Dolor and Shadow (33 page)

* * *

Daggon pulled Thor’s saddle strap taut before looping it back through the metal clasp as ancient memories passed through his thoughts. The horse master and stable-hands bustled about, paying him no mind as his fingers moved, pulling back the leather.

“In so many ways, you are just like her father,” Gudrun said.

Daggon held his eyes on the saddle.

“Be gone with you, hag,” he grumbled.

Ignoring his insults, the old woman joined him at his horse’s side.

“Your station commands you stay,” she said.

“My loyalty demands I go.” Daggon tugged the saddle’s belt before grabbing the bit and bridle from the wall.

“And where will you go, Daggon, that you haven’t already looked?” she asked.

“I can’t do nothing,” Daggon said.

The lantern light caught the worry in Gudrun’s eye.

“I promised him, Gudrun.”

He slid the bit into Thor’s mouth and fastened the bridle in place.

“The tide has not yet changed, Daggon,” Gudrun said.

“How can you know that?” Daggon said. “How can you possibly know? With your Sight blinded for nearly a fortnight now—”

“Only parts,” Gudrun kindly corrected.

“All you have seen is the Dark One perched patiently on the throne,” he said. “He isn’t even looking for his king.”

A loud bang filled the grotto, followed by a series of shouting stable-hands in a corner.

Gudrun dropped her voice beneath the ruckus.

“Daggon, I assure you. If I could see her…if I knew where she was, I would ride out with you myself.”

With a grunt, he shook his head heavy with doubt.

“The road ahead is unchanged regardless of whether we go or stay,” Gudrun said. “Stay…until I at least see a change in the tides.”

Exhaustion and wear visibly pulled on Daggon’s face, bearing down on his back. With a sigh, he pushed his hand through his hair then rubbed his face wrought with worry.

“Where is she?”

* * *

The embers glowed red in Rune’s pipe as he turned the hilt of her dagger over in his hand. Taking it back from her while she slept had been too easy.

He shifted his eyes over her body, half hidden beneath the overcoat. She slept, undisturbed beside the dying fire, content and unaware of the pawns aligned, oblivious to the part she played.

Streams of smoke billowed from his mouth then rolled into the air as he watched. The last of the fire smoldered. Kallan’s words played over in his head as Rune examined each word, each sigh.

Kallan stirred and uttered a name.

“Ori.”

Heat clawed Rune’s chest as insurmountable waves of hate toward the Dvergar burned his insides raw. The urge to kill was agonizing. He brooded as he counted the players.

A Dvergar king, who murdered a queen.

Rune pulled a long draw from his pipe.

A dead Dokkalfr king.

He released the smoke as he exhaled.

The Seidkona, Queen Kallan,
Rune lowered his pipe, resting his arm loosely on a knee,
and Borg, the mercenary.

He recalled Borg’s face as the mercenary pleaded with him to take Kallan from the stables. The exact moment he dropped his hand to his shoulder and felt the lines of Seidr within him awaken followed the rage, the vile contempt reserved in the Shadow that had lurked in his core since. The Beast.

Rune blew the smoke and watched it billow, then looked again to Kallan. Her slender, pale face reflected the light of the moon. It was full tonight.

A message of peace that has failed, time and again, to reach the ears of the queen and a pouch with mystical apples.

“What do you grieve?” he whispered to the sleeping Dokkalfr.

The fire that burned in her eyes did well to mask the grief she had buried in the shadows of her mind. She seemed content to ignore the pain that ate its way through her, hollowing her out, consuming her, until the empty shell of a woman driven mad would remain.

Rune exhaled and watched the smoke rising as it twisted into the air above him.

Eyolf. Kallan. Borg.

She was breathtaking bathed in moonlight.

The Dvergar king, Motsognir.

He took another long draw.

The dead Queen Mother.

The smoke billowed.

The abduction of the Dokkalfar queen, all for the want of a pouch.

Rune’s gut churned with intuition that would leave him sleepless that night.

