“Please,” she begged. “Please, take my life, but not that, please, anything but that.”
“The decision is in your hands, woman,” growled Ivar. “Tell me what you read, and I will spare your child.” He paused in thought. “I will order my men to shoot you down from that post, so you’ll be free to return to your kin.”
“Galdur!”
Ivar’s mouth snapped shut as he stared at the woman. Galdur—that strange Íseldurian magic.
“Explain,” he barked.
“You will—” She coughed out a mouthful of saltwater. “You will meet your end by galdur’s hand!” she called out, before a wave crashed into her, submerging her completely for a heartbeat.
Ivar’s brows plummeted, his iron stomach giving a single queasy lurch.Meet his end by galdur’s hand.
“What else?” he demanded.
“That is all,” called the woman. “There is nothing else. Free me!” she pleaded, not a moment before another wave struck her, saltwater rushing into her lungs. More coughing. More spluttering. She fought against her binds with a ragged cry. “Free me!”
Ivar turned his back to her.
By the time Magnus returned, an unconscious child slung over his shoulder, the pillar was submerged, and a plan had solidified in the king of Íseldur’s mind.
“Kill the child,” said Ivar coldly, striding toward Askaborg, “and gather the Galdra. Things will be changing in this kingdom.”
Chapter One
TWO DAYS WEST OF KOPA
Silla Nordvig had once vowed no force in this world could draw her to the true north of Íseldur, but clearly, she’d underestimated the gods’ twisted sense of humor. Because here she was, on a horse with Axe Eyes, heading for that very place.
The canyon’s black walls climbed up on either side of them, as Horse walked beside a flat-bedded river. Nature had made a valid attempt to reclaim the space, moss and greenery carpeting the riverbanks and exposed ledges. But black volcanic stone dominated, the sheer canyon walls stark and raw in their beauty.
They’d ridden through the canyon for two full days now. The sun rose and set, the world moving on as though it hadn’t been smashed to pieces. But with each passing day, Silla’s spirits sank lower. It was starting to settle in—there would be no Kopa.
Instead, there was Kalasgarde.
Silla exhaled. Rey claimed to know people in Kalasgarde who could help her hide from the queen and Klaernar. He thought it would be safe for her. But Silla knew better than to hope; her foolish heart had been bruised too many times. The truth was, there was no place safe for her. Not now that she knew her true name.
Eisa Volsik.
Heir of King Ivar’s sworn enemy. Hunted by Queen Signe for her mysterious, wicked plans. Political pawn to those in power. Easy reward for those whowere not. The name brought nothing but misery. Chest tightening, Silla clamped her hands around the saddle horn until her knuckles grew white.
Not her. Not her. Not her.
Silla drew in a long breath. Exhaled it slowly.
Kopa had been Matthias’s decision, and Kalasgarde was Rey’s. As the days wore on, the idea of choosing for herself grew in Silla’s mind. Perhaps there were better options for her than the northern wilds of this kingdom. A southbound ship leaving Íseldur had a pleasing feel to it. She could go to the Southern Continent or Karthia, perhaps. Anywhere she could fade into obscurity.
For the time being, Silla had resigned herself to Rey’s plan. Istré for now. It was easier not to decide for herself. A relief if she were being honest. But between the black walls of the canyon, Silla had nothing but time to think. To remember their names.
Ilías Svik. Matthias Nordvig. Skeggagrim.
Good men, all dead because of her. Perhaps living was her punishment. To wake each morning with the anguish of their blood on her hands, with the ache of Jonas’s betrayal etched into her soul, knowing that Metta was in the Klaernar’s prison, suffering at the hands of her captors.
Certainly, Silla bore the bruises of Kopa—a beating so thorough her eye had swelled up, and her ribs ached with each slight movement. Even so, she couldn’t help but think she deserved far worse.
They rounded a bend, the canyon widening. The lower levels of the wall had eroded away in one spot, leaving a thin black spire, topped with a wider rock.
“They call it Hábrók’s Hammer,” said Rey from behind her. “We will camp here tonight. There is an overhang there to shelter under. Plenty of grass for Horse…” Her mind drifted to the rumble of his voice along her back. It was impossible to keep their distance while on horseback, and in her exhaustion, she’d given up trying. Though she’d never admit it to anyone but herself, his presence behind her—a solid wall of warrior—was reassuring.
