Runný ushered her into her chambers, then sat Silla down on a bench before her hearth. Turning to the queensguard, Runný ordered them all into position. But the door burst open and Ingvarr strode inside with the rest of Silla’s Hakon-appointed guards.
Silla shot to her feet. “What news—”
“Dead,” he said coldly. “She’s dead.”
Silence stretched through the room for a long, measured minute. Then her guards burst into action. Weapons were drawn, positions taken around the door, the window, any point of entry.
“It seems,” said Runný, “that someone wants Eisa Volsik dead.”
Silla’s hand went to her throat, her thoughts jumping about wildly. Someone had tried to kill Eisa, but who? There’d been dozens of people in the room with her and hundreds of citizens who’d cycled through. It could have been any one of them.
But then her mind settled on the figure who’d darkened her window so recently. A dry, brittle laugh broke free.
“What is it?” asked Runný, eyeing her carefully.
“The black hawk,” whispered Silla. Her gaze darted to the offerings plate secured outside the window. “The gods were trying to warn me.” She swallowed.
“I should have listened.”
Chapter 13
Sunnavík, Íseldur
Jonas’s head thunked back against the wall of his prison cell. He stared listlessly at the silken web strung in the corner. A fly had landed in the center and now struggled against its sticky binds. As Jonas watched the spider looming ever closer, his numbness shifted to empathy.
Jonas had been in the bowels of Askaborg Castle for six nights now. Six nights since the queen had ordered him sent to the enigmatic Volund—a man he’d yet to meet. Six nights in this cold, dank cell, with nothing but gruel and foul-tasting water to sustain him. Men had once filled the surrounding cells, but one by one they’d been taken. None had ever returned.
The spider darted forward to sink fangs into the fly, and Jonas forced his gaze away. He could handle the cold and the hunger. What he could not bear was the insufferable boredom. Alone in this cell, he was powerless against the memories of better days. Bitterly, he wondered if his imprisonment was some trick of the gods. A thing to restore balance. After all, Silla had been thrown in the Klaernar’s prisons because of Jonas.
Pain seared down his leg, and he muttered a foul curse. The pains in his limb had grown sharper during his time in this cell. He’d woken screaming the night before, every muscle in his body taut. Now he braced against the agony, forcing his thoughts to fields ofgolden wheat; smoke twisting up from a longhouse; an oak tree looming in the distance.
Do you ever think that our past is not our future?
Ilías’s words rang in his ears, pain slicing down his leg with fresh vigor. A guttural sound slipped between Jonas’s teeth as he weathered the torment of both his leg and his sorrow. He’d lost his brother and the Bloodaxe Crew, he’d lost three toes and the full use of his leg, and now Jonas had lost his freedom.
Gradually, the pain slipped away, leaving Jonas panting and wrung out. The sudden groan of iron hinges had his instincts quickly sharpening. Footsteps sounded from far down the hall—Jonas counted three pairs of them, accompanied by the jangle of manacles.
“Please,” whimpered a man, young from the sound of it, “please, it’s not what you think—”
“I’m sure,” drawled a man, “the bread onlyfellinto your satchel, aye, lad?”
The trio came into view—a pair of guards hauling a man of slight build. Blond hair hung lank over his forehead, a patchy, barely visible beard along his jaw. As Jonas took in the purpling bruise on the man’s cheekbone, his eyes narrowed.
“N-no,” pleaded the prisoner, “I paid for it—”
“A thiefanda liar.” The guard hauled open the door to the neighboring cell and, after removing the prisoner’s manacles, shoved him inside. “You can rot in here for a few days, and then you’ll pay your penance.”
“P-penance?”
But the guards ignored him, moving to Jonas’s cell. His heartbeat kicked up as Jonas glared at the men through the iron bars.
“Hands,” ordered the larger of the guards.
Jonas had seen this next part play out enough times to know that refusal only resulted in a thorough beating. Resigned to his fate, he pushed to his feet and shuffled to the bars, where he slid his hands through a horizontal slot. Manacles were slapped on his wrists, and Jonas retreated, allowing the guards to unlock his door.
He sent a last fleeting look at the young man in the neighboring cell. His heart gave a sudden lurch as those brown eyes turned familiar. For a moment, it was Ilías beneath that lank blond hair, with a hint of a beard on his jaw. The guards yanked Jonas forward, and he stumbled to catch up. Heart beating like a war drum, he glanced back at the man in the cell.
Not Ilías.
