The familiar coil of nausea tightened her stomach.
You’ll lose your freedom. The name is shackles. More death. More misery.
Silla acknowledged these fears and let them seep into her. There were so many unknowns with Eisa. So many dangers. But what did fighting against her true name accomplish? What would it feel like to surrender to Eisa Volsik? To let go of what could never be and dream of what could?
The nausea did not let up, and so Silla fell into old patterns—pushing the fear down. Burying it. She forgave herself for doing so. It was only for now. And Silla swore to herself that day by day, she would dig up this fear and surrender just a bit more of herself.
Miracles rarely happened overnight.
At last, the unexpected happened—Silla ran out of logs to split. Wiping her brow, she made her way to the cabin. She stepped inside, and at first it was so silent and still, Silla thought Harpa had left on some errand. But the soft knock of stones had her eyes darting to the farthest back corner. Harpa stood at her enormous warp-weighted loom, fingers moving with rapid, dextrous speed. Beneath it, the weight stones tapped together in an oddly soothing rhythm.
The air held a peculiar quality—a low thrum that pressed lightly against her skin. She opened her mouth to speak, but paused as she caught sight of Harpa’s eyes—an eerie milk white. Turning quietly, Silla slipped back out and made her way toward the steam bath.
She stripped down to her undertunic and spooned water over the stones; a satisfying sizzle filled the air. Silla reclined on the bench. The heat loosened her tense muscles and eased the cold from her blood. Warm and languid, wrung out from her emotions and hours spent chopping wood, Silla focused on the beating of her heart.
Soon her forearms began to glow, the cool buzz of galdur in her veins. Silla closed her eyes, relinquishing herself to the whispers, letting them have their say before releasing them. She felt herself sinking deep down, filled with utter awareness. Her blood pumped through her veins in a sure, steady rhythm. Her lungs pulled hot, steamy air in then out. And her galdur whispered cooly through her, that familiar tension building.
Then she sensed it—the lessening of tension. Like a tiny crack in a cup, her galdur leaked out. She opened her eyes.
Stared in disbelief.
Tiny motes of light drifted up from her forearms, rising through the steambath and melting before her eyes. A thrill of victory zipped through her. After weeks of trying, she’d finally done it! But the moment she let herself celebrate, the crack sealed over, the specks of light vanishing. And then the tension began building anew.
Silla probed inwardly. Now that she knew how it felt, it took only a few minutes to find the fractured place again. To Silla, it felt like a crevasse—cold and deep, with a surface that could be thawed or frosted over at will. Like a muscle, controlling this thing would take continued effort. But eventually, perhaps, it would be as intuitive as breathing.
With a smile, Silla tugged on her clothes and rushed to the cabin. Harpa was slumped in a chair, a damp linen draped over her eyes. At Silla’s entry, she pulled the cloth off and looked at her expectantly.
“I did it,” said Silla, biting down on her smile. “I expressed.”
Harpa nodded wearily. “I knew you would do it.”
And as the faintest hint of a smile curved Harpa’s lips, Silla felt as though she could fly.
Chapter Forty
Some might call Rey tenacious, others stubborn as a rock goat. But when he set his mind to something, he always saw it through. And six days ago, as he’d examined the tooth Harpa had pulled from Freydis’s abdomen, he’d known they were another step closer to solving the vexing mystery of what, precisely, was hunting Kalasgarde’s citizens.
The fang was a perfect match to the one they’d excised from the excrement.
“What does it mean?” Vig had asked impatiently.
Rey had remained silent for a ponderous moment, examining the hollow groove through the fang’s center. “It didn’t eat a serpent. Itisa serpent.”
“You expect me to believe that?” Vig scoffed.
“It makes no sense,” Rey replied. “No sense at all that such a creature could survive in the northern wilds. But the facts are what they are: serpents are known to swallow their own teethanddigest the bones of their prey. They eat at timed intervals and can grow to cumbersome sizes after a large feeding. It fits, Vig.”
“Hábrók’s flaming bollocks!” sputtered Vig. “Two dozen sheep, Galtung! What kind of serpent eatstwo dozensheep?”
“That,” said Rey, “I do not know.” He wasn’t sure hewantedto know. His thoughts drifted to the skógungar which had attacked Jonas along the Road of Bones. Another creature, acting out of its nature. It, too, had carried the scent of rot, which had lingered on Freydis’s corpse and in Vig’s paddock. He thought of Istré, with the pulsing mist and curious Klaernar deaths. What the fuck was happening in this kingdom?
“At least it hasn’t any teeth now,” Vig said.
Rey had scowled. “I very much doubt that. Serpent teeth grow quickly.”
“Again, we find answers, but they only create new questions,” Vig had said. “Very well, Galtung, I shall put word out…and prepare myself to be laughed out of the Split Skull.”
And that was precisely what occurred. Vig spread news in Kalasgarde’s mead hall and sent word to neighboring towns. All they received was heartfelt laughter. Rey couldn’t blame them. A giant serpent hunting the wilds of Nordur was about as believable as Ivar Ironheart suddenly embracing the Galdra.
