Noren furrowed his brows. “I didn’t know she was ... That you are ... How can you feel her pain?”
Westley shoved him back, raking a hand through his hair, his relief overpowering his anger again. His head throbbed with the volatility of his emotional whiplash. “I don’t know. I think ... I think it has something to do with our magic.”
Noren stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“On the night we captured Solveig, I felt my magic wake. It’s been getting stronger ever since. As you’ve seen, so has hers. I don’t know why, but some of our magic seems to have broken through the Block.”
“You didn’t tell me,” Noren accused.
“I didn’t tell anyone.”
“You told her.”
“I couldn’t hide it from her—she can feel it, like I can feel hers.”
“You don’t think ...” Noren didn’t finish his thought.
“Don’t think what?”
“You don’t think she might be playing you? How is it that she has her magic? You say she can only feel yours, but how do you know that’s true? Hel, she could be working with Ragnvald for all we know!”
Westley gaped. It hadn’t even crossed his mind, but he supposed it was plausible. His grandfather had been keeping secrets far greater than he imagined, what’s to say he wasn’t hiding more?
The King of Hel was a mastermind, had sat on his throne for a millennium scheming against Asgard. He had every right—they’d stolen his throne.
If it was anyone else, he would have given the idea more weight.
“She has her secrets but not with Ragnvald. I trust her.”
“Well I don’t.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Come off it, West, of course I trust you.”
“Then you have to trust her.”
ConalleledSolveigashort way through the forest to a nearby tent. As they walked, he told her how he’d already searched the ruins of camp for anything salvageable and had come upon an almost perfectly intact residence.
When they arrived at the tent, her footsteps faltered.
Smoke still rose from the wreckage of the Southern Wilds camp, the scent of burning bodies enveloping her, stinging her nose. Fresh tears rolled down her face as she mourned the loss of Laeknir and her shieldmaidens—the loss of trust, not only in those closest to her but in herself.
She’d failed them all.
Conalle led her inside the abandoned tent where, to their luck, there was water in the wash basin. He guided her to a wooden chair and helped strip off her boots and tunic, his gentleness so at odds with the violence that lay outside the canvas walls.
He removed the rest of her torn and blood-soaked clothes until she wore nothing but her undergarments. Solveig winced when she assessed her abdomen, her wound still working to heal itself.
Conalle watched in fascination but said nothing, turning away so she could remove her underwear, and began rooting around for more supplies.
Adrenaline from the day’s events—not to mention nearly dying—had left her body weary, so she let Conalle care for her. He assisted her washing, scrubbing the places on her back she couldn’t reach.
“Sorry,” Conalle muttered softly when she flinched as the cold water burned her skin.
He dipped her head back into the basin, giving him better access to wash out her hair before drying it with a towel and wordlessly braiding it back for her.
The kindness was too much for her to bear, and when he was finished, she slumped forward, letting broken sobs release from the barrier in her chest.
