us, Svotheim turned to Solvild and the two clasped wrists with gleaming smiles.
“By gods, how did you manage to wiggle yourself into the Rekke court?” Svotheim whispered.
“Impressed?” Solvild’s lips slid open wide in a smile, revealing a toothy mouth. “Let’s walk. We don’t want lingering ears to hear too much.” He lifted a slippered foot, and we followed close by. “There are little spies everywhere in this palace.”
“You two are familiar with one another?” I asked. The answer was obvious, but I was curious as to the nature of their relationship.