Grumbling, Thrand fished coins from the purse secured to his belt and dropped them into Eyvind’s outstretched hand.
Hekla folded her arms over her chest. “You’re awfully pleased with yourself, golden boy.”
“You just earned me twenty sólas by proving me right.”
Now that she was in the yard, Hekla could better see the wagons; there were eight of them, each covered with a woolen blanket. With forced nonchalance, she strolled to the nearest and flipped the covering back. Here was the large wagon the armorer used to haul smelted ore, but now, it held the kind of life-saving provisions the Bloodaxe Crew had once carried: a tinderbox, crates of dried meats, waterskins filled with water. Hekla’s gaze slid to the next wagon, its vibrant blue wheels marking it as the miller’s wagon. It was beginning to look like Hakonsson was preparing for an evacuation.
Her heart pounded, chest filling with hope. Could it truly be? She could not come up with any other explanation for the provisions now gathered here in the yard. But with that hope came the sharp pang of yet more deception.
“Why?” she asked, without turning around. She could not let him see the pain on her face. “Why did you brush aside my warnings? Why did you belittle me before your men?”
She heard him take a step forward.
“I tried to tell you.” There was remorse in his voice, but it did little to ease her pain. “Then Konal arrived and discovered you’dbeen to the Hagensson steading and”—his exhale was weighted—“I had no choice but to send you away. I’m only glad you proved me right by sneaking back in.”
“You listened to me,” Hekla murmured. Eyvind had been listening to her all this time. He had come through—had heeded her warnings. But only after throwing her to the wolves.
“Sending you away bought us some time to prepare for an evacuation. Konal and Loftur’s defenses are lowered; they’re busy preparing for the feasting rituals.”
Hekla nodded, hating the burn in her throat. She gathered her strength and turned to face him. Clad in his pompous red cloak and with the finest of weapons belted at his hips, he looked every bit the jarl’s son.
“Your second chance,” she said sadly, realizing all that Eyvind prepared to sacrifice. There would be no redemption in Jarl Hakon’s eyes once he learned that his son had deceived Konal and Loftur. “You’ve done the right thing,” she said in a voice of steel, and she meant it. She was proud of him. Sadness panged through her with sudden intensity. What she wouldn’t give to go back to that night when he had been the Fox and she the Lynx.
But it was only ever an illusion.
Eyvind glanced at Thrand then back to Hekla. “Hekla, I?—”
“Don’t worry yourself, Hakonsson,” said Hekla. “You did what any good leader would do in that situation. I understand well enough.”
Hekla put her hands on her hips. Stared up at the skies. And when her gaze fell back upon Eyvind, it was through the eyes of Rib Smasher. Confident. Unshakeable. And utterly cold.
“There are two hundred people out there, vulnerable to the mist.” She hardened her jaw. “The more of us ready to evacuate them, the better. Tell me which supplies you’ve gathered, Hakonsson, and I will inform you of our plan.”
Eyvind began listing the supplies he’d gathered. With each cart,horse, and weapon he recited, Hekla’s heart lightened just a touch. And when he was done, she relayed her plans as promised.
“Let me stand beside you,” said Eyvind, snagging her gaze and holding it.
“No,” said Hekla. “Istré’s locals respect you. They’ll trust in your directions far better than mine. And someone must lead them to safety.”
A muscle in his jaw flexed, but after a weighted moment, Eyvind nodded.
After agreeing on a signal, Hekla pulled her hood up and turned to retreat down the inn’s backroad.
“Hekla,” said Eyvind. There was weight to her name. As though he wished to say a thousand things. But all he said was, “I’m glad you came back.”
Hekla nodded and continued on.
NINETEEN
The sun soon set, but where the moons should have risen was naught but darkness. The double black moon was a rare phenomenon that happened but once a decade, when the sister moons’ cycles aligned just right. It felt unnatural not to see at least one of the sisters in the sky, as though the eyes of a great god were shut to this world.
Hekla’s legs dangled over the side of the stockade wall, her back propped against a palisade. The forest had been cleared within one hundred paces of the wall, and a sharp, piney scent filled the air. Beyond the wall stretched a graveyard of stumps and felled trees awaiting their turn to become firewood.
Istré’s defensive walls were well built. Wooden stakes jutted outward to impale attackers, arrow slits were carved into the timber walls at regular intervals, and watchtowers were stationed at each corner of the town. By all standards, Istré was well fortified. Little good it would do against the mist.
Five of Eyvind’s most trusted men were scattered along the stockade wall, five more assembling provisions for the evacuation in the inn’s yard. Not long ago, Hekla had spied Gunnar in the townsquare with a bucket in each hand. Everything was proceeding just as it must, but as low, rhythmic drumbeats began in Istré’s town square, Hekla’s muscles tensed all the same.
“Tonight, we honor the gods of old!” Loftur bellowed above the drums. “Tonight, we pay penance for seventeen years of neglect!”
