Silla stood at the floor-to-ceiling glass-paned windows, watching the figures assemble in the courtyard below. They’d managed to recruit near two dozen warriors for the mission in the Western Woods. Silla sighed as she spotted Hekla securing the saddlesacks on her new gelding. Gunnar stepped forward, presumably to help her tighten the straps, but at a curt word from Hekla he raised his hands defensively and stepped back.
And then she sawhim,the tall, black-haired warrior leading his white mare toward Ashfall’s gates. Silla leaned forward, pressing her fingertips to the glass as Rey mounted Horse. An ache grew in her chest as he paused, then glanced over his shoulder, eyes lifting to the very window in which she stood. It was as though he knew she’d linger here, late for her etiquette lessons but desperate for one last glimpse.
He lifted one hand, hesitating for a long moment before turning back to his task. And as Reynir Galtung rode beneath Ashfall’s gates, the ache inside Silla sharpened and spread.
She allowed herself a minute to wallow by the window. It felt like part of her heart had ridden off with him. Like she ought to fetch Dawn and ride on after them. After all the tumult in recent months, Silla felt like she’d found a sort of stability with Rey. But now he’d left, and she was alone once more.
Not alone,she chastised herself. She had Runný and her queensguard. Lady Tala and Atli and so many others. Silla blotted her tears with her gown’s over-long sleeves. She pushed her shoulders back and turned to her queensguard.
“He’s gone,” she said miserably, as though they hadn’t witnessed it all. “I suppose there’s nothing to be done but get on with my day.”
As Silla entered Lady Tala’s sitting room, she hoped the lack of windows helped disguise her red-rimmed eyes. But between the golden braziers positioned in each corner and the lively fire crackling in the hearth, she was doubtful. Despite the space being windowless, Lady Tala had managed to give it a cheery feel with extravagant tapestries, bundles of dried flowers, and lush furs draped over chairs and on the floor before the fire.
A week and a half ago, Jarl Hakon had introduced Lady Tala to Silla as a chaperone who would help her transform into Eisa Volsik. At first, Silla was irritated at having to sit still and learn the names of each jarl in Íseldur. After all, it should be Saga learning these names. Saga who would be queen. Yet Silla understood the importance of these lessons. In Saga’s absence, it fell on her to draw the jarls to their cause. And she had a lot to learn before they’d deem her worthy of following.
There was an air about the older woman that Silla struggled to name. Perhaps it was the confidence that came with knowing oneself to the very core. Or perhaps it was the conviction that came with a lifetime spent in a seat of power. Regardless, Silla strove for this magical thing Lady Tala possessed.
Wife of a late jarl, Tala had not remarried following her husband’s death. According to Silla’s maid, Hild, this was uncharacteristic for a woman of nobility and had won Lady Tala respect from some, disdain from others. Jarl Hakon, though, was a friend of Lady Tala’s late husband, and had offered her a permanent seat at his court.
“Who rules her lands?” Silla had asked, trying to untangle the confusing muddle of landownership rules.
“Her eldest son,” was Hild’s reply, “though it’s rumored that he and Lady Tala had a falling out.”
As Silla now rushed toward the fireplace Lady Tala stood, then dipped into a curtsy. With auburn hair streaked with gray, Lady Tala wore a vibrant purple gown that complemented her pale coloring. Breathless, Silla pinched her silken skirts and dipped into a curtsy of her own.
Lady Tala’s lips quirked up. “Remember, Eisa,” said Tala with a kindly smile, “you need not curtsy to anyone. You will undoubtedly always be of the highest rank in the room.”
“Oh,” Silla said, flustered, “I keep forgetting that.” How did one untrain twenty years of deferring to others? Twenty years of being the lowest of the low; of scrounging for every sóla she could earn; of fading into the background and never being seen?
Silla gave her head a shake and sank into one of three empty chairs opposite Lady Tala. “I apologize for my tardiness.”
But Lady Tala raised a hand, shaking her head slowly. “A queen does not apologize for lateness, Eisa. Instead, you might say,Thank you for your patience.”
Silla nodded vigorously. “Oh, that’s so much better.” This was precisely why she met with Tala. And while she’d expected scorn, perhaps disdain at her upbringing, Silla had found Lady Tala to be kindly and maternal.
A cupbearer slipped through a servants’ door, then lay a tray of róa and various accompaniments on a table nearby. Silla leaned forward to help the cupbearer arrange the cups, then stopped herself. She’d learned the last time to wait to be served, and though it felt contrary to her every impulse, she forced herself to remain still.
“Very good, Eisa,” said Lady Tala as the cupbearer poured two cups of róa, then placed them before the pair.
“My thanks,” Silla whispered to the cupbearer. The man paused, eyes darting to Silla. And with a quirk of his lips, he inclined his head before departing. She knew Lady Tala would not approve, yet this was a hill on which Silla would die. Kindness cost her nothing.
Lady Tala sighed, brows raised as she spooned honey into her cup. “They do not need to like you, Eisa,” she said gently. “But they do need to respect you.”
Silla pressed her lips together as she wondered how one rid oneself of the need to be liked? It was a thing Silla craved down to the very marrow of her bones. Right now, she was already thinking five steps ahead, considering what she might do to win Lady Tala’s approval. On that note,didLady Tala like her? Oh gods, did the woman roll her eyes at night, recounting Silla’s many—many!—mistakes? Silla’s pulse leaped at the very thought of it.
“Do not fret,” said Lady Tala, as though reading Silla’s thoughts. “It is not a thing to be learned overnight. We have time. And when the jarls arrive for the feast, they’ll be met by a queen with iron resolve and a commanding presence.”
Silla nodded, steeling herself with determination. She picked up her cup of róa and blew the steam from it.
“Liv has recruited a new lady-in-waiting,” said Tala, carefully. “But I’ve asked them to wait until you and I have had a chance to speak alone.”
“Speak?” repeated Silla dully, uncertain where this was heading.
“Word of your scuffle in the sparring grounds has reached my ears, Eisa.”
Heat stung Silla’s cheeks, and she stared at her hands like a child scolded. She should never have put her lébrynja armor on beneath her dress—should never have offered to spar with Hekla. And when the tall, beautiful Kaeja had challenged her, she most certainly shouldn’t have agreed.
“I didn’t think I needed to tell you, but it appears that I must.” Tala’s eyes bored into Silla’s. “A king will earn honor and glory through deeds on the battlefield. But a queen—” She sighed. “It is below you, Eisa, to be rolling in the mud, throwing punches, and calling names. This is why you have warriors.”