Ori.

He gazed upon her serene face.

The unease between them would spread, but certain questions needed answers, though certain words would increase hostilities. With every question asked, he knew he would be closer to evoking her rage. Time would not be on his side, but necessity pushed caution aside.

He planned the order, the balance, the tension, the gradual move to the one topic he dared not breech, lest her guard be raised and her Seidr fly.

And the apples.
He would have to coax her into telling him about the apples.
Yes, let’s see how well you lie, princess. Let’s see how stubborn you really are.  

Rune sighed and took a long draw on the pipe. What he needed was for her to trust him.

Before she wakes, I’ll give back the dagger
.

* * *

The light of Alfheim’s moon gleamed brightly in the deep black of Bergen’s eyes, reflected there like bottomless, black pools of water. Throwing his head back, he took a long drink from his flask then wiped his mouth with his hand.

Moonlight bathed the city in shadows of blue and white. Gunir’s stone houses twisted around the streets, creating a maze of thatch and stone. They hugged the base of the keep’s battlement perched atop the motte. This night, the silence seemed to reach to the ends of Alfheim.

The wench asleep in his bed released a groan that became a sigh, drawing Bergen’s attention from the window. His eyes grazed her bare flesh, lingering for a moment on the exposed skin soaked in moonbeam.

With a gleam in his eye, Bergen gulped down another swig and, dressed only in trousers, quietly made his way into his sitting room, leaving Gretchen…or Gertrude…undisturbed by his restlessness.

While smiling to himself for a job well done, Bergen stepped out onto the landing between the war room and his chambers and closed the door behind him. His stomach growled and he washed back another gulp, content with the solitude he rarely found. After fixing his thoughts on Cook’s kitchens, he sauntered down the steps to the Great Hall.

The silence from the late summer night permeated the castle’s keep as the sleeping servants dowsed Gunir in a peace they could never accomplish awake with their eagerness to serve. He had made it as far as the stairwell window, halfway down the steps, before recalling the last time he had picked at the unguarded assortment of salted meats hanging in the larder.

A night that had begun with innocent pilfering had turned into a severe tongue-lashing that ended with a wooden spoon across his hide. After a low-down threat to tell Torunn, Cook had made him promise never to touch the kitchen’s larders again. Though odious, the blackmail had earned his respect, and ended the night, in much the same position as Gertrude…or Gretchen…asleep in his chambers to compensate for his late night thievery, of course.

Abandoning any thoughts of a late night lunch, Bergen veered widely away from the kitchens at the base of the steps and, instead, swaggered into the Great Hall, throwing his head back for another swig.

It was with a guilty eye that he shifted a gaze to the empty throne and chugged down another gulp of mead, replaying his last conversation with Rune until the words echoed back on themselves.

“I need to go after her…if I’m not back by the next new moon, come find me. Tell no one that you’ve seen me.”

And Bergen had done just that, much to the chagrin of Torunn. The castle’s old keeper had been like a mother to them, and had squawked and clucked as loud as a hen when Bergen refused to speak.

Rune had ridden off on the Seidkona’s dark steed, leaving behind more questions than he had answered, and more responsibility than Bergen cared for.

That was fourteen nights ago.

With careless grace, Bergen stomped up the five steps to the empty throne sequestered between a pair of pillars etched with animals and runes, and dropped himself into the chair. As he threw back another gulp of mead, Bergen eyed the pair of grand iron wheels suspended from the trusses over two long tables. A thick layer of hardened wax had melted and molded around the iron and fallen to drip on the tables. Bergen looked past the pillars to the double oak doors of the Great Hall.

“In all my years, I didn’t think I’d ever see you seated on your father’s throne,” came a familiar gruff voice.

Geirolf’s large, bear-like frame emerged from behind the wooden screens passage set behind the throne. With a glint of mischief in the old codger’s eye, he stopped short at the base of the throne steps.

“The weight of a crown is heavy,” Bergen said. “I like living without the burden, and besides…” He shrugged. “…such a life would never permit me the freedom to frolic as much as I do.”

