She dissolved into laughter, squeezing him only tighter. “I bet you did.”
Chapter Sixty-Nine
The door to Harpa’s cabin rasped against the frame as it shut behind Silla. It was cold inside. The fire had burned low, casting dim light onto the bundles of herbs and jars strewn about the room. Like the fire, Rykka slept, her charcoal arms hugging a coal as though it were a pillow. Silla had expected silence but was met with the eerie sound of weight stones thunking together as Harpa wove at her loom.
A life for a life, slid through her mind, and Silla tried to shake it off.
Rey had warned her not to disturb Harpa, but there were too many things Silla needed to ask her—at the forefront of her mind were the visions she’d had of King Hrolf. In the aftermath of the serpent’s attack, she and Rey had rushed to rally the Galdra. But now, Silla wondered if there was a connection between the visions and the serpents.
She also wanted to ask about the mind-to-mind connection she had with Saga. What kind of Galdra could communicate like this? If she could trust in this voice, could this be the breakthrough needed to free Saga from Askaborg? Days already, Silla had spent waiting, while Harpa worked at her loom. Enough was enough.
A candle lit in the far back corner illuminated Harpa’s outline. The dancing light caught an array of coils sprung loose from her braid. As Silla glanced at Harpa, a tendril of worry slid through her. Her shoulders looked thin against her dress, her shawl in a rumpled heap behind her. How long had Harpa been at this?
“Harpa?” she whispered, but her mentor continued through her motions.
A life for a life.
Silla shook her head, trying to jostle the unnerving words from her mind. The air was even cooler in this corner, sending a shiver down Silla’s spine. Suddenly, the flame shuddered violently. A strange, ominous feeling pulled at her, familiar, yet not. A dream she’d forgotten, a memory she could not recall…
Placing a hand on Harpa’s thin shoulders, Silla stepped in front of her mentor and gasped. Harpa’s eyes were opened wide, but not milky white as she’d seen them before. Instead, they were utterly black.
“Harpa?” asked Silla, louder this time. She gave her shoulder a gentle shake. But Harpa would not be roused from this trance.
Silla turned to the loom and gasped.
Harpa had made considerable progress, and now four figures could clearly be discerned, woven in threads of midnight black. A serpent. A dragon. A tree. A queen.
A life for a life.
The words curled through her mind and slid through her veins. As Silla stared, the tapestry pulled at her. Nearer, she must get nearer. And with each passing heartbeat, the urge to reach out and slide her fingers along those threads pumped through her body with more vigor, until it rivaled her most vicious cravings for the skjöld leaves.
Silla felt her mind grow slack. Her hand lifting. She touched the tapestry.
And the world went black.
Stone walls.Dank air. And an ancient, familiar feel clinging to the air.
She’d been here before.
The room was still crumbling, the alcoves still dark. But instinct told Silla this differed from the before. Instead of the old, solemn king, a woman paced frantically before her.
Clad in lébrynja armor emblazoned with a Sun Cross, the woman’s dark hair was woven into dozens of small braids merging into a single, thick one at her crown. As Silla took her in, she realized the woman was in degrees of disarray—blood splattered along her neck and chin, the forearm of her armor slashed open to reveal a bandage.
Silla moved closer. Due to the dim lighting and the charcoal war paint smeared across the woman’s face, it was difficult to make out her features.
“Cannot,” muttered the woman, pausing to chew on a fingernail. It was asurprisingly childlike gesture, one that stirred recognition. Silla’s gaze flew to the woman’s eyes, examining them through the dark paint. Blue. Tilted upward.
“Mama?” Silla whispered, love and grief warring within her. As expected, Svalla Volsik was unaware of her daughter’s presence. But Silla rushed forward all the same, throwing her arms around the woman. They slipped through her body as though she was made of air.
“Mama!” Silla sobbed, trying in vain to touch the woman.
“Must keep them safe,” said Svalla, completing another lap of the room.
Silla urged herself to stay calm. But this was her mother, the woman who’d birthed her. Until this moment, Silla hadn’t known how badly she wanted to know the look of her mother—to map each corner of her face and discover each thing that looked like her.
In Silla’s last vision, Svalla had been a young child. But now, she was a grown woman. A queen. Silla’s gaze dropped to the base of Svalla’s neck, a red scar stretching across it. She’d survived the unimaginable—an attempt on her life by her own grandfather. What was Svalla doing in this of all rooms?
“Cannot,” Svalla said through gritted teeth. She paused, turning to the shelves carved into the wall. “But what else is there?”
