Rey frowned as she smothered another yawn. “Perhaps you ought to rest. Last night you—” He broke off as the memory of her voice rang in his ears. A voice that was not her own, speaking in tongues. “It is clear you had dark dreams. I think rest is in order.”
Silla slapped a palm on the table, her eyes flashing black for the fraction of a heartbeat. “We haven’t time to rest,” she said sharply. “I must play with this bloodline gift. Learn all I can of it.”
Trepidation crept across his skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Rey held himself rigid as stone, wondering if these were Silla’s words, or if they were Myrkur’s. Gods, but he hated this.
How was Silla to practice this bloodline gift of hers to prepare for the battle in the heartwood with a shard of the god of chaos monitoring her at all times? They’d been fortunate that Myrkur had exhausted Himself in the wake of the unfortunate meeting of jarls, as it had left Silla’s mind to herself for several hours.
During those precious hours, they’d discovered that Silla could pull magic not only from halda stones but also from other Galdra. After she’d inadvertently pulled Rey’s galdur, she’d repeated the move countless times. Then Silla had called over Runný and done the same with her light-bending skills.
“I can see…threads!” Silla had gasped, vanishing before Rey’s eyes.
After Silla mastered vanishing, Runný showed her how to form a shield of curving light. Then Silla had called Hef over, and learned to wield his Blade Breaker skill. By the end of the day, they’d learnedSilla could most easily pull from those who were primed. But with a little extra effort, she could draw straight from Rey’s source.
“Why do you think you could not feel this bloodline gift before now?” Rey asked cautiously. It was a fine line between understanding this gift and revealing too much to Myrkur.
Silla tapped her spoon against her bowl. “I think,” she finally said, “my Ashbringer source is so bright and vibrant and…loud…that I could not sense this other ability. Only now that my Ashbringer source is smothered with hindrium am I able to sense these more subtle cues.”
Rey hummed in agreement, but then turned toward the door as someone knocked. “Come in!” he called out, hoping it wasn’t the irritating one called Ingvarr.
Thankfully, it was Runný, no doubt here to usher them to their meeting with the jarls. But her drawn expression had Rey immediately on his feet.
“What is it?” snarled Silla. Rey could have sworn the torchlight flared black for a second.
“Refugees,” said Runný, gaze darting from Silla to Rey in alarm.Is she all right?she asked with her eyes. Rey shook his head subtly,no. Runný swallowed, then continued. “Hundreds, I’m told. They’ve been gathering at Kopa’s gates all morning.”
“Refugees?” asked Silla, and to Rey’s great relief, the words seemed to be truly her own. “From where?”
“From the countryside.” Runný’s dark eyes met Rey’s. “They bring word of a mist with a beating heart.”
“Why are they gathering at the gates?” asked Silla. “Has Jarl Hakon refused them entry?”
“Aye,” answered Runný. “He claims he hasn’t the resources to feed them.”
“Hehas,” snapped Silla, and this time, Rey was certain the flamelight beside him blazed black. “I have seen that man’s grain stores with my own eyes. You will take me to him, Runný.”
Trouble, thought Rey, trailing Silla from her chambers. He had a bad feeling about this day.
News of the refugees seemed to enliven Silla. She quickly took charge of a group of servants—remembering each of their names with enviable ease—and ordered that any empty room in Ashfall Fortress be readied. Within an hour, she had the kitchens preparing a dozen enormous cauldrons of stew and countless batches of griddle cakes; the stablehands collecting spare blankets and clothing; the healers gathering in Ashfall’s great hall, ready to see to any sick and injured.
The meeting with the jarls was postponed once more. Jarl Hakon hovered nearby and tried to interject, but he was uncharacteristically cowed by Silla today. Rey was certain he’d seen those dark flashes in her eyes, and given that Hakon was privy to Myrkur’s bargain, it was likely the jarl was simply afraid to object.
Atli, to his begrudging credit, took orders from Silla with impressive ease, and was soon putting out a call for any available lodgings in Kopa. Pride bloomed in Rey’s chest as he watched her lead—as he watched the jarls who’d seemed ready to dismiss her the day before witnessing the true Silla in action.
Rey didn’t have to watch carefully to see the signs of Myrkur—Silla flinched frequently, her words growing sharp. Despite this, she seemed to hold Him back. As the line of hungry, exhausted refugees snaked from Ashfall’s gates and down through the streets of Kopa, Silla insisted on standing by a cauldron, ladle in hand. She spooned stew into wooden bowls, greeting each beleaguered villager with a smile and reassurance.
Rey stood by her side, handing out flatbreads while trying not to frighten the refugees with hisaxe eyes.As the sun reached its low peak in the winter skies, stories flowed into the city, matching what he and Silla had told the jarls just a day before—mist crawling across the countryside, Turning all creatures in its wake. There were tales of nightmare creatures and human draugur, of the moldering stench that clung to them. Now, more than ever, Rey was reminded of his purpose, and of those who’d pay should he fail to muster an army.
Today he would swallow his pride and go to Atli—would go to any jarl who’d hear him out. He’d do what it took to get Atli’s help in mustering men, even if it meant dropping to his knees and begging.
Hours passed, and the line gradually dwindled. The cauldrons were scraped dry, the platters of flatbreads emptied, and winter’s early darkness fell over them. Silla swayed on her feet, exhaustion etched into her face, but as Rey wrapped a stabilizing arm around her shoulders, he caught sight of a figure watching from the shadows. It was an opportunity he had to take.
Rey waved Runný over. “Take her to her chambers and make sure she lies down.”
As Runný led Silla away, Rey strode toward the man in the shadows. There, leaning against Ashfall’s black stone walls, was Jarl Holger, his impressive gray beard reaching midway down his chest.
He tried not to show his deep discomfort in approaching the jarl. For the last five years, Rey had been the blade, or as Atli put it, a hound on the Uppreisna’s leash. What right had he to make an ask of this jarl?
But as he took in the brutal scar on Holger’s pale cheek, Rey told himself that this was not the kind of jarl who lounged by the hearthfire and let others do the work. He could do this. He could ask this man for help.
