Hekla nodded, trying to extract herself from Gunnar’s clutches. But the warrior did not seem inclined to let her go. “Let me breathe, you oaf.”
Reluctantly, Gunnar released her and batted a tear from his cheek. “I thought you were going to die!”
“I’ve survived far worse. It’ll take more than a fever to bring me down, Fire Fist.”
“Aye, but it will.” Gunnar looked at her fondly, a certain glimmer back in his eye. Gods, but she was glad to see it. Glad to have them both in this room.
“Gather yourself, Gunnar,” Hekla teased. “What would No Beard say?” The words slipped out carelessly, and Hekla wished she could claw them back.
A silence filled the room, so heavy it felt like a tangible thing. Hekla’s throat closed up, and in that moment, she missed Ilías as fiercely as the day they’d buried him. She closed her eyes, hating herself as she had a thousand times before. Too loud, too forward,too much, as always, and now she’d trampled Gunnar’s fragile sense of peace.
Hekla waited for the large warrior to fall to pieces—readied herself to be strong for him—but Gunnar surprised her.
“I reckon,” he said, “Ilías’d tell me I’m uglier than my mother when I cry.”
There was a moment of silence, like the peace following a wave’s crash ashore. Then Hekla tossed her head back and laughed. Gunnar and Sigrún soon joined in. It was a strange, purifying laugh—one that felt like the first step toward a new normal. It wouldn’t be easy. Wouldn’t be the same as before. But this collective laugh promised it would besomething.
Wiping tears from her eyes, Hekla shook her head. “That’s exactly what he’d say.”
“We’re here now, Hek,” said Gunnar, his voice growing serious. “We’re in it with you.”
Hekla looked from Gunnar wiping snot on his sleeve, to Sigrúndabbing discreetly at the corner of her eye. “The next time I get grand plans in my head,” she said, “I’ll come to you two first.”
Good, signed Sigrún.You need warriors you can trust at your back.
“Aye, but I do,” muttered Hekla. She drew a deep breath.
And then she told them everything.
TEN
Hekla’s nose wrinkled as she sipped the bitter mushroom tea. The healer—the second one, that was—had left a small satchel of withered brown stems along with directions to take a daily cup of the stuff for a full week after her fever had broken. And while a daily cup of tea was well and good, his instructions for a week of bedrest were quickly discarded.
She’d bathed and eaten a hearty bowl of stew. And after a glorious afternoon nap, she now tried to gather her energy. Leaning against her headboard, Hekla found herself staring at the window, searching for any trace of the phantom squirrel. She nearly laughed at the thought. Obviously, it had been a fever-induced vision.
Now that the sun had set, sounds of laughter and revelry filtered into her room. Hekla had spent three days and nights in slumber, which made this the fifth consecutive night of the Winter Nights celebrations. They were only two nights away from the penultimate feast.
“I gather Loftur has continued his quest to drain Istré of all its winter provisions,” she muttered to Sigrún, forcing another sip of the strange tea.
They’ve been brawling and feasting each night, if that’s what you’re asking, signed Sigrún with a scowl.
“Gods above. How can that man truly think the old gods will swoop in and save them?”
It seems like Hakonsson is in Loftur’s pocket, signed Sigrún.
Hekla frowned. “I cannot understand how Axe Eyes thought him suitable to lead this investigation. It’s maddening!”
Sigrún and Gunnar nodded their agreement, then relayed the details of what had happened while she was sick. Apparently, Hakonsson had had the foresight to have Thrand lure Loftur away from the Braksson steading to keep him from learning of Hekla’s blatant disregard of his orders. Guilt twinged in her stomach, but as Sigrún updated her on the progression—or lack of progression—of the job, the feeling quickly dissolved.
It seemed while Hekla was unconscious, everyone had examined the site of the third attack. Not once did they venture into the woods, nor had they searched the borderlands for markings on the trees.
According to Sigrún, Eyvind and his men were raucous participants of the Winter Nights celebrations. While Konal and Loftur were content to lounge in the seats of honor, Eyvind and his retinue participated in drinking competitions and arm-wrestling matches with an increasingly ridiculous set of wagers. During one memorable loss, Onund Ale Drinker had had to strip naked in the middle of the Hungry Blade and run down Istré’s central road. During another, Thrand had dropped to one knee before one of the Old Mothers and recited terrible poetry.
Thank the gods the double black moon nears, Sigrún continued.The end of these celebrations cannot come soon enough.
At mention of the double black moon, the hairs on Hekla’s neck lifted. She couldn’t help but think of that dream—of the mist seeping through the walls and into Istré. And while Hekla was not one to put weight on dreams, it felt like an ominous message.
She forced herself to drain her cup. Whatever was in that tea, it was doing good work, enlivening her blood and melting her exhaustionaway. Hekla pulled the furs from her lap, then placed her feet onto the floor. After waiting a moment for the lights in her vision to clear, she gingerly stood.
