Atli’s voice, thankfully, cut through her swirling thoughts. “I hope this news has not soured you against the evening meal?”
“You must understand, Atli,” said Silla with a raised brow, “attempts on my life are no new thing. If I let it turn my stomach, I’d scarcely ever eat.”
At last, Atli’s stern expression cracked, and an amused smile curved his lips.
He waved two fingers and servants bustled in, carrying fresh jugs of wine and platters of food. A trencher of roast rabbit was laid on the table, the delicate scent of juniper reaching Silla’s nose. Platefuls of barley cakes and blistered carrots, pots of butter and clotted cream were all arranged. Eilif refilled Silla’s wine, her eyes silently asking permission to taste it.
Silla nodded, every muscle in her body tight as a bowstring as Eilif sipped her wine, then proceeded to taste small morsels from each plate on the table. Only after she’d curtsied and left did Silla release her breath.
Better her than us,whispered Myrkur, and Silla bristled with irritation. Hadn’t the god of chaos anything better to do? She forced hermind to winter-blooming lilies; to Vig’s booming laugh. Myrkur hissed, slinking lower inside her, but Silla could still sense Him. It was growing increasingly difficult to force Him down entirely.
“Have you seen Galtung?” Atli asked casually.
Chest clenching tight, Silla reached for her wine and took a long sip. “No.” She could not meet Atli’s gaze. “I’ve received no letters.”
“It was not the letters I referred to—” Atli dropped the rabbit flank he’d reached for, his gaze growing intent. “Do you not know?”
“Know what, Atli?” Icy fingers of fear spread through her.
“Rey has returned from Istré. Has he not—” Atli’s voice trailed off, a piteous expression filling his face.
Silla’s fear quickly morphed into pain as understanding settled.
Rey was back.
And Atli-gods-damned-Hakkonsson knew it before she did. Silla’s mind spun with confusion and hurt, but Myrkur’s anger soon eclipsed them both.
The man is a deceiver,whispered Myrkur. Gods, had she not just shut Him out? How had He already slithered back?
Leave me,Silla screamed in her mind, but the god of chaos only laughed.
Her insides twisted with betrayal and anger, and she no longer knew which belonged to her and which belonged to the god of chaos. Silla’s anchor to this world of Galdra and politics—the one man she thought she could always depend on—couldn’t even bother to let her know he’d returned. Kalasgarde now felt like years ago, like a dream she could hardly recall. And wasn’t it a dream in so many ways—a refuge from reality, where only she and Rey had existed?
Whatever was written in her face, Atli seemed to read it. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Eisa. I thought you knew—I assumed you’d seen him.”
“It’s nothing,” she muttered.
Nothing is what you are to him,whispered Myrkur.
Nothingwas what she needed. Silla took a deep drink of her wine, then wiped a droplet from her mouth with the back of her hand.She froze, then groaned. “I suppose that wasn’t up to Lady Tala’s standards.”
Atli chuckled. “Let me assure you, I’m not bothered by Lady Tala’s standards in the least.” He put his elbows on the table and bit into the rabbit flank. Juice dribbled down his chin, and he wiped it with the back of his own hand. “Does this make us even?” he asked, after swallowing.
Silla’s chest squeezed at Atli’s attempt to ease her discomfort.
If you want the queenship for yourself, you must have more ambition, Eisa,whispered Myrkur.This man’s name alone demands respect from the nobles. It would be a smart partnership to amass more power.
Silla tried to shake off the dark god’s words, but they sank into her all the same. Atli was kind and protective; a man of good house who knew this world inside and out. And there was no doubt that he was handsome. Chiseled cheekbones, full, smiling lips.
He wouldn’t lie to us, purred Myrkur.He wouldn’t break promises.
There was one problem.
Her heart beat for only one person.
Tears pricked Silla’s eyes. She was spinning around, losing all sense of herself. Who was she? Not Silla. Not Eisa. Just a confused woman, desperate for a break from it all.
Gods, what she wouldn’t do to lose herself in her skjöld leaves right now. In their absence, Silla would make do with wine. Reaching for her goblet, she was helpless against the seductive pull of numbness. Silla tipped it up, draining the last of it before waving for the cupbearer. Soon Silla had her chin propped on her hand, swirling her freshly refilled goblet. The wine was working its magic already—delicious warmth smoothing the jagged edges of Rey’s broken promises. Smothering the dark god’s incessant words. Smothering everything, truly.
