“What are you guys talking about?” Noren asked.
Westley turned his attention to Noren. “We think maybe the mortals—or my grandfather, I guess—had a Fae with earth magic and that’s how the chasm opened in the Southern Wilds.”
“It’s the only explanation that makes sense, unless the mortals are working on some form of technology that imitates magic,” Solveig added. “I need to get to Asgard.”
“Weneed to get to Asgard,” Westley corrected. “And we have to go through Idavoll to get there.”
Solveig narrowed her eyes. “I’m not stopping at the palace.”
It was futile, but he had to try. “What if we send word and plan to meet elsewhere?”
She raised a brow. “And what do you think will happen? They’ll simply agree, hear me out, change their minds, and let me be on my way? I can guarantee not all of your family will survive that encounter. You can go to the palace, meet your family, or whatever you want, but I will not be following you.”
“Very well, we will do this your way,” he said, resigned.
“You’d disobey a direct order from your queen, your mother?”
The mere suggestion of parting from her was worse than disobeying his mother. Hel, he was four hundred and eighty-one years old.
“She may be my mother, but she’s not my queen anymore.” Westley straightened to his full height, embracing the treasonous words as he towered over Solveig, daring her to contradict him or ask him to clarify. She did neither.
“Very well. Let’s ride.”
If he wasn’t convinced she hated him, he could have sworn a phantom touch caressed his mind, soft and insecure before it was gone in an instant, like it hadn’t been there at all.
They braced themselves as they crossed the border into Idavoll. Gone was the crisp coolness of Vanaheim’s autumn, replaced in an instant with harsh winter. Solveig had been prepared, but it was still a shock to her system.
Asgard was the living embodiment of summer, and so Idavoll, ever Asgard’s opposite, became an unforgiving winter. It hadn’t always been like this, but after the divide of the Fae, the lands followed suit. The Block had suspended each realm in its seasonal extremes, and so Idavoll had struggled through a century and a half of unrelenting weather.
It was no wonder the Fae there were dwindling.
Helle snorted in protest. She was an Asgardian-born horse, and therefore, despised the winter. Solveig reached a gloved hand to pat her neck, whispering apologies and adulation.
When the horse tossed her head and snorted again, Solveig sat straight in her saddle and let the beast be. There was no winning when she was in this mood.
Thankfully, Idavoll was a relatively small stretch of land. What was once a woodland with territory claimed by each of the three realms wasnow a realm unto itself. A strip of forest covered the entire width of the continent.
The palace lay directly in the centre of the land, the perfect place to draw magic from the most powerful point—where Alfheim’s, Vanaheim’s, and Asgard’s borders all converged.
If Solveig had anything to say about it, their party would avoid the palace at all costs. Their journey would take them to the eastern part of Idavoll instead, giving the royal city a wide berth. They’d have to find somewhere to stay the night before continuing on to Asgard the next day, and she knew the perfect place.
The prince pulled Njord up beside Helle. “Would you allow me to write to my sisters so they can bring us provisions or help us find a place to sleep?”
Solveig stiffened in her seat, mistrust lingering. The way her magic yearned for him was so at odds with her common sense. “It’s not necessary,” she said tersely.
Westley glanced at Noren and Conalle behind them. “If you’d like Conalle to keep all his appendages, then it is necessary.”
“What was that about my penis?” the lord shouted through the wind, his teeth chattering. “If you’re asking if it’s going to freeze off my body then the answer is yes, yes it is.”
She sighed. “I have a better idea.”
The prince appeared puzzled but followed as she led them through the frozen forest, its crystalized branches providing no shelter from the relentless winds that whipped at their faces.
Solveig called on her magic to heat her body as she urged Helle forward. If Helle was irritated before, it was nothing compared to the attitude she gave Solveig when she took note of where they were heading. Solveig ignored her horse’s tantrum and yanked on the reins.
An hour later they reached a clearing where Solveig dismounted, leading Helle to the stables. The horse reared her head and dug her hooves into the snow. Solveig rounded on her.
“Grow up, Helle. It’s either this or you’re sleeping outside,” Solveig said more forcefully. The horse gave a little more resistance and then hung her head in defeat. “You’re so dramatic,” Solveig muttered as they entered the warm barn.
