Midnight Soul

by Kristen Ashley

  I just looked out the side of the sleigh, not noticing the houses and buildings and people we sledded by, and barely noticing the whoosh of our transport, the one behind us, and the clomp of the many horses’ hooves in the snow.

  But I did vaguely sense that many watched us pass.

  Then again, we were a grand procession with a king, a queen, a prince, princesses and The Drakkar. But even if it was only Dax Lahn, the fellow was such a sight to see with his large body, long, bunched hair, fierce face with its abundant dark beard and unusual clothing made of hide, all would stop to watch.

  Truth be told, I wished to watch him ride. I was certain he’d be good at it (though, that wasn’t the only reason I wished to do this, as fierce as he was, he was most assuredly pleasing to the eye).

  “You’re right,” Noc muttered, pulling me from my thoughts of the Dax, and I felt his arm round my waist so my head snapped around to look up at him again, seeing he appeared contrite. “Wasn’t cool, us busting a gut like that. You don’t know. And there’s all sorts of shit about your world that I don’t get or know about. I probably wouldn’t like it much if I said something you thought was funny and you laughed in my face.”

  “Yeah, that wasn’t cool, Franka, really sorry,” Cora chimed in.

  I did not know how to take this. Outside of a servant making a mistake and apologizing to me for doing so (as they should), I didn’t think anyone had ever apologized to me. Certainly not when they’d done something wrong or hurtful. And absolutely not admitting they understood they’d done so and moving verbally to rectify that hurt.

  “You cool?” Noc asked.

  In that moment I did not wish to get into the fact that their usage of “cool” was like Noc’s usage of “shit” and “fuck” and a variety of others. In other words, these were all used frequently but with what seemed like different meanings.

  We spoke the same language but it still felt like I was cast adrift in a foreign land with only a modicum of understanding of the native tongue and I had to decipher all with only the barest of foundations.

  Nevertheless, the way they’d both used “cool,” I could only assume he meant to ask if I was over my pique.

  I was not, of course, but that didn’t factor.

  “Yes, Noc, I’m fine,” I lied.

  His lips quirked, his eyes didn’t leave mine, and he murmured, “You so aren’t.”

  I faced forward again.

  This allowed Noc’s lips a direct line to my ear, and I fancied I could actually feel them whisper against the skin there, causing a chill to race down my spine that was not chilly in the slightest as he said, “Also cute.”

  Considering where his mouth was, he couldn’t see my face. Therefore, I rolled my eyes.

  I felt him pull away.

  I decided silence was my best course of action for the rest of the journey (and the return one).

  However, this was the wrong decision.

  Although Noc and Cora chatted amiably together the entire distance, both of them made frequent attempts to draw me into their conversation, to which I was not rude, just short or monosyllabic, and they eventually let me be, leaving me in my head.

  This was not a good place to be, especially these last nine days.

  If I was honest with myself—something I tended not to be for reasons of self-preservation, but even more so the last week—I would have admitted that their company, any of them, was a boon. It kept me out of my head. It kept me away from melancholic, ashamed or anxious thoughts of what had befallen me and what was to come.

  But now, as we sledged ever closer to the jail (a place I had no idea where it was so I didn’t know exactly how close it was, just that we were moving, so naturally we were getting closer), I wondered why I’d decided to visit my parents.

  Yes, I was where I was. Healing. Standing. Free. And they were where they were, imprisoned, their rights stripped, my mother’s magic stripped, their abundance of pride and conceit likely (hopefully) being chipped away day to day.

  But what was to be gained from this visit?

  And further, what could be lost?

  They had power over me. They always did. I didn’t have to admit that to myself. It was a fact I’d lived with since I could ruminate. That power they wielded whether I was young or old, near or far.

  Would their being in a jail change that?

  Would my confronting them somehow be turned on me and cause more shame?

  These were the thoughts that plagued me not only during our journey but at the end of it, through Noc assisting me out of the sleigh and while we made our way to the front door of the jail.

