Some were buried in tree bark while others rested on the ground. She had to jog quite far to retrieve some of them, and by the time she returned with her arms loaded with steel, she was panting from the exertion.
The prince dragged his gaze down her body, lingering a little too long at her chest before meeting her eyes.
She pinned him with a look, and he shrugged in aWhat do you expect?gesture. She busied herself rearranging the knives in a neat pile, taking pains to line them up exactly. When she was done, she had no other option but to face him. She ignored the flare of her magic as she did.
“Who told you about this place?” She could probably guess, as only six other people knew of it.
But he surprised her by answering, “The healer, Laeknir.”
“Laeknir told you where to find me?”
“Yes.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I asked and he answered.” The prince shrugged again. Solveig was beginning to hate the gesture. “Oh, and he said to give you this.” He handed her a waterskin. She didn’t have to open it to know it held the Drink. She downed the liquid, hiding her grimace from the prince.
“A thank you is usually the polite response when someone does something nice for you.”
Solveig snorted. “You think bringing this to me was nice?” She held out the waterskin to him. He stepped closer to smell the contents and pulled away quickly, his nose wrinkled.
“What the Hel is that? Did you actually drink it?”
“It’s the Drink. It’s the most horrendous thing you’ll ever taste.”
“Why on Yggdrasil would you drink it, then?”
“Why don’t you try it and find out?”
“No, thank you.”
Solveig chuckled and the prince’s eyes flashed. “Why are you here?” she asked without looking at him, putting the cap back on the waterskin and setting it aside.
When he didn’t answer right away, she crossed her arms as she leaned against a tree stump. He sighed.
“Besides bringing you what I can only assume is poison because Laeknir clearly wishes you dead,” the prince said, smirking, “I thought we should speak without an audience.” She waited for him to continue, but he only stared at her intently.
Solveig returned his intensity, taking in his tall frame and broad shoulders. The edges of a tattoo peeked out of his shirt collar at the side of his neck.
With his sleeves rolled up she could also see a long, thick line of dashes, almost like tally marks, running down his forearm. She was curiously drawn to the scars—the Fae’s healing abilities were renowned. They were probably cut with iron and salt.
She wanted to ask him what had done that to him but was trying to keep her distance. He set her magic on edge, and she didn’t care to test its bounds just yet.
“You’re staring again,” he said.
“I was wondering how a Fae prince came to a life of war.”
“You mean, what would a royal want if not a life of luxury?” He picked up one of the broadswords, his capable hands gripping the hilt, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he tested its weight. “Show me whatyou’ve got, General.” He entered the ring, assuming a fighting stance in front of her.
He cocked his head to the side and gestured to the sword strapped to her back. She made no move to unsheathe it.
“Why would I do you the honour of clashing blades?” she asked.
“I want to see if the rumours I’ve heard are true. I know for a fact now that some of them are false.”
“What would make you think that?”
“For starters, I cannot see any stubble, so you haven’t shaved recently. Therefore I must conclude that you have not choked the life from your enemies with the length of your beard. Nor have you pissed on their bodies. That one I can’t say with one hundred percent certainty. I’m simply taking an educated guess. It is much harder for females to aim their piss.”
