And with that, he stalked out of the garrison hall to return to his lodgings. The winter sun had long since set, and torches lighting the hallway were sparse, so Jonas did not see the man until he stepped from the shadows.
“Jonas Svik?”
Jonas frowned, eying the wasp sigil on the man’s crimson livery. “Who asks?”
“The queen requests your presence.”
He folded his arms over his chest, irritation prickling through him. “For what reason?”
The messenger bristled. “That is the queen’s business.” He turned on his foot, gesturing for Jonas to follow.
But Jonas hesitated. His bitterness toward the queen had not yet softened. Because ofher,he was in this hellish place. She’d refused to hear him out that day at the pier. Some part of him wanted to punish her right back. Yet as the messenger’s shadow vanished down the corridor, Jonas sighed. Deep down, he knew he had little choice in obeying the queen’s command, and so after a moment, he followed with long strides.
They exited the garrison hall and made their way across the sparring grounds. On the opposite end, a pair of burly warriors guarding the doors to Askaborg proper stepped aside, allowing them entry.
Jonas had to remind himself to close his mouth as he gazed at the luxurious tapestries and intricate stonework on the castle walls—afar cry from the cold, utilitarian garrison hall. His mind whirled in search of a reason for the queen’s summons. What could she possibly have to say to him? They walked for several silent minutes until at last they paused before a large oak door.
Jonas’s feet faltered as the door swung inward, revealing a cavernous space. A high, vaulted ceiling was supported by archedpillars, but more startling was the fact that it was all white and gold—from the marble floor and dual, gilded hearths to the cream draperies and ivory furs in each corner.
The lone disruption in this sea of white and gold was the figure in mourning black, seated by the largest of the hearths. Queen Signe held a goblet between long, slender fingers, as she regarded him blandly.
Jonas trailed the messenger toward the queen, his unease growing with every step. On the battlefield, he was in his element. But here, before the queen, Jonas was acutely aware of all his shortcomings—the sweat and grime clinging to his skin, the tear in his breeches, and his unkempt beard.
Signe lounged in a gown of black silk, her white-gold braids woven into a steel crown of claws. The queen’s gaze lifted to Jonas, and she studied him in silence.
“You’re meant to bow,” hissed the messenger as the queen’s brows lifted expectantly.
Though his instincts protested—this woman was the cause of his current misery—Jonas forced himself to bow low in deference. As he straightened, he examined the queen’s pale face. Jonas considered himself a master at reading women, but this one—thisqueen—was completely inscrutable.
“Sit,” said the queen, gesturing to the seat opposite her own.
Reluctantly, Jonas did as she bade, hoping the filth on his leathers didn’t mar her pristine furs. Signe waved two fingers in the air. A cupbearer rushed forward and poured wine into a goblet, and all the while, the queen’s unnerving gaze never left Jonas’s face.
“Jonas Svik,” she murmured, once the cupbearer had left. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”
“No.” He held her gaze, trying desperately to prove her wrong.
But her lips curved into a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Liar.”
Jonas took a sip from his goblet, then blinked. The few samplings of wine he’d tasted in his life had been acidic and sour. But this one played across his tongue like a hundred splendid musical notes.
“It’s good, isn’t it? One of the few good things to come from ourZagadkianfriends.” There was no disguising the queen’s sarcasm in the last word.
Jonas wasn’t certain if he was meant to answer, and so he let his eyes roam to the gilded fireplace.How many sólas would the grating fetch?he couldn’t help but wonder.
“You have talent on the sparring grounds.”
Jonas’s gaze snapped back to the queen, that foolish, impulsive bow rushing back to the forefront of his mind. He’d let his anger get the best of him that day in the pits, and now, he felt a moment of regret. “My thanks,” he said woodenly.
The queen took a sip, then set her goblet down. “Word of your prowess reached me from Volund, so I came to see for myself. Imagine my surprise when I realized you were the same man who cost me Svangormr Pass.”
Jonas’s hands tightened around the arms of his chair as he struggled to hold the words back—to explain that they’dhadEisa Volsik when the avalanche had struck.
“I wrote to Kaptein Ulfar,” she said casually, yet he felt her studying his every move, his every reaction. “I understand you came to him in Kopa. That you told him youknewthe pair we sought.”
The birchbark etching of Reynir Bjarg and Silla Nordvig—Eisa Volsik,he corrected himself—flashed in his mind. “Aye.”
“The kaptein expressed his doubts in your story.”