Bergen grinned, tipping the mouth of the flask to his lips as Geirolf grunted at the man-child seated on the throne.

“A throne doesn’t suit you,” Geirolf grumbled. “If I recall, you always were a stubborn child, quick to strike and eager to ignore.”

With a grin that flashed in his round, black eyes, Bergen proudly chugged back another gulp and released a flatulent-sounding grunt in his brother’s chair. Geirolf pretended not to notice, learning long ago that it was never good to encourage the mischievous sparkle in Bergen’s eyes.

“I find it implausible that you know nothing of the disappearance of Queen Kallan or your brother,” the old man grunted at the youth. “Where is he?”

Geirolf waited for Bergen to speak.

Instead, the Dark One grinned again from behind the flask, catching a bit of light with the scar on his right brow.

Geirolf brought his voice down with a bit more severity than before. “Rune is nowhere to be found. The Dokkalfar queen is unaccounted for, and you haven’t sent a single party to locate either monarch in more than a fortnight.”

“I don’t want to.”

Geirolf sighed, long and low.

“Where is your brother?”

“I don’t know.” Bergen’s words were dry, as if over-rehearsed.

Geirolf expanded his chest, inhaling a large helping of patience, and climbed the steps to the throne. His wide frame towered over Bergen, barely dwarfing the berserker. He braced each hand on the armrests, and bent low until his nose stopped inches from Bergen’s.

“You show up a fortnight ago stripped of your bow, your boots, and reeking of imported Thash Grape Ale with nothing more than a grin and some story about a rose, a goat, and a ring.”

“It was a great night.” Bergen beamed. “One I will never forget,” he added with a dazed look as though in a mist.

A small vein on Geirolf’s forehead pulsed.

“For the sake of an old man who desperately looks to end the ceaseless nagging of Torunn’s maternal woes, please,” he said, “tell me where your brother is.”

Bergen sympathetically dropped a hand to Geirolf’s shoulder.

“As much of my pity as you may have,” Bergen said with feigned devoutness, “I have been sworn to secrecy under the command of my king.”

Geirolf stared at the twinkle in Bergen’s eyes.

“How noble,” Geirolf grumbled at the wide smile pasted upon Bergen’s face. “When will he be back?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is the Dokkalfr with him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is she dead?”

“I don’t know.”

Geirolf released the chair, exhaling a patient breath. As he straightened his spine, he locked his ice-blue eyes on Bergen, who returned the glare Bergen had learned from him.

“Before the new moon?” he guessed.

“Before the new moon,” Bergen agreed.

Geirolf nodded, giving his consent to the plan the boys had designed without him.

“And if your brother has not returned before the next moon?” Geirolf asked unpleasantly.

“I have orders to find him.”

The answer was sufficient to allow Geirolf to drop his shoulders, and he descended the throne. He took a single step and peered over his shoulder. Bergen had resumed his drinking.

“What am I going to tell Torunn for the next fortnight?”

Gulping down the last of the mead, Bergen flashed a grin that glowed in his eyes long after Geirolf closed the grand doors behind him.

CHAPTER 45

The darkness had returned with the thick, acidic stench that clung to Kallan’s skin. The red smoke wafted from the bowl with its bitter tang. Kallan tried to stand, to fight, to run, but the chains of elding held her bound. She could not move or open her mouth to scream. There was only night, the shadows, and darkness.

Blainn stood over her, staring down with the black that filled all the white of his eyes. Behind him, donned in the leather overcoat, Ori watched, unmoving and indifferent as Blainn drew back his foot. His kick landed against the side of her head and Kallan awoke.

Crimson willow greeted her with the scent of grouse sizzling over the fire instead of the bitter taste. Her stomach churned for want of food. She tried to stand, but found herself still weighted down. She glowered with vile contempt at Ori’s coat covering her body, and, with great force, angrily flung it away as if it had been a blanket crawling with spiders.

