FAMILY
One hour later, Ström, Bjorn, and I are clean, rested, and ready for dinner with the Eriksson clan. As we take the corkscrewing stone stairs down from Ström’s tower rooms at the Old Palace, I feel happier than I have in ages. Dressed in chic clothing fit for dinner with a Jarl and his family, we’re looking good, we’re in even better spirits, and we’re feeling like a million bucks after having escaped death so many times today.
Because even though we got little recovery time from all the craziness, it’s as if the strange blessing Aesa gave us thrills all through us now. I glance down at the silver stone, just visible above my cleavage in my tight little plum dress with its wealth of black lace, to see it swirl with slow, golden runes, flickering in the stairwell’s light.
I’m not wearing a necklace tonight, only braided gold and silver hoop earrings to match my new adornment. Though I have something stuck permanently to my chest, embedded in my breastbone beneath the skin, it’s not uncomfortable.
It’s actually kinda cool, as I touch it for the umpteenth time in thepast few hours. I feel a thrill pass through me now, as I get the sensation of a strong dragon-matron standing behind me.
It’s as if Aesa herself gazes down at her Truthstone over my shoulder, her warm breath on my chest as we both regard it. Whatever this blessing is, my deepest dragon instinct tells me it’s a good thing, as I feel Ström’s attention on me now and I glance over.
His frown is thoughtful, but not displeased, as he watches me. We’ve hit the landing of the stairwell; as we move through an ornately carved hallway of the Old Palace and past several beautifully decorated state rooms, I feel how my Second Drake is just as curious about this object as I am. Bjorn is more wary, however; he scowls hard now as I touch it again.
He reaches out, taking my hand, as if to stop me from exploring it.
“Don’t draw attention to it, Yava,” he murmurs as we stride down the hall, on our way to the family dining solar to have dinner with Jarl Eriksson. We’re in a family-only wing of the palace, and see just a few guards and palace servants going about their duties here, the traffic sparse.
“No one’s going to jump out and strike me down because of this gem, Bjorn. Especially not here,” I say. Ström turns us down another hall and we move down a short flight of stairs, then up another. Even the family wing of the Old Palace is a confusing warren of multiple eons.
“We’re in a safe place here, Bjorn.” Ström glances at my First Drake now with an amused grin. “This palace isn’t like your forbidding home up north. My family is very close-knit and all our personnel are like family, as well. No one’s going to accost us here or get a dagger in our flanks from the shadows.”
Bjorn only scowls more, however, at Ström’s comparison of his beautiful, palatial hodgepodge of a home to Bjorn’s. I can only imagine what it must have been like for Bjorn, being raised at the forbidding Jarl’s palace so far up in ice-cold Magnussen lands; it wasn’t a friendly place, by any means.
Ström’s upbringing seems like that of a pampered prince now, bycomparison. The contrast becomes even more apparent as we make it to the family dining hall where dinner is being held tonight.
All the central family of the Eriksson clan who could make it on such short notice have; the small but ornate dining hall is packed with over forty individuals as we enter, turning heads and interrupting the family pre-dinner mingle.
Lofty and lit bright by crystal chandeliers that shine far above with white-gold, sorcerous light, the beautifully carved white stone andsilberskraewood of the columns and gables has a strong yet whimsical character. Every scene here is of dragons enjoying pastoral leisure with large, joyous families; the nature of Ström’s aunts, uncles, and sisters is no less buoyant as we enter the hall.
Rounds of chuckles assail us, plus cheering and wolf whistles. A gaggle of beautiful women with bright green eyes swarm Ström, hugging him.
I notice Mathilde in the group and know these are Ström’s elder and younger sisters as the eight jaw-droppingly beautiful women accost him. He laughs; giving hugs to everyone, Ström rakes his sisters in as everyone kisses cheeks.
Ström is an adoring brother to them; something inside me soars now to see him with his family, making my heart luminous. The only brother of the lot, ever since his elder brother died at the Battle of Riksfold where my parents were killed, it’s apparent Ström is beloved to his family not just because he’s the second boy child, but because of his effortless, kind nature.
Ström’s parents are both living, but as they are foreign ambassadors for King Huttr and often gone on missions, they aren’t present tonight. I know they travel often, ensuring positive relations with other dragon Lineages all around the world, not to mention a few other pockets of Blood Dragons who don’t live in Scandinavia.
His grandfather is dead from battle, but his grandmother survives; coming to him now, the regal drakaina in a long 1950s emerald ballgown with swept-back silver hair kisses Ström on both cheeks as he bends to kissher hand. Aunties and uncles of his family step in to kiss his cheeks or shake his hand now, dressed in elegant attire from the past few centuries. Everyone beams at me, knowing who I am, though they only nod soberly at Bjorn.
All of them knowing precisely who Bjorn is, as well.
Relations between the Magnussens and Erikssons have always been cool at best. Uneasy neighbors, both clans are some of the strongest in all of Blood Dragondom, and have only gotten along in the past few centuries since our Lineage has modernized.
Both clans support the King, however; a number of Erikssons nod to Bjorn, honoring him as Jarl Oggi’s only living son, though I doubt they know the deeper story of the tensions that exist between father and son.
As Jarl Jorg Eriksson steps forward now, parting the throng of this massive family, all birthed from his loins, Ström sinks to one knee. With a fond smile, Jarl Jorg places his hand on Ström’s head, ruffling his hair.
Then slaps his shoulder to rise—no one standing on ceremony here.
“Time to eat! Let’s get to the table,” Jarl Jorg says as he nods to an enormous dining table in the lofty hall, which I can just see through the gathered throng. With laughter and conversation, everyone heads over and takes seats, as if they all know precisely where they sit whenever the Jarl summons the family to dine.
My mates and I are at the head of the table right beside Jarl Jorg; it’s not coincidence, as Ström settles at the vacant seat on the Jarl’s right, which is probably always his, while Bjorn and I take the two remaining empty seats on the Jarl’s left.
“Right! Let’s get to it.” Jarl Jorg claps his strong, gnarled hands now as he reaches out to a towering silver vat of Swedish meatballs, heaping a huge amount on his plate. At his cue, everyone reaches out to the ample dishes that cover the large iron pine table. There is no politeness here as everyone takes what they want and passes dishes around, calling down the table for something that’s not nearby.
Eating family style, as a cacophony of laughter is heard all around.
It makes me happy, as I heap my plate with food from the delicious dishes. Though the items on the table are fit for a king, the Jarl and his family aren’t pretentious.
