Hekla plowed onward. “Loftur has kept us from the Hagensson’s farm not because of a cleansing ritual, but because he keeps the mist’s human victims chained up in the barn. But, Eyvind, they are no longer human. They are undead. The mist”—her voice broke at the thought of her horse—“it has transformed them into draugur.”
Horses whinnied, and Hekla realized Konal and the rest of Eyvind’s retinue had arrived, with Sigrún and Gunnar bringing up the rear. Eyvind’s spine straightened, his gaze growing noticeably harder with their presence. Hekla glanced toward the warriors, her unease growing.
“Where have you been?” boomed Konal, dismounting in a single, smooth motion before storming toward them. “Good gods, woman, where are your breeches?”
Eyvind’s gaze slid down Hekla’s body, and he seemed to realize for the first time just how ill-equipped she was. A muscle in his jaw feathered, but he swiftly unclasped the pompous red cloak. Hekla didn’t fight as he wrapped the cloak around her shoulders; she was too glad for the warmth and the coverage it provided. As Eyvind slid the cloak pin in place, imploring hazel eyes met hers. She sensed he was trying to convey something, but she hadn’t the faintest inkling of what.
Hekla met Konal’s hard gaze and held it. She was clad in naught but a tunic and Eyvind’s cloak, yet she refused to cower. Refused to make herself smaller.
“Well, Eyvind?” growled Konal. “What has she to say for herself?”
“She,” ground out Hekla, “is right here.”
Konal’s steely eyes landed on her. “You’re at least two hours’ walk from Istré, with no horse, no boots, smelling like the gods know what. And don’t think it has slipped our notice that you’ve come from thedirection of the Hagensson steading.” He took a menacing step forward, but Eyvind’s hand shot out, preventing him from taking another.
“Stand down, Konal,” he said, the carefree, jovial man she’d come to know nowhere to be found. “Let me handle this.”
Konal made a sound of frustration but retreated a few steps.
Eyvind closed his eyes and released a long breath. When he opened them, there was no softness to be found. “Tell me you did not disobey my orders and visit the Hagensson’s steading,” he said slowly.
The fact that Eyvind was more worried about her venturing to the forbidden property, and not the existence of two dozen undead creatures chained in the barn made Hekla’s anger erupt violently. “All this time, Loftur has hidden vital information from us! They aredraugur, Eyvind, and the fool thinks he can cure them by holding a feast?—”
A muscle in Eyvind’s jaw ticked, yet he showed no trace of surprise.
“You knew.” Hekla took a step back in shock. Disbelief and hurt mingled in her chest, but her anger eclipsed them both. “I should have known! What are your father’s orders?”
Eyvind’s hazel eyes roamed her face. “Konal,” he said, in a hoarse voice, “is schooled in the ancient rites of the old gods. My father has ordered him to perform these rites on the night of the double black moon, in order to heal those in the barn.”
Laughter fell from her lips, a dry, brittle sound. “There is no healing those in the barn!” Hekla turned her gaze on Eyvind. “There is no coming back from what they’ve become. Surely you do not buy into Loftur’s madness? Surely yourfatheris not such a fool?—”
Konal clasped his hands behind his back, watching her with stern, dark eyes. “I’d watch what you say about Jarl Hakon, girl.”
Hekla tried to swallow back her anger, yet her words came out sharper than she’d intended. “Loftur lies about Sunnvald coming to him in a dream. It is the mist. It speaks to him through the draugur in the barn. I do not know what it has promised him?—”
“It’s probably your moontime, isn’t it?” said Konal coldly. He turned to Eyvind. “This is why I advise against women in your retinue.”
With a low growl, Hekla unsheathed her claws and took a menacing step forward.
“Enough, Konal!” Eyvind exploded. For the span of a heartbeat, Hekla could have sworn she saw pure, untethered rage in his expression. But it was gone so quickly, she could not be certain.
As Konal stared at Eyvind, there was no mistaking the threat in his eyes. “Handle your business, son.” And after a long, weighted look at Hekla, the aged warrior retreated.
Exhaustion and betrayal and grief twisted inside Hekla’s skull. “You knew. Youknewabout the draugur. You let me toil on this job—let merisk my life—and all this time, you hid this from me.”
Remorse flickered in his eyes, but it only drew her ire.
“What aboutpartnership, Hakonsson? What about working together to defeat the mist?”
A muscle in his jaw feathered. “I wanted to tell you, Hekla, but your behavior has been erratic.” Eyvind ran a hand along his braids. “Now everyone knows you’ve gone to the Hagensson’s steading after I strictly forbade it. You’ve pushed me into a corner Hekla. There is no other way out.”
Hekla braced herself for what was to come, but it hurt all the same.
“You’re off the job.” Again, there was that imploring look in Eyvind’s eye. He swallowed. “I gave you a second chance, but, Hekla, there will not be a third. You must leave Istré immediately.”
His voice was loud enough that all present could hear his words, and Hekla understood that his retinue was meant to witness this moment of dishonor. She should be angry—should be distraught—but the blasted numbness was back.
Hekla had no words. Instead she shouldered past him.
