He jumps from the floor and punches his fist through the wooden closet door. He staggers back, gripping the high-back chair, and his unhingedseidrfreezes it solid.
His breath fans out in crystallized flakes.
Fuck. He takes a few deep breaths.Control. You must remain in control.
His frustration grumbles in a low growl as he grabs his great axe, Freyja, and steps into his practice battle movements. He continues until the sun's rays shine through the narrow window and a knock drums on his door.
A yawning Gunni greets him with a half-wave. “Well, you aren’t ready for breakfast.” His Second peers around his Jarl and into the carnage of the ice-filled room, and understanding dawns on his features.
He steps inside and shuts the door. “What did she want?” Assuming the reason for his Jarl’s tension.
“What she always wants.”
Control.
Calder rips his tunic from the bed and tugs it over his head.
The door creaks open again to reveal Edmund, looking like the pillar of well-rested health.
As he smokes his pipe, of course.
“Did the furniture come to life and attack you, or did I miss something last night?”
Gunni whips around. “Are you saying your room didn’t defend itself against your presence? Both of ours did.”
“My room knew better.” The Gothi pats his waist, where a carefully stitched flap in his robe conceals his dual axes.
Calder lets out a rare chuckle, pleasantly pleased with his choice of companions for the Assembly. He straps on his great axe and dons the spiked circlet of the Jarls of Skalor before leading them down to the Great Hall.
His mentor’s home of Blackwood, in Treland, held a warmth in natural light that even the cold of the Salt Province could not chase. In Nightwall Keep, he finds the slender windows and heavy drapes cast dreary shadows in every crevice.
Another reminder that his mother has eyes and ears everywhere.
The trio steps into the high-ceilinged, expansive chamber, with a roaring hearth embedded in the stone floor running down the center of the room. Long wooden tables laden with meat platters and bowls of root vegetables stretch alongside the fire.
The banter immediately ceases as all heads pivot to Calder. He rolls his shoulders back, sneering at the cowards.
“Ah, I see your reputation precedes you.” Edmund offers finger waves to the soldiers they pass, who mutter at the appearance of the infamous Iss Drengr.
“Jarl Calder!” Jarl Odo stops them. The older man has seen his way around far too many pies and is likely too intoxicated, even in the afternoon, to remember he should be wary of the Jarl of Kaldrgataness. Odo approaches with his hand outstretched, and Calder notes how weak his grip has become over the last few winters.
“Please tell me you have some notion as to why we are all gathered in winter?” Odo drags his hand through his receding hairline.
“Not a clue. But I am sure the heartless bitch has something up her sleeve.”
Odo waves with a dismissive gesture. “Lavinia always operates with a plan. I only came for those lovely young women she offers for us to partake in.” He nudges him with a wink. “You know what I mean.”
“Tread carefully, Odo.” He warns, knowing it is too late for the Jarl of Sumpland Hold. Lavinia already has him ensnared in her grasp.
Odo and his companions find a table where many of the Queen’s handmaidens are serving, leaving the trio to find a seat at one of the long tables shoved in the corner beside the hearth. Calder remains tense, arms tightly crossed over his broad chest, while Edmund and Gunni pile their plates with an array of meat pies and seared root vegetables.
“Boycotting morning meal?” Edmund asks with a mouthful.
Gunni chortles as he leans against the Gothi. “He trusts no one. Only his hands craft his meals.”
Edmund shakes his head, spearing a piece of beef.
More young women servants weave from group to group, filling flagons with white wine. Likely imported from the wealthy Western country of Pradacia.
