Sex is her favorite method of seizing control, apart from her manipulation tactics. Once, Calder even saw her make an advance upon the Lord Commander Sigvid. He defended his wife, QueenAvina, and his honor, almost saving everyone the trouble by decapitating Lavinia.
Almost.
For that, she has never forgiven the Treland King, despite her insistence that the neighboring country has forsaken them as an ally. Her actions are yet another manipulation tactic as the winters grow longer and food becomes scarce.
Lavinia’s cold gaze rests on Calder as Jarl Odo’s booming laugh fills the space before he settles between Lavinia and Jarl Guy. She arranged the room to spread them out.
Once the door shuts, an eerie silence falls over the group.
“Welcome, my loyal and dutiful Jarls.” Lavinia sweeps to her feet. “I trust you all had a safe journey. I had my Gothi sacrifice one of my best girls to ensure you each arrived unharmed.”
What sick game are you about to unleash?
“Here, here!” Odo raises a flagon with his drink sloshing onto the floor. His pudgy face was a bright pink, no doubt from his early imbibing.
Lavinia offers a twisted smile. “No doubt many of you wonder why I have gathered you today.” She moves about the room, lingering around each attendee. “After many long winters as your Queen, I wish to remind some of our younger Jarls,” her hands caress Jarl Guy’s neck, “of my humble origins and the issues that still plague our great realm.”
Calder crosses his arms over his chest and extends his legs before him. He cracks his neck. Too many memories of her cruelty and manipulation of him and his father leave a bitter taste in his mouth.
“As you know, I grew up the eldest child of a fisherman. One day, he never returned home, forcing my mother to take drastic action to ensure our family’s survival.” Lavinia pauses for dramatic effect. “She sold her body.”
Interestingly, in this rendition of the story, it is her mother who has become the harlot, not Lavinia.
“Night after night, she bedded the noblemen traveling through ourhamlet in Sumpland.” She caresses Odo’s jawline. “We had no roof over our heads—barely enough soup in our bellies while she defiled herself to allow us to survive. One night, she returned home with something even greater. Promise. You see, a lord passing through offered to purchase me as a servant in exchange for giving me a good life.”
She sighs, and the way the firelight dances off her curves has the other men in the room leaning forward, captivated by her sultry voice and the way she sways her hips. All tricks she teaches her girls before sending them out to destroy lives.
“It was as a mere servant that I rose through the ranks,”you meanbedded anyone who looked your way, “to become a lady’s maid and, famously, sweep a certain King off his feet.”
She collapses on the throne as if her next words torment her soul. All they do is make Calder sick.
“The great King Edric Zyma and I gave the people of Skalor a healthy baby Prince.”
He sighs at her blatant lies.
“And then, His Highness died en route to celebrate our son’s birth.” She wipes a bone-dry eye with an exaggerated sniffle that no one else seems to notice. “More soul-crushing was on our son’s fifth nameday. When we were to announce his name to the kingdom, someone stole him from us,” she gestures to the Jarls as if they lost the child, too.
Say our names, Mother. Tell your sycophants how Avard’s disgust with you saved our lives. Announce my name as your son and let them hear your misdeeds from my mouth.
“It took me winters to learn the identity of the thief who stole my baby.” She pauses and steps silently inside the circle, only pausing beside Calder with her gaze meeting his. “A Treland warrior of King Thord Hilmirsson of Salt.”
Calder audibly sighs.
If the others’ attention span extended past pussy and ale, perhaps they could see through her fucking lies. Like the fact that she conveniently smothered the details of King Edric’s death. And anyone inthe palace could attest she seduced that Treland warrior, Avard, to birth a child who would be her lamb to slaughter.
His final vision of his father, the great Avard Frodisson, who taught him to wield an axe, skin a boar, and every skill he could need to survive, was lying on his meager bed, dying of an unknown sickness in Salt. After digging his grave at less than thirteen winters and appeasing the worthless gods, Calder rode hard for Toftlund and never looked back.
I should never have returned to Skalor. I should have begged Sigvid to send anyone else.
Calder's only genuine curiosity at this Assembly is why his mother continues to play this game with him: the one where she permits him on an endless leash and conducts polite check-ups on his well-being.
I destroyed her reason for my existence. Yet, my unease strengthens with each breath I take in this godsforsaken castle.
Whispers circulate the room, quieted by the creaks of a door beside the hearth opening and closing. The Seer, Calder’s old Governess, trudges forward until she meets Lavinia in the center of the Jarls’ circle.
Calder lights his pipe to distract himself from the show.
“My good Jarls, this is a Seer.” Only the sound of a pin dropping could be heard as all their focus is on the Seer. “She came to me with a prophecy. Like all utterings from the mysteriousNornwho determine our fates, the words were vague. Until I presented them to our patron gods. Do you know what they told me?”
