“Jarl Clementia,” he inclines his head.
“Calder!” She barks. “Tell me this shithole has decent ale. We traveled quite a distance.” Despite her serious expression, he knows her tojest regarding her ride north as her Hold neighbors the Core. Roaring laughter from the shieldmaidens at her side answers her.
“It will do the job.” He returns her embrace, savoring the familiar warmth of one of the rare supports in his life—a woman who has been like a mother to him.
The older shieldmaiden holds him at arm’s length with crinkles in the corners of her eyes. “That gray will not quit your beard.”
He strokes his hair with a chuckle. “I fear it’s taken over my head as well.”
She pats his cheek. “Well, I find it regal. When my Reinfeld went gray, I found him far more distinguished.”
“Where is your husband?” He notices several of the shieldmaidens are Clem’s daughters. To think the woman raised seven children, all girls. Despite her warrior prowess, her husband could barely lift a shield.
“The youngest is sick with fever. Although marrying a Healer was the best thing I ever did.” She claps Calder on the back, and they return to his table, where Gunni and Edmund stand.
“Gunni! You old bastard.” She grabs him in a rough hug. “And who is this long horn of mead? I never took you for a religious type, Calder.”
“Lord Edmund Slodesson-Alexandrite, my lady.” Edmund bows low.
“What a mouthful! Slodesson, huh? But an Alexandrite? Not often you hear the Salt and Ridge folk mixing.”
“Queen Avina is my aunt.”
“Ah. Well, that explains your connection to Calder, then.” She glances around the table. “Alright, boys, I need a plate stacked with a meat pie and a flagon of ale. None of that mead shit. If I wanted to drink something sweet, I would lick a honeycomb.”
Clem and her Borg Hold shieldmaidens settle in with their trio. Only one Jarl had yet to appear, and Calder hoped the man was eaten alive by a bear.
At last, one of Lavinia’s girls saunters inside.
She clears her throat several times before the room quiets, and asaccharine smile graces her features. “Her Majesty, Queen Lavinia, asks only the Jarls, their Seconds, and one other companion to please join her in the neighboring antechamber.”
Calder stands only to have a hand press on his shoulder. Clem’s serious expression has his stomach tightening apprehensively.
“Yes?” He raises a brow.
“Whatever happens in there, you are your own person, Calder. You’ve been the closest I will ever have to a son over the last decade and a half.” She glances around before leaning closer. “I have a bad feeling about Lavinia’s motives.”
Anything related to her is wretched.
The Seer’s words resonate through him. “So do I.”
He motions for Edmund and Gunni to follow. “Stay close.”
The four Jarls and their companions follow the young woman down a corridor, stopping inside another high-ceilinged room with five chairs and a throne arranged in a circle. There are no windows inside, only a massive hearth with a roaring fire.
Lavinia reclines on the high-backed throne, looking like a portrait of a Queen in a floor-length gown likened to the shade of the Bay of Souls. A dark cloak covers her neck. Her usually carefully maintained hair is awry, and her crimson rouge is slightly smudged.
Sitting directly across from her in the circle is the fifth Jarl.
Rolf.
Two equally disheveled soldiers flank him. His arm lazily drapes over the chair back, looking like the cat that caught the canary.
Calder instructs Gunni on his right and Edmund on his left as the Jarls sit in their respective seats. He takes a deep breath while waiting for everyone to enter.
“Don’t tell me Rolf is fucking your mother,” Gunni grunts in his ear.
Thanks for furthering that visual.
