“Sigvid, dear,” Frida nudges, no doubt attempting to intervene on the brothers, “it is your turn for winning the first round.”
“Married couples shouldn’t be able to guess each other’s lie.” Gunter pouts.
Slode cackles, pounding his fists on the table with tears in his eyes. The other end of the table exchanges confused glances, clearly not in on the trick played on Gunter and Yri.
“I want to kill my brother. I have never loved anyone. And my mother drinks far too much wine.”
Frida scoffs. “I resent all of those, Sig.” She throws back her goblet.
He rubs his forehead. “You just confirmed you drink too much wine.”
“Hmph.” She nods to her empty goblet as the servant girl makes her way from Helga’s cup.
“You wouldn’t kill your brother.” Yri gives a nervous laugh.
“Yes, I would.” He looks to Thrain, who winks back at him.
“Sigvid, has your black heart ever cooled for a woman in your thirty-three winters? My bet is your axes warm your bed when prostitutes run on short supply.” Thrain slaps the table as if that is the final word. “You gave us all truths.”
“No, brother. There is one lie there. Better luck next time.”
“Oh, for the sake of the Briny God!” Helga rolls her eyes. “The lie is that he has never found love.” She gestures down the table at Sigvid, but it almost seems she is gesturing to Avina.
“We have a winner.” Sigvid gestures to Helga even if his gaze never leaves Avina. “You are next.”
“Wait.” Kar cackles over his plate. “Wait. You fucking love something that isn’t violence incarnate?”
“Yes, Kar, I do.” He glances at Avina.
“Alright,” Helga returns the conversation to the game, “My favorite cousin is the youngest Steinlund Princess. I am the youngest Drengr to take the oath. I am right-handed.”
“You are left-handed.” Thrain winks to Helga, who shutters slightly, although she does smile and nod.
“How old were you?” Frida asks, her first innocent line of questioning since she arrived in Toftlund.
“Fifteen. Helga has been a Drengr for eight winters.” Sigvid raises his chin at Helga, who may be one of his most loyal warriors. “Guess it is on to you, Thrain.”
Thrain reclines in his chair with one arm slung over the back. “I possess a Sacred Stone power. I have a good rapport with all the other rulers of Treland. And I do have a special woman.”
Avina raises her hand. “I’m going to say your lie is having a rapport with other rulers of Treland.”
Thrain’s gasp in surprise is fake. “I am wounded, Timber Queen.”
“You have never met my father.” She glosses over how her relationship with Thrain is far from satisfactory.
Thrain’s eyes gleam. “Have I not?”
“You don’t have a special woman,” Slode says, spraying food from his mouth. “I won this one,” he drunkenly slurs, triumphantly leaning back in his chair.
The remaining courses conclude with everyone taking a turn at the game. Finally, Frida announces she wishes to take advantage of the band–which is shockingly decent.
Upbeat music fills the space of the happy crowd, which redirects to the wide-open area in front of the hearth. Gunter somehow manages to spin his wife. Kar appears uneasy in the setting and sways Ingirid rigidly off to the side, nearly down the hallway to the bedrooms. Thrain leads his mother with the elegance she has taught them since they were only five winters old.
Slode leans against a support beam of the house with his arms crossed. Avina hasn’t moved from her chair at the table with her wine, which has painted a perpetual blush over her cheeks.
“May I have this dance, my little Queen?” Sigvid asks.
She hiccups but still settles her soft hand in his calloused grip. He guides her to the dance floor as the band begins a song that is one of his favorites.
