Satisfied. The word seemed to throb through her body.
But the warm haze of her mind was shattered by the clang of bells. Saga rushed to the window. Hounds fanned out across the castle grounds below, Klaernar following closely behind. Two broad-shouldered men ambled out last, surveying the progress. Malla’s light spilled down upon the figures, revealing the unmistakable profile of Magnus Hansson. Her gaze flitted to the second—broad like Magnus, with a darker complexion and light streaks in his black hair. She gasped as the man turned. Jarl Skotha.
And wrapped around Skotha’s shoulders was a black wolfskin cloak.
Saga’s hand curled into a fist. “Black Cloak,” she seethed.
“You must be getting back to your chambers,” said Rurik sharply. “I will watch. If any get near to you, I will frighten them away.”
Saga didn’t have to be told twice. She gathered her satchel. Rushed down the stairs. And Saga did not stop until she was secured—alone—behind her chamber doors.
Chapter Thirty-Five
KALASGARDE
The morning was cold and gray, a match to Silla’s moods. Casting a look over her shoulder, she surveyed the woods for any sign of the beast prowling the area. But there was only Rey, standing in the shield-home’s doorway, watching her tread across the yard. His grim prediction—that the monster would strike on a seven-day cycle—had him anticipating violence today.
“Five minutes,” said Rey from the doorway, fastening the buckle of his lébrynja armor.
Entering the stables, Silla had the barest flicker of hope. Would today be the day Brown Horse finally took the treat? But her tail swished, before the horse turned away from her, and it took all of Silla’s will not to cry. She’d sworn she wouldn’t give up, but Silla’s resolve was crumbling.
Everything was crumbling.
Rallying cry, she tried, but her mind was empty.
Hearthfire thoughts, she tried, but couldn’t muster anything warming.
“Silla?” came Rey’s rough voice from the yard.
Him, she thought.He’s my hearthfire thought.Silla gave her head a shake. No. Sparring was her hearthfire thought.
Silla took a deep breath, then strode out of the stables to join him in practice. She would put one foot in front of the other, until she could no longer walk.
“Focuson the beating of your heart,” said Harpa, several hours later. “Feel the blood flowing through your veins. Sense the heart of your galdur, calm and resting.”
Though she’d tried it all before, Silla forced herself to try again. She wrangled her focus onto the shapes swirling on the backs of her eyelids. Circles churned until they were singular, and no, this was not a circle at all but a face with two ice-blue eyes glaring at her.
Your fault. It should have been you.
Silla was beyond impatience. Beyond irritation. Where once she’d been filled with warmth and the knowing feeling that all would work out, now she was cold and empty. Everything had been stripped from her when he’d died, and she was only just realizing?—
Your optimism is shallow and false.
Rey had said that. He’d seen right through her. Had seen her as a naive girl. And oh, how he’d been right. And what had she replied?You do not have to let the awful things define you.How utterly foolish she’d been.
A bitter laugh fell from her lips.
“Surrender,” said Harpa, for the thousandth time that hour. “Surrender to your past. Do not give power to things you cannot change.”
“Words are easy,” said Silla.
Harpa’s sigh was long and weary. It was clear even she was tired of this routine. “’Tis true,” said Harpa, much to Silla’s surprise. “Even the bravest of warriors still struggle with such things.”
Silla’s eyes found her mentor’s, and she saw it there—an untended wound; something with jagged parts that Harpa hid from the world.
Hypocrite!she wanted to scream. How easy for Harpa to tell her to surrender, when she herself could not follow her own advice. The emptiness inside her filled with something ugly. Silla wanted to hurt Harpa, wanted to break things, wanted to wound others as she herself had been wounded.
Hands curling into fists, Silla opened her mouth. But before she could speak, the door to Harpa’s cabin flew open. They whirled to find a pair of warriors bursting inside, the largest cradling a woman’s body. It was clear the two men were related, both pale-skinned with blue eyes. But the taller of the two had a bushy black beard with a solitary streak of white, while the other’s shaved skull sported swirling blue tattoos. This man’s eyes found Silla’s and hardened. For a moment, the room stood still, the steady drip of blood tap, tap, tapping onto the floor.
