Ivar Ironheart left without watching the moment his only daughter departed the realm of the living.
Signe sat in an armchair arranged near the enormous glass windows of the king’s bedchambers, a goblet of wine clutched in her hand. The clouds had lifted as the day progressed, and so Signe had ordered the room made dark so that she might gaze at the star-speckled skies. And as she stared listlessly up, she could have sworn one star blazed brighter before streaking amid the others. But as she blinked, it was gone, and with the amount of wine she’d already consumed, Signe couldn’t be certain of much right now.
Her younger sister would have been able to name each constellation in the sky—would have been able to recite the Norvalander folklore stories behind them. Not a day went by when Signe didn’t think of her, but here, now, her sister haunted her thoughts more than ever.
“I miss you,” Signe murmured, then shook her head at the wasted emotion. She’d put her sister—had put all things Norvaland—behind her almost two decades ago.
Signe refilled her cup with an impatient breath. When would Ivar return from his meetings? All afternoon he’d been gone, busy preparing for retaliation against the Zagadkians. The fool of a man was convinced Kassandr Rurik had orchestrated the explosion in the great hall; that the Zagadkians had used the treaty as a ruse to gain access to Ivar and end his life. Had the man not seen Saga Volsik with his own eyes? Had he not known what the unnatural dark blue of her veins had meant?
Of course the dim-witted man had not. But Signe understood the significance of those veins—they meant that Saga Volsik had not acted alone. Because with them, in that room, Signe had sensed the presence of her old friend. Her secret friend. The one she’d grown to love and to trust over the years. Why had Signe’s friend given themselves so wholly to Saga, when Signe had been so dutiful? And to kill her Yrsa…it was a betrayal so deep that it hurt her to even consider it.
Signe drank a large gulp of wine, forcing her mind back to Ivar and his foolish plans. He was adamant that Saga Volsik had acted with the Zagadkians, that she could not have done it alone. Saga was, as Ivar put it, “only a woman.”
Her chest ached for what could never be. Yrsa’s wedding to a high-ranking cousin of Ivar’s. A quiet, safe life for her girl among the verdant fjords and rocky shores of Norvaland. Within a few short months, Yrsa would have been protected. Instead, she’d perished before Signe’s very eyes.
Because of that ungrateful littleserpent.
Signe swallowed a large mouthful of wine, desperate to dull the sharp pain of her grief.
Thankfully, the door to the bedchamber swung inward, diverting her attention. Ivar, it seemed, had finally returned. Signe set her cup aside and made to stand, but paused as a petite blond woman entered first. She recognized her at once as Eldrún, Ivar’s favored concubine.
The queen’s fingers curled around the arms of her chair as Ivar pushed Eldrún against the wall, groping her with the finesse of a drunken troll. Signe ought to have expected this—she hadn’t, after all, warmed Ivar’s bed in some time. But after Yrsa’s funeral, such things had been far from her mind.
Clearly, it hadn’t hinderedIvar’s lechery. Anger burning low in her stomach, Signe decided she’d seen enough. She stood and cleared her throat loudly.
Ivar whirled, his hand going to the sword belted at his hip.
“Signe.” He exhaled in clear relief, but even in the dim light, she could see fear lingering in Ivar’s brown eyes. Ever since the explosion, he’d grown paranoid that someone would make another attempt on his life. It would have amused Signe had it not come at the price of her daughter.
The queen’s eyes fell upon Eldrún—scant years older than Yrsa. Her amusement quickly kindled into anger.
“Out.”
The girl scampered away.
Ivar fetched a torch from the corridor, glancing at his wife in irritation as he used it to ignite the braziers in the room. Light danced along the walls and across the enormous carved bed that dominated the space. “I did not expect you to grace my bed tonight, Signe.”
“And I,” said Signe, “cannot fathom how you could takeanyoneto your bed the day your only daughter was sent to the Sacred Forest.”
Ivar bristled as he slid the torch into a sconce. “What do you want,wife?”
Signe strolled toward her husband, his gaze hard and flat as he leaned against the wall.
Reaching him, Signe caressed his forearm with soft fingertips. Once she’d admired the toughened muscle of these arms. Once she’d admiredallof her husband. Had desired him above all others. But the years together had hardened her tender heart. She forced herself to look past her husband’s ruined face and meet his dark eyes.
“Vengeance, Ivar,” she purred. “That is what I want.”
Ivar pulled away, and though it shouldn’t hurt after all these years, pain twinged in Signe’s chest.
“You know I do not concern you with the affairs of men, Signe.”
Ivar strolled to the table where Signe’s unfinished jug of wine rested. Finding a goblet, he filled it, then turned to face her. And for the first time inyears,Signe found traces of softness in her husband’s gaze.
“But today, perhaps, I can make an exception. Will it ease your grief to know we plan to sail to Zagadka within a fortnight?”
Afortnight.Signe’s mind raced. A fortnight was not enough time to muster all their forces, nor for Ivar’s father to arrive from Norvaland with his fleet. Fear twisted in her gut as she thought of Bjorn. She’d just lost a daughter. Signe could not lose her Little Bear, too.
“But your father’s fleet—” With the winter ice floes between Íseldur and Norvaland, it would be some weeks before King Harald arrived. “Surely you can wait a little longer. With those numbers, you’ll be unbeatable—”
