Interlude
LADY MARIT ARMENIL, HOUSE OF THE DIREWOLF
Asleigh awaited her, the outline of the conveyance blurry through the tears pooling in her eyes. And still, she proceeded, step by step, for this was what she’d been raised to do. To further the family line, to bring glory to the great house of the far north, and to make her ancestors proud.
“Marit, wait.”
She turned to find Princess Saga rushing from the doors of Frostveil Castle, pink hair streaming behind her, grief lining her face.
Like Marit was dying and not just going to her new home.
“I’ll miss you so much.” Princess Saga enveloped Marit in a tight hug and only when they were that close did the seer princess whisper in her friend’s ear. “I’ll make Mother call you back to court so you don’t have to stay in Liekos. Withhim. I’m sorry that my father?—”
“You coulddo nothing.” Marit clung to her friend as her family and other friends who she’d already said goodbye to cried behind the princess. The wind coming in off the Shivering Sea stung her pale cheeks, likely making them as red as Marit’s hair.
“Maybe the rumors aren’t true,” the princess said softly, but not weakly.
“I don’t know about that, but I can say that Jarl Triam is insistent. Forceful.”
She had already assumed that quality in the jarl before their perfunctory wedding the day prior, and now she knew it all too well. The lord had not been kind or gentle when he took Marit Armenil’s maidenhead. She’d heard the rumors that he relished cruelty and, after their short time together, Marit feared the whispers were true.
Would he direct the full weight of his cruelty upon Marit once they reached Jarl Egil Triam’s castle? How much worse could things get? Would she eventually become one of the wives that mysteriously died at House Triam’s castle?
Why did the stars forsake me?Her throat tightened, and she tried to shove away the negative thoughts that clouded her mind all too often of late. Her father, Fates rest his soul, had always said that hope endured, no matter how slim. Marit was determined to take those words to heart.
Her best chance at survival was for Princess Saga to call her back to Avaldenn—after the honeymoon period that Jarl Triam claimed to want with his wife.
Marit only hoped when that day came, she remained breathing and not with child.
To have a youngling with him would be a fate worse than death.She did not wish for her thread of life to weave tighter with Triam’s thread.
“I promise,” the princess of House Aaberg hissed. “I will get you away from him for as long as I can.” She squeezed her friend again, releasing only when the driver of the sleigh proclaimed for a third time that they needed to leave now if they were to beat the storm sweeping the countryside.
Feeling more alone than ever before, Marit watched Saga walk away. The Balik sisters had come to see her off too, and now waited for the princess to join them. Sayyida was still missing from court, and Marit suspected that the storm-chasing Virtoris did not intend to be found. Let alone married. Marit’s stomach twisted in annoyance that barely cut through her sadness. She wished the Nava captain had confided in Marit in her plans to leave Avaldenn. Marit could have joined Sayyida.
Do not become sour. She did her best and taught you to fight, not that you learned well,Marit chided herself. Sayyida’s foresight should be applauded, and Marit should not be jealous. It was unbecoming of a lady, and through this all, she was that: a lady.
Her family, her rock, stood a few paces away too, having already said their goodbyes. Lady Orla Armenil sobbed, something she’d done since the day her husband’s head arrived at court. Her mother was doing her best, but for Marit, it wasn’t enough. Had Lady Armenil been in her right mind, Marit was sure she would have fought harder for her daughter to become a lady-in-waiting to the queen or princess. Anything but this.
But Orla Armenil and Sten Armenil had been morethan husband and wife. They’d been mates, and there was no greater pain in this realm than losing a mate: Not even seeing your daughter carted off to the house of an alleged murderer.
Marit prayed to the dead gods that while her mother was in this condition, her other siblings who were of age to wed continued to evade the king’s notice and helped their mother through this troubling time. Marit would be more certain things would turn out if the Armenil heir, Connan, was present to help, but he remained in the far north, stricken with illness.
Rune will do his best. He must.
As if he sensed her thoughts of him, Rune, her second oldest brother, raised a hand as their mother wailed. Marit’s heart clenched, and when Rune brought that same hand down and to the wolf clasp that gathered his cloak, she let the tears she’d been holding back fall.
The pack endures.
Rune assured her they had not forgotten her, had not forsaken her. He would bring her to safety, for the Armenils were direwolves, and they did not forget their own.
She was tempted to go to them again. To say goodbye one last time. Her feet nearly took her in that direction, but Marit was stopped by a soft, familiar voice.
“Marit, a word?”
Marit twisted. Sir Qildor had only recently been released from the healers’ care. Or so she’d heard. Marit had not had time to visit the Clawsguard knight, an old family friend. Her brother Connan’s best friend, and, though Marit had never told a soul, herfirst kiss.
Warmth stirred in her at the innocent, sweet memory. In light of what she’d experienced lately, it made her cherish her short time with Sir Qildor more.