  Frey opened the door, Finnie on his arm. They swept through followed by Lahn and Circe, then Noc and I, and we were trailed by Tor and Cora.

  By the time we made our way through the door, Frey was speaking with someone who looked official and was wearing a city guard uniform of brown leather shorts, thick brown stockings, high brown boots and a warm-looking brown sweater with deep-red epaulets stitched in along the shoulders.

  The moment Noc and I entered, both men’s eyes came to me.

  Unexpectedly, I had the instant desire to bolt. In order not to do it, I made my body lock.

  Noc felt it.

  “Frannie?” he called quietly.

  My gaze shot to his. “Do I look all right?”

  In the many “nevers” that I’d experienced happening recently, this was another.

  I’d never asked a soul that question.

  And in my heart I knew I looked nothing but like I always looked. Josette made sure of that, going extra distance considering where I was heading, fashioning the lovely chignon she’d fastened at my nape and selecting the perfect accessories for my ensemble. It was also she who’d decided on the wine-colored gown that skimmed my figure beautifully, showing only a hint of cleavage at the square neckline, the subtle, thin, vertical cable-knit at my midriff, waist and hips giving the impression that entire area was nipped in and tiny.

  She’d also chosen my most expensive, most fabulous cloak. A luscious, luminous sable, its high collar when flipped up (as it was not now) covered not just my neck but up beyond my ears.

  I knew all this.

  But I did not.

  And when I asked this question of Noc, he had an odd reaction.

  His expression grew soft and kind (er) and he turned into me so we were front to front, close, dipping his chin into his throat to bring his face near, all the while holding my eyes.

  “You look beautiful, Franka. You always look beautiful. Your cheeks flushed from being out in the cold, your eyes brighter because the pain is subsiding, you look more beautiful than yesterday and the day before, and I could go on with that.” His hand that was covering my fingers he’d curled inside his elbow tightened as his lips tipped up reassuringly. “It’s all good.”

  I heard his words and yet I did not.

  And it didn’t matter that I did and did not.

  I promptly and fretfully asked him another question.

  “Can you tell I still have pain? When I move,” I hastened to add. “Or even stand,” I kept at it. “Can you tell,” I got up on my toes, “at all?”

  “No, baby,” he whispered hearteningly. “You can’t tell at all. Where you were, where you are now, every day I’ve thought it. You may just be the strongest woman I’ve met.”

  My hand reached up and clamped over his sweater at his biceps, curling around, but in my state I didn’t notice the hardness of muscle underneath his wool.

  “You aren’t saying these things just to soothe me, are you?” I pressed.

  He shook his head. “No way. Truth. All of it, Frannie. Swear to God.”

  I stayed right where I was, this close to Noc, holding on to his arm, but I turned my head toward where Frey was still standing, beyond which was a passageway that seemed dim and bleak.

  Noc’s free arm slid carefully along my waist and my attention returned to him when he stated firmly, “If you’re having second
thoughts, we’re outta here.”

  I stared up into his eyes.

  They’d all come. Out in the cold, they’d all come. To be there with me.

  To be there for me.

  And Noc was right there, close, holding me, reassuring me.

  For his part, he wouldn’t have let me go without him.

  I might be a new Franka Drakkar, and she was a woman I didn’t yet understand.

  What I did understand was that I had to do this.

  But this time it was not for my brother.

  It was for me.

  “You wanna do it, we’re with you,” Noc went on, and I again focused on him. “The final chapter, Frannie. The end of that book. Period. Dot. You’re done. You do this, you show them they didn’t break you, they never broke you, sweetheart, you walk away, close that book and move on.”

  I heard every one of those words said in his strong, deep, rough but luxuriant voice, and they somehow seemed to sink into my flesh, my muscle, my heart, lungs, innards, all this forcing my scabbed-over back straight.

  They’d never broken me.

  I was free. My brother and I were safe.