Above, the sun spilled its late morning light onto her like a warm, yellow blanket that filled the cloudless sky. Without a word, she ran her hands over her face and battled back the nightmare with a slew of silent curses to Mara.

“Good morning,” Rune said as he flipped the skewers on the fire. “I felt it best to let you sleep.”

Firing off a miserable frown at her warden, Kallan rose to her feet. Her hair tumbled past her waist, and she fumbled her way to the fire in the oversized tunic that slid off a shoulder. The pants, which she had tightened with a strip of twine, added a distinct frumpy look to her morning muddle and seemed to evoke a smile from Rune, who kept his face low as if trying to obscure her view.

Tucking her knees to her chest, Kallan crouched beside the fire as Rune nudged at the charred wood beneath four skewered grouse breasts propped beside the flames. The day was sickeningly happy and bright, the exact contradiction of her mood.

Birds twittered as Kallan flashed a gaze to Astrid, who grazed peaceably at the river. Rune promptly passed her a helping of grouse while she twitched nervously at each critter hidden away in the surrounding forest.

Kallan ate in silence, unable to ignore Rune’s scrutiny. She was all too aware of the tension. Her breath remained steady, her fingers curled with unease, and her back was forever taut as if ready for battle. Once she finished her second helping, she picked at the ashes with the skewer then surrendered the empty stick to the flame and reached a hand behind her.

Blindly, she fished for the woolen blanket she had used as a bed the night before and pulled it over her shoulders against the absent chill in the thick warmth of the sun. With a muffled thump, her dagger struck the ground. Kallan widened her eyes as she stared at the sleek, slender sheen of
Blod Tonn
in the grass. She raised her eyes to Rune while the dagger lay, unclaimed.

Sunlight glistened off the blade as Kallan wondered when he had taken it. She turned her attention back to
Blod Tonn
.

“I’ve found you,” Rune said. “I’ve healed you. I’ve fed you. I’ve guarded you. For three nights, you’ve slept beside me.”

Kallan blushed red with embarrassment.

“If I sought to kill you, I would have let the Dvergar to do it for me,” Rune said.

Blood rushed from Kallan’s face, leaving her skin an unnatural white as Nordri’s words came rushing back.

Truth is, if we were going to kill you, we wouldn’t have waited until now to do it. And we wouldn’t have used poison.

“I wouldn’t have waited for you to annoy me,” Rune said and Kallan knew he saw the sudden tremor in her hand and the increase of her breath at the mere mention of the Dvergar. “Or tolerate you kicking me in my—”

He stopped there.

Kallan stared at the blade and waited for Rune to swipe
Blod Tonn
back. Slowly, she reached out and took up the elding hilt.

“What do you want to know?” she asked, her back stiff with tension.

“Tell me why the Dvergar took you.” Rune’s words bit the air. More than eagerness audibly snipped his tone.

Kallan waited until she had finished securing the dagger at her waist before answering.

“They said they wanted my pouch,” Kallan said.

“Did they say why?” Rune asked. She noted the urgency in his voice that had picked up again.

She bit her bottom lip and shook her head.

“Most of the time they spoke Dvergar,” she said.

Rune glanced at her hand still holding the dagger’s hilt as a long silence settled between them.

“Why would they want a pouch?” he said.

Kallan looked at Astrid grazing along the river before turning back to Rune.

“There are spells and enchantments associated with a Seidkona’s pouch as unique as the Seidkona carrying it.”

“And what spells lay dormant within that pouch?” he asked.

Kallan tensed and he was on to the next question.

“Why didn’t they kill you once they knew you didn’t have it?” he asked.

Kallan shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Who is Ori?”

Kallan sharpened her alertness. Her knuckles were white on the hilt.

“You talk in your sleep,” Rune said. “Who is he?”

Kallan shrugged again, passing off an urge to wield her Seidr and pull her dagger on him. The fire tickled the air. Pursing her lips, she gulped.

