Rey was left scratching his head, while Vig asked around at the mead hall. But all Vig had to say upon his return was, “Kálf grows restless. I cannot hold him off for much longer, Galtung.”
Between the serpent and the aftermath of Ketill’s attack, things in Kalasgarde were growing more complicated. Silla tried to ignore it—tried to keep her head down and her mind focused on mastering her galdur. But staying with Gyda and her brood of loud boys, she felt rather out of sorts.
Three days after Ketill’s attack, Rey finally deemed it safe enough to return to the shield-home. As they’d sat by the hearthfire, Silla had felt him watching her as she stared at the place where she’d parried Ketill’s axe blows. But rather than fear, Silla only felt her resolve hardening. Kalasgarde was where she was meant to be. She was progressing with her galdur. Was growing stronger. She hadn’t bested Ketill, but she’d held him off. And that in itself was progress.
In the wake of the attack, Rey had grown more vigilant, his shoulders moretense. He swept the yard for threats each morning. And, to her great relief, he’d relented to sharing the bed.
“For safety,” he’d grunted, sliding a dagger under his pillow. “Keep your cold toes on your side,” he’d warned, making her bite down on a smile.
Positioning himself between Silla and the rest of the shield-home, Rey had placed his back toward her. But in the morning, she’d awoken with his chest curled against her back, his nose buried in her hair. A sleepy smile had crossed her face as she’d hugged his arm to her chest and tumbled back into slumber.
The man who’d once avoided her like the plague now seemed unable to keep from touching her—a tendril of hair he tucked behind her ear, a hand on the small of her back as he led her to the stables. And in the evening, when he sprawled on the bench and caught her staring at the Silla-sized pocket, he merely rolled his eyes and beckoned her over.
She knew he watched her. Could read the hunger in his eyes in those rare, unguarded moments.And Silla would be lying if she said it didn’t feel good.
But she couldn’t shake the memory of Jonas’s betrayal. And despite what she’d told Rey—that Jonas was merely a diversion—Silla was forced to acknowledge that Jonas’s actions had wounded her, nonetheless.
Silla spent long days at Harpa’s, working on expression. She’d learned that with gentle enough release, the motes of light could be drawn together, cohesing into a wobbling orb. Curiously, this seemed to stabilize them, making the light last from minutes up to an hour.
“Bonding,” was Harpa’s explanation. “Imagine tiny tethers between each speck of light, globbed together. It is you who controls the shape of these bonds. Give them structure and order—weave them into an organized webwork—and you’ll find they are yet more secure.”
It was difficult to imagine, but Silla tried her best. The weaving comparison did not exactly help—cloth work was hardly her forte. And Silla found herself fighting with the light and trying to force it into order, only to have it rebel.
Yet the light was progress, and she refused to let impatience get the best of her.
It was five nights after Ketill’s attack when Silla had the dream. She scurried down a cobwebbed corridor, the cold, dark presence growing ever stronger. The cravings awakened, sliding through her veins, pulling her forward. She entered the room. The Dark One’s shadow was stark on the stone wall. He laughed, and the sound vibrated through her chest, like strings on a harp plucked.
Too late,the Dark One whispered.You’re too late.
Silla whirled. And there he was—Rey, manacled to a bed, arms and legssliced down to sinew and bone.Too late, she agreed, tears streaming down her face. She’d been too late to save him. She’d been…
She awoke with a start, heart pounding in a deafening beat.A dream, she thought, rolling to face Rey. She needed to see him. Needed reassurance. But the bed was empty.
Unease crept down her spine. Each morning, she’d awoken with him by her side. To find him missing in the wake of that dream was unsettling. Climbing from the bed, she wiped cold sweat from her brow.
After dressing, she pulled the curtain back. Her brows drew together. Where Rey should be, sat Runný instead. A few weeks past, this had been a regular occurrence. But now, paired with the dream, Silla’s unease only grew. “Well met, Runný,” she murmured. “Where is Rey?”
Runný merely shrugged, the silver rings adorning her black braids clinking together. “Out.”
Silla strode to the window, pulling the animal hide covering back. A light dusting of snow covered the ground, footprints leading out through the wards and beyond.
“What is it?” asked Runný.
“Dark dreams, and now…” Silla raked her hair back, trying to shake the feeling that the dream had been a message from the gods. “I do not like that Rey is gone.”
Runný watched her silently. “He’s gone to visit his brother.”
Silla’s gaze met Runný’s and held it. “Kristjan?”
Runný nodded. “The burial grounds in Kalasgarde.”
Motion from the yard diverted Silla’s attention. A large black bird had landed on the pristine carpet of snow. Slowly, it lifted its head and stared at Silla with dark, knowing eyes.Her heart leaped into her throat. Curved yellow beak. A swath of white on its tail feathers.
“Black hawk,” she whispered. The herald of death. The last time Silla had seen it was the day her father had died. And in that moment, the knowing place deep inside her told Silla she needed to get to Rey. Her cloak was on in a heartbeat, her boots and weapons belt next.
“I’m under orders to keep you here,” said Runný, standing. “It’s not safe.”
“Something’s wrong,” said Silla, strengthening her spine. “I feel it in my bones.” She held Runný’s gaze, trying to convey her urgency. “Do you believe in the signs from the gods? Because now, in the yard, sits a black hawk. Perhaps it is nothing, but with Rey, I cannot take the chance.”
