Myrkur’s wings unfurled, His long neck craned upward, and it took Silla a moment to realize Fallgerd had stopped mid-sentence. His gaze flitted to the door in irritation as someone knocked impatiently.
“One moment, Your Highness. It must be my apprentice.”
As he strode to the door, Silla gripped the arms of her chair, trying to calm her racing heart. Myrkur was now fully aware inside her.
Let me in, Eisa,purred the god of chaos.
Get out of my mind!she snapped back.
A low, dark chuckle slid through her veins. She searched for her hearthfire thoughts, but the god’s presence muddled her focus.
Let me in, and together, we’ll pull answers from him.
Silla blinked at the god’s surprising suggestion, and for a moment, she found herself considering it. An end to the long nights spent searching through the books. An answer to the question that had been nagging at her for weeks. But even more enticing was the prospect of having her mind back to herself. She could contact Saga mind to mind. Discover her whereabouts and bring her to safety.
Yes,purred Myrkur, images sliding through her mind. Silla and Saga, reunited after seventeen long years. Silla and Saga, rallying the jarls of the north. The sisters on their horses, the Volsik banner snapping in the wind, as they marched south against Ivar Ironheart…
Lies,Silla forced out, trying to shove these illusions from her mind. Myrkur growled in frustration, but with it He slipped. A memory formed inside her mind—the queen’s Chosen lying dead on the snow all around her. Rey’s eyes wide with terror as Silla lashed out with her sword of black light. But what was most shocking of all was the anger Myrkur had felt while possessing her. Because though her cold Ashbringer light was fun to toy with, it was not what He’d been expecting to find.
You haven’t found what you sought.Why would you help me banish you?Silla demanded.
Myrkur’s shriek of anger was answer enough. The god wanted her to let Him in for some other purpose.
You are more clever than you seem, Eisa,hissed the god of chaos.
Silla was slightly offended.
I shall have to do this the hard way, it seems.
Fear rippled through her, but it was overshadowed by a great wave of fatigue. Countless sleepless nights caught up with her in an instant. Her blood churned thick and slow, sleep pulling her down, down, down, into its warm, syrupy embrace. Fighting was futile. It was inevitable. Silla rested her cheek on the back of her chair. Lost the battle to sleep.
Just for a moment,she told herself.
The Kingdom of Íseldur was in ruin. Lava spewed from the fire mountains as the black dragon Kraugeir spat flames of his own. Cities and forests and men burned. Ash and smoke choked the air, so thick Sunnvald could not shine down to the earth. Brothers and cousins slayed one another over the last scraps of food.
The scene suddenly darkened. Now Silla was in a room, a dark figure looming over her, a long-bladed knife held in hand.
“Queen Signe sends her regards,” came a low voice. It was a familiar voice—one that left her momentarily surprised.
The blade glinted as it was raised overhead.
Silla awoke screaming, her heartbeat hammering violently in her ears.
He tried to harm us,whispered Myrkur.
Who?Silla asked, dazed.
Myrkur did not answer, and the heaviness of His exhaustion was a palpable thing. Perhaps she, too, might take a little nap. Silla’s eyes fluttered shut. But there was more pounding, and for the first time, she realized it was not coming from her skull but from the door. Fists beat against timber as her guards shouted for Eisa. And above them all, Silla made out Runný’s panicked voice.
“I’m here!” Silla called, suddenly alert.
Fallgerd. She was in Fallgerd’s home. He’d stepped out to tend his apprentice and she’d…she’d nodded off. A stone landed heavily in her belly. She hadn’tnoddedoff—Myrkur had forced her to sleep. And paired with the god’s sudden brutal fatigue, an uneasy feeling fluttered low inside her.
It was the sight of the hearthfire—burned down to coals—that had Silla pushing jerkily to her feet. A loud clatter made her jump. She stared down at her feet—at the blade that had fallen from her lap. It was the hevrít she’d accepted from Runný, and it was coated in dark liquid.
Something was very wrong.
Silla’s gaze darted to her dress, noting for the first time the red blotch on her skirts. Slowly, she lifted her hands, a low, keening wail coming from deep in her chest. Red smeared her palms, her fingers. A droplet slid over her wrist and under her sleeve.