“He was one of them,” she said, knowing her answer left Rune with a distinct feeling that there was more to the story than she told.

“There was one in a cave,” Rune said. “Dead. From the looks of it, a Seidkona had stormed the place with all the ash, fire, and brimstone that forms in Muspellsheim.”

A sudden sick settled, making Kallan regret eating her fill of grouse.

“How did you get free?” Rune asked, not giving her the chance to deny she had.

Kallan shook her head and pressed her mouth to her knees.

“When I woke, my chains were gone,” she said, lifting her head and keeping her eyes on the fire.

“Why did Motsognir kill your mother?” Runes asked.

Calm caution drained from Kallan’s face.

“We were at war,” she said. “I was six. I know very little.”

A shadow fell over Rune, no longer masked in passive inattentiveness.

“I am my father’s heir,” he said. “I was trained and groomed to inherit the kingdom my father left to me. I do not doubt your father did the same for you. He would not have hoarded Lorlenalin’s secrets. Not from its heir.”

Kallan gave a small pshaw, abandoning her pleasantries. At last, she released the dagger’s handle and pulled the blanket closer, hugging her legs tighter into her chest.

“And you think I would hand them over to you so freely?” she asked.

Rune narrowed his eyes. “Who honed your Seidr skills?”

“Gudrun.” Kallan was already snipping.

“Who taught you the sword?” he asked.

Kallan’s hands shook against her legs. She didn’t answer.

“I’ve seen you in battle,” Rune said. “I know a skilled swordsman when I see it. “Who. Taught. You.”

“Daggon.” She released the name reluctantly.

Flames between them flicked their tips, whipping the air as the wind carried them.

“The Dokkalfar you charged with diplomatic exchanges with Gunir, who was he?” Rune asked.

Kallan’s knuckles were white, numbed from the death grip she had on her legs. She felt her cooperation waning.

“Aaric.”

“What station does he hold in your court?” he said.

Kallan remained tight-lipped.

“Indulge me,” he said. “Let’s assume for one moment that I did send a letter requesting peace. If I were to send such a letter, who would see to it that it reached your hands?” Rune asked.

“My high marshal,” Kallan answered between her teeth.

“Who is—?”

“Why do you ask so much?”

“How did you your father die?”

Kallan’s eyes widened with memory. She parted her lips. Fear and madness swelled behind her eyes.

“Months passed before I stopped seeing his blood on my hands,” Kallan said.

“What did you see?” Rune said.

“You should know. You were there.”

Rune released a long sigh. “You’ve managed to expend the last of my patience with your vague answers and half lies. What did you see?”

A guttural cry rolled from Kallan’s throat.

“Through the back, he was stabbed, through the back without sword or honor. That,” she spat, “is what I saw.”

Rune drew a deep breath.

“On that day you fought at the Dokkalfar outpost,” Rune asked, “who rode with you? Whose face did you see as your father lay dying at your feet?”

“Enough,” Kallan said, punching the ground. The fight had left her. The color drained from her face, and his words ripped down her wall. With choreographed precision, Kallan stood and stomped to Astrid. After snatching the reins, she hoisted herself into the saddle, and sent Astrid trotting along the river’s edge.

In the light, Kallan’s eyes were clear and vibrant, responding to each shade and hue, which reassured Rune that the drug had finally passed through her system. Her complexion, no longer grayed with the decay of malnourishment and abuse, radiated beneath the sun.

Rune stared after her, annoyed at her sudden flight. He had pushed her beyond the line of tolerance, risking her rage, but timing was everything. If he jumped too soon, he would lose her. A part of him knew she was not ready, but he had flouted an air of indifference and played his part too well.

As long as she evaded, he would not get his answers. As long as she brooded, denying the abuse she had endured from the Dvergar, as long as she harbored her hatred and avoided the true core to her rage, she would not trust him to speak. If she insisted on burying her grief with avoidance, then anger would be just the thing to force the grief to the surface.

Her anger just might save her yet.

And, at long last, Rune knew what he would have to do.