“Not yet,” he growled. Westley drew himself up to full height. A flash of fear crossed Noren’s face as he took a step away from him. He rarely, if ever, pulled rank on his closest companions. “If I give you a command, you obey it, is that clear?” His voice was cold and calculating. The voice of Idavoll’s war prince.
Noren bowed his head. “Yes, Your Highness. Forgive my insolence. I will, of course, follow your lead.” He hesitated and then met Westley’s stare, the formality dropping from his posture and his tone. “I only want what’s best for you and our people, West.”
Westley relaxed too. “I know. So do I. You have to trust me on this one.”
Noren nodded after only a moment.
They entered the tent together. Everyone but the jarl, Solveig, and Gerrie were gathered. Latham and Maddock were whispering to each other but stopped as he entered. Westley almost turned right back around at the smile Maddock gave him, but he didn’t. He had a duty to his parents and to his people.
He strode over to take the empty chair beside Conalle, with Noren seated on his other side. A few of their Fae companions were also in attendance—more than Westley anticipated.
Solveig spent time with some of his people, but he wasn’t sure if he was relieved they were here or not. Anxiety bloomed in his chest as the seconds ticked by.
The mood in the tent was fairly neutral, which also concerned him. If there was no passion behind this decision, Solveig was doomed.
Like his thoughts conjured her, the tent flap opened. Solveig and Gerrie strolled in, unhurried. Was it disappointment that made his heart sink when she didn’t make eye contact with him? She nodded to thoseshe passed and grasped the hands of those who greeted her. He hated everyone who got to touch her.
Did they feel the jolt of electricity when their skin touched hers? Was that a Solveig thing, or a him-and-Solveig thing? He tried and failed to keep his gaze from following her, but his eyes moved of their own accord, tracking her movements.
Surprise flitted across her face as she strode over to a young male hovering at the edges of the tent. He looked unsure of whether he should be here or not. Westley wouldn’t have noticed him if Solveig hadn’t gone to him.
He was a lanky male, barely past the age of maturation for a Vanir. He was quite pale, but when Westley beheld his eyes, he sat straighter in his chair.
The male’s eyes were a watery blue, almost white. He knew those eyes—they were the telltale colour of a Seer.
Solveig greeted the male by putting her two hands on his shoulders, holding him steady. The witch started speaking rapidly and Solveig hung on each of his words. A Seer she trusted. Interesting.
He strained to hear what they were saying, but even with his Fae hearing, he couldn’t make out their conversation. Solveig frowned at the male, then shocked Westley by pulling him into a hug.
Westley flicked his gaze around the room to see if anyone else was witnessing this, but he was the only one who caught the raw emotion on Solveig’s face as they pulled away from their embrace. She schooled her features and gave him a warm smile.
The male stumbled slightly, exiting the tent as quickly as he had appeared. Solveig took a deep breath. He could’ve sworn she was about to glance over at him but instead whispered something to Gerrie. Gerrie’s answering smile was wicked, and a slither of foreboding crawled up his spine.
Jarl Bjornson entered and stood in the empty centre. The thirty or so gathered in the tent quieted.
“Thank you for coming,” he said gravely. “You all know why we are here. Captain Arlanson has expedited this meeting in hopes that our people may find some normalcy and stability during these trying times.” Westley almost snorted at the derision dripping from the jarl’s tongue. He barely managed to quell his reaction.
The jarl continued. “We will hear from the captain, as well from General Tordottir, before we discuss matters privately and make our final recommendation to present to the queens.”
Westley didn’t realize the Fae were to be a silent party to this meeting, he had assumed they would be able to ask questions, interrogate, or at the very least, hold the candidates responsible for questionable actions.
Latham stood first and walked slowly and dramatically around the circle. Westley fought the urge to scowl.
“We have blindly followed Solveig Tordottir for decades.” Solveig’s brows furrowed as her first name slipped from Latham’s forked tongue, the attendees taking note of the familiar name with confusion. Westley’s molars ground together while Latham continued.
“We have lost brothers, husbands, fathers, and friends in futile attempts to regain our magic. Very little progress has been made, and we must ask ourselves why. Yes, she has been a good leader—respectful and decisive. But shouldn’t a good leader know when they are no longer effective?
“Maybe if she had never been captured, we would have remained in this perpetual state of raids, funerals, and fleeing. We wouldn’t have known there could be another choice. A better choice. Asgard selected this incredible warrior to lead us, and with no disrespect intended towards our fearless queens, perhaps they were blinded by their love and devotion to her.” He paused to let this settle in.
With her name being spoken and this small hint at the queens’ feelings, rustling whispers spread through the tent like wildfire. Latham was single-handedly revealing a centuries-kept secret.
“We have been given this great opportunity for change. We should seize it! We made a difference in the months when our late general was no longer with us, and that difference could mean salvation not only for the people of the Southern Wilds, but also for the entirety of the Trifold!” Latham’s passionate voice echoed through the tent.
Westley gripped the table in front of him so hard the wood splintered beneath his fist. He dared a peek at Solveig, expecting to see steam billowing from her ears, but she sat very much the same as she had all meeting—calm, determined, almost amused.
Latham collected himself and continued in a more sombre tone.
“I, of course, wish that it had not taken such suffering, both on Solveig’s part and our own sorrow for her loss, for change to occur. But this is the hand the gods have dealt us, even from their graves, and we must move forward and heal.”
