He clutches the back of his head, the feeling of his closely cropped hair a reminder that he is awake and not in the nightmares. The familiar anguish twists inside his gut like a knife. It is no longer the screams of his son, begging the people of Chillbury to spare his life, or the betrayal of his bitch of an ex-wife that haunts him.
After fifteen winters, the feeling that eats away at his soul is the overwhelming need to punish himself.
The corridor outside his room is barely lit, the fading candles within the sconces casting long shadows as they crisscross the floor. Snores emanate from Gunni’s room, and a peek in Edmund’s shows him lying flat on his back with cream over his clean-shaven face.
Calder abandons his wing of the keep, careful to remain quiet lest he wake one of the other slumbering Jarls.
There are five, each overseeing one of the country's holds. Jarlship is passed down through the family line unless someone steps in and violently takes the role for themselves. That is precisely how a young man, a Drengr of Sigvid Thordsson, wound up in this position.
If only the Norn would reverse his poor decisions. Perhaps then the nightmares would abate.
A plate of meat is his end goal on this unusual late-night sojourn. TheIss Drengr keeps a tightly controlled lifestyle that rarely deviates. After his mistakes of marrying his now ex-wife and losing his son, he finds life much simpler and easier to control when his weaknesses are locked away.
Instead of stepping into the kitchens, he finds himself in a danker, much colder section of the castle. He grumbles under his breath, which mists around his face. As long as he is far fromLavinia’s clutches, he couldn't care less where his accidental wanderings lead.
He comes upon a thick wooden door with four small bars embedded near the top. When he presses the heavy wood, it swings open to reveal the castle dungeon. The stench of unwashed bodies, waste, and mildew assaults his senses. With a curl of his lip, he turns to leave.
“Calder…” A croaking woman’s voice halts him in his tracks.
An old crone dressed in rags summons him from one of the cells. Calder glances around to ensure he is the only non-prisoner present. He steps up to the bars of the woman, who bears such a slight resemblance to a memory that he remains fixed on the spot.
He raises a brow at the woman expectantly.
“How the winters have aged you into a proper warrior!” She gushes, tears trickling down her wrinkled cheeks as she tries to reach for him through the bars but is held back by the heavy cast iron shackles on her wrists and feet.
He watches her struggle against the chains. “You speak as if you know who I am.”
She stumbles back into her cell and collapses onto the meager hay scattered about the dirty floor. “Dear boy,” she crawls to the cell bars again, clutching them with frail, wrinkled hands. “I spent the first winters of your life fighting to free you from the horror you were born into.”
Calder strokes his beard, lost in thought about the identity of this strange woman. “What horror do you speak of?”
The Crone tilts her head to the side, assessing him. “Your existence has been meticulously crafted, Iss Drengr. Ever so intentionally with harsh malevolence.” Pity hangs in her gaze.
“Who are you?” His voice is deep and unwavering. He watches her struggle to hold herself to the bars.
As she moves into the light of the flickering flames, he can see the milkiness of her eyes.
“Our gods are cruel, selfish beings. You know more than anyone.” What little weight clings to her brittle bones leans against the irondoor of her prison. “The question is not who I am,Iss Drengr. But who are you? There are so many titles you flee from.”
He tilts his head to the side, crouching to her level. “What do you know, Seer?” Based on her blindness and the way she speaks, he quickly deduces her ability.
“I know all that the Norn chose me to know, sweet boy. But what are you seeking in Nightwall Keep? You already know the depravity of your mother, the Queen, from your father, Avard, to the two graves that haunt your steps. Even if one of those graves deserved your axe blade to her neck.”
“How could you possibly know of my wife’s betrayal?”
The Crone ignores him and continues, “You understand the terrible lengths she will go to ensure her power triumphs. Why answer her summons now?”
He strokes his thick beard thoughtfully, considering the Seer. “I felt something, a tugging in my gut, pulling me to this gathering.”
She nods in understanding. “Through the mist, I foresee a treacherous path with a fork in the road. One will not ease your pain, yet bring you a light you never thought you deserved. The deepest oceans will drown you while breathing life into your heart.” Her fingertips press against his cheek. “Eternal darkness and pain wait for you, should you turn away from your instincts.” Her grip on his face tightens. “You could damn us all.”
“Do you have anything else for me?”
“I remember the young boy who carried toy ships from pond to puddle, imagining ship battles in his mind. You now are more inflexible than the trunk of an elder tree.”
“I must remain rigid.”Repeating my mistake risks destroying everything I have built in Kaldrgataness. “I am sure you have seen what direction I must take.” He scans the woman's face. “I remember you, Seer, the woman who would help me build the wooden ships.” He tilts his head. “The one who would hide me in the wall when my mother would look for me.”
More tears trickle down her cheeks.
