Atli slammed a book shut with obvious irritation. When he’d first arrived in the morning, Atli had droned on about everything and nothing for several long minutes, until Silla finally demanded that he give her an honest report. It was not good news. Jarl Holger, it seemed, was not ready to raise his banners for Eisa Volsik, and the other jarls were following suit. The lone bright spot in this dismal news was that Holger would still send the men he’d promised to the heartwood. But none of the other jarls had made such an offer.
“Holger has ordered his horses readied,” Atli finished, wearily. “He plans to ride home on the morrow.”
Atli had settled near the hearth with a book soon after, and Lady Tala had taken his place by her side. She’d examined Silla’s pallor and tutted over the manacles clasped at her wrists. But then Tala had fluffed the pillows and ordered a window opened to allow fresh air into the chambers. Broth was brought up, and Tala offered to spoon it into her mouth, but Silla’s stomach roiled at the sight ofit.
“Has there been any sign of Ingvarr?” Silla whispered, the wounds in her palms throbbing angrily. Rey had explained that such marks could only have been left when defending herself, and that Ingvarr had fled before he could be questioned. Had Ingvarr attacked Silla, and Myrkur retaliated? And did this mean that Ingvarr was the assassin?
But there were too many questions—too many holes that needed filling. For one thing, Ingvarr had been far from Silla’s cup on the day of the attempted poisoning. When questioned about the day ofthe rockslide, Runný could not recall Ingvarr’s position. It had been too chaotic, and their group was fractured by the slide.
Lady Tala shook her head with a tight smile. “There has been no sign of him, I’m afraid, but you needn’t worry. You must focus on restoring your health. Come, take some broth.”
Tala lifted the spoon again, the thin liquid quivering upon it. Bile rose in Silla’s throat again. “Later,” she said weakly. With a frustrated sigh, Tala set the bowl aside then began prattling on about the inroads she and Ladies Liv and Kaeja had made with the jarls’ wives.
Silla was glad when Tala finally took her leave until she realized she was now alone with Myrkur and her toxic thoughts. The god of chaos breathed in her bitterness and exhaled it in greater potency. She’d come to Kopa with hope and determination, but now she felt shattered and on the very brink of ruin.
There was blood on her hands.
Poison in her mind.
Why are you so stubborn, Eisa?whispered Myrkur, His claws sliding into her mind, kneading and molding it as He saw fit.Are you not intrigued by all that we could accomplish together?
Silla sighed, too weary to shove Him out.
All you need to do is let me in. Grant me access to your bloodline gift.
Images flooded her mind—legions of undead creatures and black-veined Klaernar; berserker warriors banging weapons against their shields. An enormous black dragon circled the skies above, and all the while, raw, unbridled power thrummed through Silla’s veins.You could have it all, Eisa,whispered Myrkur.The throne. Íseldur’s undying loyalty. A reprieve from your pitiful mortal struggles. All you need to do is yield your Volsik power to me.
The door flew open and crashed against the wall, sending Myrkur’s depraved images scattering from her mind. Rey stormed through the doorway, a strange look upon his face. Deep inside her, Myrkur hissed in displeasure.
“What is it?” asked Runný as she and Atli gathered at Silla’s bedside.
“This!” There was a note of triumph in Rey’s voice, and his hand was curled into a fist. Rey’s dark gaze homed in on Silla. “You hadn’t any cuts on your hands when they found you in Fallgerd’s home. There were only smears of blood on your gown and hands.”
Runný nodded vehemently.
“Fallgerd suffered a dozen stab wounds,” continued Rey. “If you’d killed him, Silla, you’d surely have cut yourself.”
Silla’s gaze roamed his face as she tried to understand.
He shook his fist once more, and for the first time, Silla realized he held a small scrap of fabric. “I visited the undertaker,” he said, a mad sort of gleam in his eyes. “While preparing Fallgerd’s body for burial, he found this in his hand.”
Rey held the scrap near enough for Silla to study it. A swath of red fabric was embroidered with threads of gold in the image of a dragon’s claw. Shock jolted through her in recognition, but Atli’s dark voice beat her to it.
“This is my house sigil.” Atli’s olive skin flushed red with fury.
Rey kept his focus trained on Silla. “Someone else was in that room, Silla,” he said gently. “The dark form you saw was real.”
Tears blurred her vision.
“You didn’t kill Fallgerd,” he said in a low, dark voice. “This fabric proves someone else was there. Imagine that thissomeoneentered Fallgerd’s home. Tried to kill Princess Eisa. But Old Man Fallgerd interrupted them, and they turned on him instead.”
“I didn’t—”
“No. You didn’t. I suspect that Fallgerd’s killer then turned his blade on you—that was the dark form looming over you. But you screamed. Startled them away.”
The despair in Silla’s chest was displaced by a feeling so potent it sent Myrkur skittering deep within her. Hope. “But the blood on my hands—”
“Came from the weapon. They used your hevrít; placed it back on your lap to frame you.”
