“Ah, Thrain.” His mother drops the trowel and brushes the soil from her hands. “Your father’s refurbished throne is complete at Holmfast’s. Please arrange its return by the evening. This year marks his twentieth as King, boys. I wish it to be as grand a celebration as he deserves.”
“Anything for you, Mum.” Thrain takes another disgusting slurping mouthful.
Sigvid curls his lip as a flash of red tints his vision at the mere appearance of his brother. It would take little effort to shove the remainder of that apple core down Thrain’s throat and relish as he gasps for air.
Will his brother’s demise motivate his father to reinstate Sigvid to the Salt throne?
Once Thrain is out of sight down the street, his mother tosses a stone at his side.
“Mother!” He pivots to see her crouching near the ground. Her focus is on the weeds she is collecting in a bucket.
“I saw that, Sig. You cannot murder your brother.” She hardlyglances at her son as she continues her work. Every so often, wavering to extract a shell or lovely stone from the dirt that finds a new home stuffed in the many pockets of her dress.
He chuckles, crossing his arms and leaning against the wooden timber of their home. “I can certainly fantasize, can I not?”
She shakes her head, wiping away her forehead sweat with her arm. “I assure you, Sig, your father’s plan for you is far greater, far more important than merely Salt.”
“And centuries in the making.” Thord appears at the top step leading to the front door.
Unlike King Urien Manchineel of Timber or King Ceowald Bloodstone of the Ridge, Thord dresses like a Salt warrior of legends. Today, leather armor suits his fancy, and several elaborate braids weave his fair hair away from his full beard, filled with delicately crafted silver runes. His eyes are bright and gray, with lines showing his age.
“My love,” Frida stumbles, digging in her many pockets before withdrawing a letter. Sigvid catches sight of the Ridge province seal. “From King Ceowald.”
Thord accepts the letter, yet his eyes rove immediately to Sigvid. “Did you send our gift for her nameday?”
“A gracious thank you letter arrived two days ago. To think she is kept alone in that castle.” Frida gathers her weed bucket and sets it beside the steps, following his father inside.
Sigvid glances around before slowly joining them at the hearth.
“...please consider my request, love.” Frida implores Thord. “She will be raised as a proper princess by my side. With no mother and that ghastly father of hers…”
Sigvid slips into the hearth, where a fire crackles low, running the length of the high-ceilinged room dominating the central portion. Sizzling meat wafts through the front doors as servants mingle about preparing their evening meal from the fire.
He pretends to busy himself with unsheathing his axes in order to eavesdrop on the argument. Despite their near-perfect marriage, they seem to engage in one heated topic of conversation anytime his future or the Ridge is mentioned.
“Enough!”
Thord whirls on Frida with an authoritative force that would have most men cringing.
Not Frida.
She places her hands on her hips and tilts her head to the side with an arched brow.
“It’s not time.” Thord sounds tired, almost somber. “She is far too young and raised in the riches and grandeur of the Ridge. Besides, the boys are quicker than we give them credit. If either of them understands the magnitude of her before…”
Sigvid clears his throat, letting his presence known. His Father turns away from Frida, leaving his words unfinished.
“Whose nameday?” Sigvid perches on a chair at the long table alongside the hearth, poking at a plate of dried meat. “I did not realize we communicated with many outside of Salt.”
“The Ridge princess.” Frida says at the exact moment that Thord responds, “No one.” His parents exchange an odd look with one another.
What is it about this girl? Her birth summoned Father away, revoking my title.
Sigvid can’t recall her name and has never met the princess, yet somehow, he senses their fates are intertwined.
Frida narrows her warm brown eyes at his father while Thord looks anywhere but at his wife.
“He has seen sixteen winters, Thord. He deserves to know the truth.”
