Panic flared and clawed into Ingrid’s throat. The sting of tears threatened behind her eyes, and she blinked to keep them at bay. What was she thinking to challenge such a powerful being?
The sound of boots clambered through the corridor as Ingrid clutched the side of her trousers. Urkon moved to stand next to her as calm as if they were strolling through the gardens. Dúngarr approached with Jarrick by his side.
“Ingrid! I’m so glad to see you’re well. I heard there was a terrible disturbance at the palace. I can’t believe my brother’s guards would leave you so vulnerable like that.” He pulled Ingrid’s hands into his own. “You’ll be safer here. I promise.”
“I’m sure she’s tired from all the excitement. Perhaps she should rest in her room,” Urkon said.
“Yes, traveling within the realm must exhaust you. Are you injured?” Jarrick’s question came with a squeeze of his hands. When she snapped her eyes to his, there was a knowing look in his eyes.
Ingrid shook her head and tried to extract her hands, but Jarrick squeezed harder. His cinnamon scent cloyed her senses.
“Well, we can be thankful for that. I’ll show you to your room.” He twisted to her side and slid her hand into the crook of his arm. “If you wouldn’t mind meeting me in the council chambers, I won’t be long. Then I can give you my full attention,” Jarrick said to Urkon. Turning to Dúngarr, he said, “Please be sure the guards are at their stations for Ingrid’s protection.”
“Yes, they are in position. Would you prefer that I show Ingrid to her room?”
Ingrid stiffened, and Jarrick patted her hand. “No, that will be all. I’ll show her the way myself.”
“Don’t be long. We have much to discuss,” Urkon said. The irritation in his voice scratched through the air.
Jarrick led Ingrid through one arch and across a large open room. She struggled to imagine what they used the space for because it was too dark to make out any distinguishing features. When they’d reached the other side, they passed under another archway that matched the previous side. Even though an abundance of sconces burned, their light soaked into the obsidian walls. Ingrid couldn’t understand how anyone could stand to live in such darkness.
They headed up a set of spiraling stairs, curling up the inside tower as Jarrick ushered Ingrid ahead of him in the enclosed space. The walls were smooth and made of the same stone. Everything was the same—dark, oppressive, and menacing.
“Is it always so dark?” Ingrid couldn’t help herself. She needed to know if she’d ever see daylight again.
Jarrick chuckled, low but genuine. “I’ve put you in a high room that overlooks the mountains. You’ll have much more light.”
A high room. So I can’t leave, no doubt. “Is it near Galwain’s? I’d like to speak with her.”
Silence thickened the darkness. Ingrid held her breath. She’d learned Galwain was there through Urkon and Caelya. Did Jarrick not want her to know?
“No, but I can arrange for a meeting.”
The air shifted, and Ingrid shivered. They reached the top of the stairs and headed down the hall once again side by side. There were few doors or decorative touches. The floors were still bare stone and sconces graced the walls, but there were no tables with vases or plush rugs underfoot. It wasn’t like Ingrid had grown up in grand style. At least, according to elven standards, but there was a stark difference between the palace and Montibeo.
“Here we are.” Jarrick gestured toward a door on Ingrid’s left.
Ingrid reached for the handle and hesitated. Twisting to Jarrick, she stared at him and rolled her lip between her teeth. “I saw what you’ve done—what you’ve made.”
“I know. You’re safe here.”
“But . . . Why?” Ingrid wanted to scream it. To pummel the answer out of the dark elf. Instead, she sounded weak and hated herself for it.
Once again, the silence echoed off the polished stone. “We’ll talk soon, Ingrid. If you need anything, a maid will be by later.” Jarrick reached past Ingrid and opened the door.
He had agreed to let her meet with Galwain. It was as good as she would have for the moment. Setting her shoulders, she walked into her new room. A prisoner or a guest, one was the same as the other. Neither made any difference if she could muster the courage to do what she must.
27
Jorg
Eir. Jorg grimaced and pursed his lips. From the corner of his eye, he saw the others shrink back. Even his confident brother withered at the goddess’s voice. None of them had the fortitude to look her in the face.
“So, you made it. I didn’t expect you so soon—well done,” Eir said.
Bremen, Selby, and Plintze exchanged looks among themselves. Jorg stared at the ceiling.
“You knew we’d come?” Bremen asked.
“I had an idea,” Eir said with a sparkle in her eyes and a glance to Jorg. “Please allow me to introduce Thelonius, King of Alfheim.”
They bowed as they had for Caelya, Plintze included. Jorg had to bite his lip at Caelya’s light scoff before he rose once again to stand with his shoulders back.
The king stepped closer to Jorg and studied him. “You have your father’s features, but your mother’s heart, I think. I’m pleased to meet you after all these years.” He smiled and gave a slight nod.
Nothing had prepared Jorg for such a warm welcome. All his life he’d had to hide who he was or suffer the consequences. His father had used his speed and expertise as a warrior to win bets, but otherwise, he held Jorg in contempt. If it hadn’t been for his mother, he never would have learned to fit in. She taught him to hone his human skills. The people the king spoke of were as foreign as the realm in which he stood.
