And then she exhaled. The beast roared. The wave crested. Heat seared from her hands. And the room was swallowed in darkness.
Engulfed in pure black flame.
The fire burst to the furthest end of the great hall, singeing the walls and shaking the foundation of the palace.
Just as quickly, the flame snuffed out, light trickling into the room from windows and torches in the corridor beyond. The air smelled burned, like after a lightning storm. Stones tumbled from the ceiling, powdering the room. It was silent, but only for a moment.
Then the screams began.
People rushed through the room; a man sobbed over a woman’s limp body, blood gushing from his brow; blistered and broken bodies were strewn throughout the hall.
You did well,said the voice, yawning.
Contentment rushed through her at his approval. She’d done it—had made them pay.
Now that you and your sister are awakened, we’ll have fun…more fun than you can imagine. But now it’s time to rest.The beast curled up and laid its head on its paws.
Exhaustion surging through her, Saga laid her own head down on the feasting table. And then more blackness as she drifted into sleep.
Chapter Eighty-Seven
KOPA
Silla dreamed of darkness—of smothering snow and a bargain gone awry. She dreamed of a creature caressing her spine, whispering wicked things in her ear—of a sword of black flame and Rey’s hands wrapped around her neck. And when she awoke, it was only to more blackness.
But as she blinked, the blackness sorted itself into soft, pleated linen, curving downward from a canopy. Silla looked down, disoriented. She was in a bed, the blanket tucked around her woven from the softest, most luxurious textile she’d ever felt.
Rolling to the side, Silla’s head throbbed in protest. The room’s walls were hewn from black stone, the floor a mosaic of polished black tiles. Golden braziers burned in each corner, finely woven tapestries hanging from the walls, but none of that mattered to Silla. Because before her was Reynir Galtung’s large frame slumped in a chair. He was clad in a blue tunic and black breeches, a sheathed hevrít balanced on his knees. In slumber, his face was softer, almost boyish. Long black lashes swept across his brown skin, his lips parted ever so slightly. But as she took in the awkward angle of his neck, Silla scowled.
“Why are you not in the bed, you muttonhead?”
His head jerked up, and he stared dazedly at her for several heartbeats. Then Rey bolted from the chair, his hevrít drawn before she could blink.
“What are you…” Silla pushed herself upright, the hairs on the back of her neck rising. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Rey’s eyes searched her face frantically, causing Silla’s heart to lurch. “Is he there?” he demanded. “Can you…feel him?”
Silla’s brows furrowed as she tried to puzzle his words together. “I don’t understand.”
Rey released a long breath. “Your eyes,” he said, a note of incredulity in his voice. “They’re normal.” He approached the bed but paused a pace back from it. “Are you hurt?” he asked, sliding his blade into its sheath.
Silla assessed her body, discovering nothing out of the ordinary. “I’m only tired,” she murmured. “What happened? Why did you draw your blade?”
“You don’t remember?” Rey folded his arms over his chest. “Perhaps it’s for the best.” He regarded her with a troubled expression. “What is the last thing you remember?”
Silla pushed through the fog in her head, trying to recall what, precisely, had happened. The serpents, and then, the Klaernar. And Jonas.
She scowled at that. But then, the memory of a mountainside sliding free and crashing down on her pushed itself forth. Silla’s hand flew to her mouth. Trapped. No escape. She’d been buried alive. She should be dead. She should havedied.
“The avalanche,” she said. “How did I escape that avalanche?” But those hazy nightmares were growing more vivid by the moment. A bargain with the Dark One. An explosion of snow. Her blade slicing through flesh, over and over and over…
Bile rose in her throat. “It was real,” she gasped. “Myrkur. My mother’s bargain…”
“So itwasthe Dark One,” muttered Rey. “It was clear something had possession of your body. You were…not yourself.”
As another face flashed in her mind’s eye. Black braids snaking along the snow, dark eyes wide in the woman’s pale face. Silla’s empty stomach turned over. “Runný,” she muttered. “Oh gods. Is she…did I…”
“Runný’s fine. She pricked you with a skarpling quill. It seems whatever galdur-quelling substance is on them works on Myrkur’s magic as well.”
