Rey closed his eyes. His mind spun, trying to understand all that had happened, but he knew that without Ingvarr, there was only one other who had answers.
He prodded the broken bones and cartilage, and, after a deep breath, shoved his nose back into place. His shout of pain echoed off the courtyard walls, but Rey climbed to his feet and leveled his gaze on Jarl Holger.
“Now,” said Rey, resignation settling into his bones, “I suppose you know what it is she hides.”
He could not read the expression in Holger’s eyes, nor did Rey want to imagine the fallout from this. Instead, he turned his gaze on Runný.
“Bring her back to her chambers,” Rey growled. His fingertips found the stinging wound on his neck and he winced. “And shackle her to the bed.”
“Tell me how to release her from the bargain,” Rey hissed in a low voice, as close to Silla’s ear as he dared to venture.
Hair was plastered to her forehead, and her head lolled to the side. Every part of Rey despised seeing her like this—hands and feet shackled to the bed, sweat-slicked brow, her breaths raspy and labored. He had to remind himself that the healer had deemed her well; that Myrkur must be expending tremendous energy, and sooner or later, He’d lose His grip.
The healer had properly bandaged Silla’s hands, then determined that she was in a state ofwakeful sleep.How in the gods’ ashes one could be awake in sleep, Rey didn’t know. What he did know was he could not grant the god of chaos the slightest of opportunities. And so Silla would remain sedated and shackled to the bed—both for her own safety and to protect others.
A quiet tension filled the room. Runný and Atli had returned tothe chambers with Rey and now sat by the hearth, combing through the books stacked nearby. Rey, meanwhile, could not bear to leave Silla’s side. Not while this monster had her in his thrall.
“You should thank me,” slurred Myrkur. “Without me, she’d be dead beneath that mountain of snow.”
Rey wanted to punch the wall. Wanted to scream at the top of his lungs. Instead, he gathered every last shred of his composure. “I’ll thank you,” said Rey, “when you release her from the bargain.A life for a life,you said. Take anyone’s life. Anyoneelse—”
Myrkur’s laugh fell from Silla’s lips, unnatural and eerie, and Rey pushed away from the bed to resume his pacing.
“Pitiful mortals,” taunted the god. “So beholden to your hearts. Tell me, warrior, would you give your life for hers?”
“Aye,” said Rey, without hesitation.
Myrkur tutted. “Unfortunately, you do not hold my interest.”
Now Rey did drive his fist into the wall—a foolish mistake, as the volcanic stone split his knuckles. He cursed and shook out his hand, but Rey was glad for the pain—it was far more tolerable than what lay on that bed. Each glance at Silla felt like a hand reaching through his ribs and squeezing his heart. Each word from Myrkur was like knives in his skull.
It was hard to stay hopeful in moments like these. Because even when the god’s grip on Silla faded, the fact was, irreparable damage had just been done. Jarl Holger had witnessed Silla’s possession, and Rey did not want to consider the repercussions. Would he withdraw his offer of warriors? Would he poison the other jarls against their cause?
One week. They had only one week before they rode for the woods. This was the last thing they needed.
A strange scratching noise drew Rey’s attention. He strode to the window and pulled back the curtain. Before him was a chilling sight—a black hawk perched at an iron offerings plate, tearing meat from a chicken bone.
The black hawk is a harbinger of death,rattled Harpa’s voice in his mind.
“I won’t lose her!” Rey bellowed, pounding on the window with his fist.
“Easy, Galtung,” said Runný, laying a hand on his shoulder. “That hawk has been here each day, feeding on the offerings left for the spirits and the gods.” She sighed. “And the healer said rest is the best thing for Eisa.”
But Rey only scowled as the black hawk took flight, the offerings clutched in its talons. He scrubbed a hand down his face and made to turn away from the window, but something curious caught his eye. The corner of the window frame was pried loose, several curly hairs clinging to it. Rey leaned closer. Below the window jutted an ornamental lip of stone.
“I suppose,” said Rey, plucking the curly hairs from the window frame, “this answers the question of how she escaped the room.”
Runný joined him, staring down at the ledge. “None of this makes sense. Ingvarr was beside me when we swept the rooms. Beside me when Eisa entered and locked the doors. He could not have slipped in.”
Rey scowled out the window, his moods as dark as the night. “What happened?”
“I do not know,” said Runný carefully. “But I suspect there will be no answers tonight. Get yourself some sleep, Galtung. Morning will bring a better day.”
Runný returned to her seat near Atli and continued flipping through her book. A moment later, Rey settled across from them. There was an edge to this silence. An imaginary blade hovering at Silla’s heart. The three of them searched for a way to free Silla from the bargain long into the night. But it seemed no answers were to be found.
Rey woke to the clank of chains. Immediately, he surged upright and reached for the dagger under his pillow. Perhaps it had been unwise to share a bed with Silla, but he couldn’t stand the thought of her alone. And so he’d arranged himself on the farthestedge, leaving ample space between them. As his gaze now settled on Silla, Rey found her clear-eyed, and exhaled in relief. Myrkur no longer held her in His thrall.
“Rey?” she asked, a panicked edge to her voice. “What is this? What’s happened?” She tugged on the restraint again, setting the chains to clatter. Silla paused. “What happened to your face?” She attempted to sit upright, but her manacles caught and wrenched her back down. A whimper escaped her. “Tell me what has happened.”