  And they were there. In that dismal, bleak place, a version of which they’d be in for the rest of their lives.

  “You’re correct, Noc,” I stated smartly.

  “Fuck yeah, I am,” he replied on a grin.

  I squared my shoulders. “I’m ready.”

  “Right.” This came as a determined growl, and he bent his face even closer to mine. “Then let’s do this.”

  I nodded. Noc took that in, slid his hand from my waist and turned us both toward Frey, Finnie and the guard. As he did, he lifted his arm where I held his elbow and drew it and my hand in to hold them tight to the front side of his chest.

  “She’s good to go,” he announced to Frey.

  Frey watched Noc say this before he turned his eyes and studied me.

  And then he said something that if Noc wasn’t holding me up would have set me on my behind.

  “For the first time in my life, you’ve made me proud to be a Drakkar.”

  I heard a little pip that I assumed came from Cora, who had closed in at my left side. It sounded like she was fighting back a sob.

  What I saw was Finnie smiling at me so largely it had to hurt her face.

  My eyes drifting from Finnie, Frey’s words warming my belly, my anxiety fully left me and my surroundings came to me.

  I saw the building was not made of wood but cold, dull, colorless stone. There were iron bars that stood as a door to the passageway. The room we were in had several wooden chairs that lined the walls but did not invite you to relax and pass the time. There was also a high desk at an angle in the right corner where two men wearing city guard uniforms (but with black epaulets) were clearly on a riser for they towered feet above us, lording over the small room. And there were intermittent, round iron hooks on the walls, some with chains and manacles hanging from them, obviously where prisoners were shackled prior to being led to their accommodation in the back.

  Thinking that there was a great likelihood my parents had been fettered thus, I felt a swell of wicked glee surging up my throat that I felt no shame about whatsoever.

  The guard Frey had been speaking with moved to the bar door, jingling a large loop filled with keys.

  He found one, opened the door, and with Noc and I following Frey and Finnie, the rest following us, we walked through.

  The first section beyond the doors had two more guards in their guard clothing, one on each side of the space behind desks. Behind the men there was cabinetry, one side looking like it held drawers where files were kept, the other side with an abundance of locks, which meant they likely housed weapons.

  They looked up at us and stood instantly, at first putting their fist to the underside of their chin, a salute to The Drakkar, then pressing themselves into bows in deference to their Ice Princess, Finnie.

  They stayed in this position as our procession walked by their desks and into the wide walkway beyond.

  In this area there was a line of cells to each side.

  The first two sets of cells, left and right, were empty.

  The third to the left held a man who appeared (and an unsavory whiff of him and the unconscious belch he emitted with poor timing as we passed proved this assumption) to be sleeping off a drunken binge.

  Another two sets of cells were empty, which I found vaguely surprising. Fyngaard was not a small city. Surely there must be more ruffians running amuck than this.

  There was only one other cell filled with a man wearing bad clothes, having clearly not taken care of his teeth over the years, as openly shown to us as he sneered at us from his bunk. This also was apparent in the care of his hair, which was long and lank but looked like the last time it had been clipped, this had been done haphazardly with the side of a knife.

  A dull one.

  I only viewed him curiously before I looked again to Frey’s and Finnie’s backs as we made our way down the passage.

  I had warning when we’d neared my mother and father, this a glance by Frey over his shoulder at me.

  I lifted my chin. His lips tilted up. He looked forward then right.

  I looked right as well.

  Noc drew me even nearer.

  My mother lay in that cell, her finery gone, no soft lamb’s wool, angora or cashmere gown covering her still-youthful figure. She was wearing a rough, boxy shift with long sleeves, belted with what appeared to be rope, visibly coarse stockings and crude, tie-up leather boots.

  On sight of us, she pushed up to her bottom, her lustrous hair that had only threads of lovely silver in it was plaited in a long braid falling over one shoulder and tied with what looked like a dirty scrap of cloth.

  “Daughter,” she whispered, her eyes locked to me.

  I said nothing.

