“Maybe not,” Westley said with a shrug.
“Your chances of surviving will be much better if you talk,” Easta chimed in, though she would likely be perfectly happy if he stayed silent.
Genuine fear marred his dirty face. “You know nothing.”
“We can help you, Latham,” North said without an ounce of deception. She was a fair and kind ruler. But if he rejected her offer, Westley knew how ruthless his sister would be.
“You can’t,” Latham said, shaking his head, the fight leaving him. “No one can.”
“Solveig can,” Westley said kindly. It was a struggle, because he wanted to wring this witch’s neck for all the pain he’d caused his mate.
“She won’t.”
“You underestimate her powers of forgiveness.”
“And what would you know of her forgiveness?”
Westley tilted his head, taken aback by his question. Did he really not know, or was he just that good an actor?
“I was the one who captured her.” He doubted the words would ever get easier to say. The memory of the night he’d captured her rose to the surface for the thousandth time.
Latham couldn’t hide his shock. “What?”
Westley nodded. He could practically see the thoughts running through Latham’s mind as he tried and failed to fit these new pieces of the puzzle into place.
“When did she find that out?”
“As soon as I came to the Southern Wilds.”
Latham’s chuckle started low before gaining volume, the laughter wheezing out of him—unhinged and manic. Westley waited for it to die down until Latham wiped the tears that had escaped, smudging the dirt all over his face.
“She thinks she’s always one step ahead of everyone, but she has no idea what is to come.”
“Then let us help her.”
“Oh, you want to help her? Now that you want to fuck her—”
Westley’s boot slammed into Latham’s jaw with a satisfying crack.
“This is bigger than me and Solveig. And don’t you ever speak about her that way again.”
As he towered over Latham, who remained crumpled on the floor, Westley’s piercing green eyes pinned the pathetic witch with a glare so menacing that Latham wet himself. The stench of putrid urine stung his nostrils.
“Now, you are going to talk, or you will see first-hand the kind of horrors Solveig endured,” Westley whispered.
A soft whimper left Latham’s lips, and like the coward he was, he spilled his secrets.
When he finished, Westley vowed to whoever the Hel was listening that this witch’s life would end soon. And if there was a way to end his existence, even in the afterlife, he would find a way to do so.
Thefrozenwhiteshoresof Idavoll gradually came into view, rousing the crew’s excitement to arrive home. Westley relished the sight of the cold snow blowing across the shore. Closing his eyes, he said a final prayer as they sent Brenna’s body into the sea, putting her to rest as close to home as possible.
In all of Westley’s four hundred and eighty-one years, his bones had never been so weary.
Long hours had been spent in the brig with Latham, cutting through the layers of treachery.
Even before Solveig’s imprisonment, Latham had been contacted by Maddock. Latham had been angling to join Solveig’s raids in order to carry out the tasks assigned to him by Jotunheim. Namely, killing those who could have given away their connection to Ragnvald—not that Latham had known of the King of Hel’s involvement.
Since Solveig had commanded him to stay behind, Latham had to take care of the prisoners they brought back before they could spill any secrets.
