All eyes slid her way. Silla’s heart was drumming wildly, her palms slick with sweat.Not her,her insides screamed. But she forced her thoughts to those serpents—to Váli and Ástrid. She had to stop this from happening to another. Rey’s boot edged against hers, and she felt his support. Felt him building her up, as he’d always done. It was time to surrender.
It was time to own her truth.
She closed her eyes. Drew in a long breath.
“I am Eisa Volsik.”
Her words were loud and quiet all at once. But before she could let the doubts creep in, Silla began to tell her story.
She started with Skarstad. With Matthias—Tómas to these folk. She told them of Reykfjord, of climbing into Rey’s wagon, of Skraeda’s mad pursuit. By the time she relayed the events of Skutur, of discovering her true name, the hall had fallen utterly silent. Silla continued, telling them of Kopa and Istré, of how she and Rey had fled to Kalasgarde.
“So you see,” she finished, “we had no other choice.”
She could see disbelief and wariness in the eyes of some and wonder in others. And she understood completely—Eisa Volsik was long thought dead. It was as well-known as the sky being blue.
“I did not believe it myself, when first I was told.” Silla laughed coarsely. “I have yet to accept it truly, I suppose. But there are too many things I cannot explain. My father’s deception and ability with a sword. My scar—” She tapped the crescent-shaped mark beside her eye. “And the fact that all my life, I’ve dreamed of my sister, Saga.”
Silla could tell many remained unconvinced. “I’ve spoken my truth, and that is all I can do. If you don’t believe me, there’s nothing more I can say to convince you. But does it truly matter? I could be a flying cat, and it would notchange the fact that your northern refuge is no longer the safe haven you wish it to be.”
Kálf sent her a sharp look, but she continued. “Good people have died because of those creatures, and no one has done a thing, save for Rey. He’s trekked all over that gods damned mountain searching for clues—has been elbow deep in excrement and built a ridiculous contraption to trap the thing.”
“And Vig!” called Vig, from the back of the mead hall.
“And Vig the Valiant,” she added with affection, before scowling at the warriors surrounding Kálf. “Believe my story or do not. Hold your poisonous grudge against Rey if you must. But if any wish to do something to protect Kalasgarde, then I’ll be at that table there, waiting to tell you what I know.” And with that, she turned on her foot, pulling Rey along with her. He slid an arm around her shoulder, dragging her close.
“You did well,” he whispered into her hair.
As they slid onto the bench beside Vig and across from Runný, Silla felt their amusement.
“It takes a lot to silence Kálf,” said Runný with a wry smile. “That was impressive.”
“Too much?” Silla asked, glancing down the mead hall. “Was I too unkind?” The warriors had clustered together, several casting suspicious looks her way.
“Unkind?” choked out Vig. “Yourunkindhas all the fierceness of Helga the goat.” At Silla’s glare, he continued. “I suppose only time will tell. Sad though it is, the Galdra can sometimes be a bit like sheep—it is frightening to break from the flock. But if one strays, others might follow.”
“You mustn’t think badly of them,” Runný added. “Fear can make even the largest warrior feel small.”
Silla sighed. “At the very least, I’ve done all I can to sway them—” She broke off as a large form slid onto the bench beside Runný. Silla stared into the warrior’s ice-blue eyes.
“Hef,” she croaked. His cousin lay cold in the ground because of her. Did he seek vengeance? Wish her life as payment for Ketill’s?
Hef folded his arms on the table, leaning closer. His eyes were like cold steel. “My cousin was a sniveling kunta who has dishonored our family. I owe you an apology.”
“I…” Silla blinked in shock. “Might I express my condolences for Freydis?”
Hef’s eyes shone in the dim light of the mead hall. “I’d rather you tell me what you saw in that cave, Your Highness.”
Chapter Sixty-One
To Rey’s great relief, after Hef joined their table, it was not long before others came as well. Kálf had been the first to slide onto the bench after Hef, talking little and listening intently. And after that, a flood of others had followed. Rey did not care if the men and women who joined them were driven by curiosity or by an honest desire to help. The more people who joined, the better their chances up Jökull.
Within half an hour, a plan had formed. Silla described how she had collapsed the cave entry with an avalanche of ice and snow, but it was unclear if it would hold. This task could not wait until first light. The warriors would collect their armor and meet at Jökull’s trailhead in one hour’s time. The cave entrance would need to be dug out, the hatchlings and mother serpent dispatched.
Ástrid and Váli’s bodies would be retrieved. And then, Ashbringers would bring down the cavern roof over the chasm while Breakers held a passage open from which they could escape.
Warmth filled Rey’s chest as the plan came together. After weeks of feeling powerless, of fruitlessly searching for the creature, progress was being made. He only hoped the Bloodaxe Crew fared as well with the mysterious, pulsing mist in Istré.
At last they rose from the benches, warriors trudging off to fetch battle provisions. Rey lingered, waiting for Silla. Kálf sidled up to him. “Despite the attention you’ve brought to our quiet corner of the kingdom, Iamglad to see you back, Galtung,” the older man admitted.