  Furthermore I felt nothing at the sight of her.

  How odd.

  Frey led us beyond her cell but stopped us at the wall between hers and the one next to it. There I saw my father in the last cell in the hall.

  He was similarly attired as my mother, except no stockings, rather rough breeches. The only thing that looked clean on him was the bandage that had been tied on a slant to his face with a strip of white gauze that ran along his jaw to the wounded cheek opposite and up over his crown.

  I noted they both had thin woolen blankets on their narrow bunks (though no sheet over the slim pallet atop it) and wooden buckets to serve as chamber pots.

  Other than this, there was naught else in their cells.

  Nothing.

  “Frey!” my father snapped, and at his voice I pressed closer to Noc. “When he gets here, my solicitor will be having a word with the queen. Being in this building is outrageous. These clothes,” he plucked at his shirt furiously, having strode to the bars before his cell and stopping in front of them. “No creature comforts. Barely a passable blanket to keep the chill away that veritably whistles through the walls. Not even a book to pass the time. And I demand that Anneka be moved into my cell with me, or at the very least across from me so we can see each other as we converse.”

  “I do believe, uncle, it’s escaped you that you’re not in a position to make demands,” Frey replied calmly.

  Papa’s voice was rising. “Wait until your father hears of this!”

  I held my ground even as I sensed my mother approaching the bars.

  “It shocks me how little you’ve paid attention, Nils,” Frey returned. “Although you’re correct. My father will undoubtedly be outraged by your current circumstances. I just don’t give a fuck what he thinks, and I never did.”

  “Franka,” my mother called softly.

  I made certain my features were arranged as I wished them, blankly, before I gave her my attention.

  “You cannot wish this on your father and I.” She continued to speak in that quiet, timid, beleaguered tone, which obviously I’d never heard.

  Even with my first real
glance at her, I saw she was broken. Without her husband’s name, his House, his self-importance and her magic to stand behind, it had been but days and she was a ghost of the spiteful, conceited, pitiless, evil woman I knew.

  I’d endured torture at their hands to mind, body and spirit for thirty-four years and there I was.

  There I was.

  And in nine days she’d all but wasted away.

  She’d never survive a life in prison. Or, more accurately, her life imprisoned would be a life significantly shortened.

  “Frey, if you would,” I began, looking to my cousin who in turn directed his attention to me. “Order they be given another blanket. A pillow. And a flannel sheet to cover their pallets and help to beat back the chill. Perhaps they both should also have a book.”

  Frey didn’t hide his surprise but he inclined his head and turned to the guard.

  “See that it’s done.”

  “Of course, my lord,” the guard murmured.

  “A bloody blanket and a book?” my father asked furiously. “Franka, demand our release at once,” he ordered.

  I ignored him and again looked at my mother.

  When I caught her eyes, she dropped hers and said, “Your kindness is appreciated, daughter.”

  “Do not mistake it as kindness,” I declared, and startled, her gaze came again to mine. “I do not request this as a kindness, Mother,” I explained. “I request this in an effort to keep you healthy. It would not do for you to catch a deathly chill and shorten your penance.”

  She blanched, taking a step back from the bars.

  “Franka,” my father growled in a warning tone.

  I again ignored him and took a step toward my mother’s cell.

  “You reap what you sow,” I said quietly, not tearing my eyes from her horrified ones. “For years, you taught me nothing but callousness and cruelty. You taught me strength was in manipulating others’ weaknesses for my gain. You taught me arrogance was a point of pride and a weapon to add to my arsenal. You taught me loyalty was to be punished. Fear was to be unrelenting. Pain was to be expected. I only hope that in the remaining years of my life I’ve got enough light in the midnight soul you shadowed inside me to burn the seed you’ve sown to cinders and plant a new one that will take root and grow. But even if that isn’t to be the case, as you’ve taught me my entire life to live my own with heartlessness and selfishness, knowing you live a life of fear and torment will suffice to see me through to my own end.”