“Haeth?” repeated Hagbard, dumbly.
“Shhh, you muttonhead!” hissed Ulfar. “Yes.There.We’ve had it from a reputable source, one who’s known the man since childhood. He could answer all our questions about the Slátrari, though he does not know the girl.Apparently, they grew up together in Haeth. Says the man went mad a few years back. Burned a few homes before fleeing town.”
“No surprise,” muttered Hagbard.
Jonas closed his eyes. Clenched his jaw tight. Whoever had provided this information was woefully incorrect. Haeth was in the farthest southern corner of Nordur lands—about as far from Kalasgarde as one could get. Jonas saw this tip immediately for what it was. Deliberate misdirection.
Of course, Rey would have mysterious allies to cover his arse. More questions built in his mind, the answers to which Jonas knew he wouldn’t like.
Inside, he was at war. Rey had been like a brother to him, but all this time, he’d lied right to Jonas’s face. Not small, inconsequential lies. Huge lies. Life-endangering lies. All while demanding the absolute truth from the Bloodaxe Crew.
Rey and his gods damnedhonor.
What was honor to a man who was such a hypocrite—who lied so freely? Where was Rey’s honor when he’d led Ilías into a battle without proper forethought?
Fuck honor.
And fuck Rey.
He turned to Kaptein Ulfar. Put his hand on the man’s shoulder. Ulfar turned, meeting Jonas’s eye.
“Kalasgarde,” he said. “The man you seek is in Kalasgarde.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
KALASGARDE
For once, Silla did not dream of death. Instead, she was running through a garden, chasing butterflies with her sister. Her heart was so full she thought it might burst; her smile so wide it hurt her cheeks. In this dream, she was free; she was safe and loved. And when she awoke, she felt more refreshed than she had in weeks.
Her melancholy hadn’t suddenly vanished, but a strange sort of acceptance had settled in her. For weeks, she’d loathed this part of her, had berated and battered it. But all this had done was drive her deeper into the gloom. Only now did Silla realize that what this version of herself needed was compassion. Patience. Forgiveness.
Pulling the furs and blankets back, she climbed out of bed. As autumn neared, the sun rose later each morning, the air growing more crisp. Dressing in legwraps and a loose red tunic, Silla drew the curtain aside. Blinked in surprise.
“Runný?”
Runný reclined on the bench, a yellow chick curled in her palm. Her lips tilted up in a guilty smile. “I missed them,” she said, stroking the chick’s head.
Silla hesitated. She’d been distant with Runný. Had not been terribly friendly. But putting up those walls had been just as draining as caging away her grief. And in that moment, Silla decided things would change. Sinking onto the bench beside Runný, she pulled a second chick from the crate. “Thank you for letting us borrowthem.”
“That one is Bandit,” said Runný, nodding at the fluff ball in Silla’s hand. “He steals from the cat’s dish.”
“Bandit.” Silla scratched the chick’s head fondly. “And yours?”
“Craven,” replied Runný. “Prefers to let the others fight his battles. But is the fondest of cuddles.”
Silla’s gaze swept the otherwise empty cabin, falling upon the hard, narrow bench where Rey had been sleeping. His furs and blankets were neatly folded.
“Where has Rey gone?”
Runný shrugged. “I do not know. Only that he asked me to stay with you.”
“Oh,” Silla started, cheeks burning. “I…that’s…my thanks.”
Runný waved off her embarrassment. “That one is Hábrók,” she said, pointing to the crate. “The most violent of the bunch.”
Silla couldn’t help but smile at the tiny tuft of yellow glaring up from within the crate. Tucking her feet up beneath her, Silla relaxed. She and Runný stayed like this, chatting for some time. Runný told her about the steading, indulging Silla’s questions about all the animals they kept. She told her of the goat named Helga and the tyrant goose who’d declared war on Vig. She told her of the long winters in Kalasgarde, of being cooped up in a small home with four wild brothers. Of her dreams of going south someday. To Silla’s great relief, Runný asked little of her.
Eventually, Silla’s stomach growled loudly, and she handed Bandit over. After washing her hands, she busied herself cooking the daymeal. The past weeks had been so trying, Silla hadn’t been able to cook. Now, putting herself through the familiar motions of peeling apples, toasting grains and stirring the bubbling porridge was like stepping into a pair of well-worn shoes.
