I think not,rasped a voice of sharp edges inside her skull, sending a prickle of alarm down Silla’s spine.
At her loom, the Weaver inhaled sharply, then clutched at her throat.
“What—” Silla rushed toward the woman, then stumbled back.
Turning toward her, the Weaver’s eyes were wide and completely black.
I’m not done with you, Eisa,purred Myrkur as the Weaver fell to her knees with a keening moan.
“No!” pleaded Silla.
Tremors shook the Weaver, spittle foaming at the corners of her mouth.
Yes,said Myrkur.
And as the Weaver toppled to the side and began to convulse, Silla’s scream finally broke free.
Hours later, she sat at the long table in Ashfall’s great hall, staring blankly at her plate. Silla was clad in a rich indigo gown, her hair woven into a sophisticated series of braids that bared her neck and showcased the ornate golden necklace she wore. The great hall was filled with Kopa’s most important, gathered to greet the first of many jarls, who’d arrived ten days early for the feast of the Shortest Day.
Preparations for the feast were already under way. The hearth was being cleaned in preparation for the ceremonial log. And sprigs of pine and juniper had been strung from the antler chandeliers, scenting the air with their evergreen fragrance.
Tonight, they dined at a solitary table arranged in the middle of the great hall. Atli Hakonsson sat to her left while the visiting jarl’s heir—whose name Silla had already forgotten—sat to her right. Across the table, Lady Tala was deep in conversation with the visiting jarl’s wife, while Ladies Liv and Kaeja engaged his heirs-to-be. But though she was there in body, Silla’s mind was leagues away.
After the Weaver had fallen, everything had happened soquickly—the acolytes rushing in, Silla’s queensguard ushering her away, and Myrkur cackling inside her skull all the while. Distraught, Silla had canceled her afternoon etiquette session with Lady Tala. But a message had returned explaining that one of the jarls had arrived early; that Eisa Volsik was expected at the evening meal.
Before departing for the meal, Silla had sent Kálf to inquire about the Weaver’s health and was relieved to hear she was expected to make a full recovery. Apparently, Ashfall’s healer had attributed the Weaver’s symptoms to a “falling sickness” she’d been known to suffer from.
Only Silla knew the full truth.
I’m not done with youechoed endlessly in her mind, though the god Himself was silent and slumbering. Myrkur had done that—had harmed the Weaver to prevent Silla from learning more about her curse. Hopelessness filled her each time she remembered it. How was she supposed to cure herself of Him when He was privy to each thought in her mind?
Fingers squeezed her shoulder, and Silla’s hand lashed out, nearly connecting with the goblet on the table before her. Thank the gods above, she’d missed. Trying to shake some sense back into her skull, Silla turned to Atli.
“I was just telling Helgi here—” Atli gestured to the jarl’s heir, on Silla’s right. “—about the meadows.”
“The meadows?” Silla repeated.
“Aye,” said Atli, and Silla gathered this was not the first time he’d explained it to her. “There’s a trail climbing up behind the fortress. A tad steep to start, but it flattens out up top into a meadow. There you’ll find winter-blooming flowers and a clear view all the way to the ocean.”
“It sounds lovely,” said Helgi, though his gaze was trained on her necklace—or was it lower?
Indignance rose within her, but Silla reminded herself she was Eisa Volsik tonight—that she must recall her etiquette lessons. “It does. Can you ride to the meadows?” She hung on to this thread of conversation for dear life.
“Aye,” said Atli.
She didn’t have to muster her wistful smile—Silla had lost count of how many days it had been since she’d ridden Dawn, and fresh air sounded positively divine. But that thought had her wondering how long it had been since Rey left—and how many days it had been without a single letter arriving. Gloom settled heavily inside her at that. It had been silly to ask him to pen letters in the midst of the danger they’d surely face. Yet Rey had been so sincere in his promise.
“Perhaps we might ride the trail, just the pair of us?” Helgi said in a low voice, his breath hot in her ear. He was far too close, and his hand on her knee made Silla jump in fright again. This time, her hand connected with the goblet, and she watched in horror as it tipped onto its side. Blood-red wine splashed across the table—and right onto Helgi’s lap.
He leaped to his feet with a startled cry while Atli hauled Silla up and away from the dripping mess. Silence fell upon the hall, and Silla knew all eyes at the table were upon her.
“My mistake,” said Atli, jovially. “Perhaps I ought to switch to ale.”
Laughter burst around the table, though Helgi remained furiously silent as he blotted his tunic with a scrap of linen. As the conversation gathered back up, Helgi cast a single scathing glare at Silla before wordlessly turning on his heel and leaving the room.
“Barnacles,” she muttered, snatching a linen from the table and mopping at her mess. “You didn’t need to take the blame,” she told Atli from the corner of her mouth.
He shrugged. “It was no trouble to me.”