“Thank you. I apologize for not knowing the customs and being forward, but we came to find Ingrid and Galwain. Can you help us?” Jorg asked. His brow pinched as his heart warred between loss and new hope. He wanted to soak in this strange acceptance and . . . familiarity? But that would have to come later.
“They are both at Montibeo, Jarrick’s castle high in the mountains. Until this evening, I believed his obsession with restoring Vanaheim was a good diversion for his energies. When Galwain arrived, Jarrick told me it was of her own will, and I believed him. I should have investigated further. I ignored the truth for a thin strand of hope. For that, I apologize to you both.” Thelonius twisted to acknowledge Bremen, who swallowed visibly.
“Can we go there? Are they safe?” Selby asked, her voice full of emotion. When Jorg glanced at her, he noticed a trickle of sweat down the side of her face, and Eir’s hand on her arm. The gash on her face was half what it had been.
“The matter has become more complicated,” Thelonius offered, snapping Jorg’s attention back. “There are questions that need to be answered before I can send an envoy through the mountains.”
“Why can’t you just disappear and show up there as Jarrick and those others did?” Bremen spoke this time, irritation rising in his voice. His face was pale as a metallic tang wafted through the air from his blood-soaked tunic. The damage he’d sustained in both attacks was much worse than he’d let on.
“Making a portal is a matter of defense and not a mode of transportation that’s condoned regularly,” Eir answered. “Keeping one open long enough for a large group would be dangerous.”
Jorg stared at her, partly because he absorbed her words, but also for how deftly she worked her healing powers. She’d finished with Selby as she spoke and gestured to Plintze. When he’d seen what she needed, he’d scooted to Selby’s side and allowed her to lean against his shoulder. The goddess then shifted her attention to Bremen. Jorg saw his brother flinch at her touch, then squeeze his eyes closed.
“Ingrid told me you taught her how to travel that way. Can she get away on her own?” Jorg asked as he recalled his time with Ingrid in the courtyard. It was during the battle when he’d told her to leave . . . before Jarrick and the dragons.
“Ingrid has not had control of her powers since she’s
arrived on Alfheim. I wouldn’t guess she’s able to form a portal,” Caelya answered.
Too focused on Bremen, Eir couldn't continue in the conversation. Jorg’s insides twisted as he watched the white line of his brother’s clamped lips and how his jaw muscles twitched. Whatever injury he’d suffered from the goblins was grave. He’d not complained once. The battle with the skögsra must have made it worse.
A sensation slammed against Jorg. He’d thought the word, brother, but for the first time, he felt what it meant.
Help him, please!
Several moans echoed through the room. Thelonius snapped his attention to Jorg, and Caelya slapped her fingers against her forehead.
“Jorg, I need to concentrate. You are on Alfheim now, your elven abilities are stronger here, and everyone can hear you shout,” Eir said in a firm, but quiet voice. She sounded as though she grew weary from her efforts. “Thelonius, can you please help him?”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t realize,” Jorg stammered.
“Why would you? This is a foreign land to you,” the king said with gentleness soaking his words. “Your friends need rest. Once we settle everyone in their rooms, you and I can talk. Then I’ll show you how to keep your thoughts private.”
Kelvhan led the guards from the room, followed by Eir who braced Bremen. Selby stared at Jorg. The remnants of a scar were still visible on her cheek though it wouldn’t be disfiguring.
Jorg felt like he’d been kicked in the gut when he saw it—a permanent reminder of his foolishness. Still, it somehow suited her. It added a fierce boldness to her, making her beautiful in a way he’d never noticed. It would never take away the guilt he felt for causing her pain, however. She and Plintze headed after Bremen when Jorg gave an almost imperceptible nod.
The need for air and outdoors slammed against him. He needed to run, to explode with all the emotions trapped inside. When a hand rested on Jorg’s shoulder he spun, ready to defend himself. Instead, he saw a kind, yet steadfast expression from Thelonius.
“Justified as your anger may be, there are better ways to handle it. Allow me to help you.”
Jorg suddenly felt like a small boy again, searching for the comfort of his mother’s arms when someone had teased and taunted him. He’d worked hard to build a thick barrier against such soft emotions. The acceptance that came from the man in front of him threatened his efforts. He felt vulnerable, yet keeping up his facade had grown difficult.
“Let’s find your room, and we can talk in private,” Thelonius said.
Thank you. Jorg knew Caelya would hear him, too, and he didn’t mind. His throat was too thick to choke out words.
Exhausted after his time with Thelonius, Jorg had stretched out on the softly cushioned bench at the foot of the massive bed in his chambers. He couldn’t bring himself to settle into the thick mattress. It didn’t rustle like the straw he was used to, nor did it feel stuffed with feathers. In the end, he’d decided it wouldn’t do for him to relax so completely, anyway. He needed to keep alert. As soon as possible, he intended to find that mountain pass and his way to Ingrid.
A soft knock on the door made him jump to his feet. He reached for his knife. When the ivory hilt fit into his palm, his resolve melted. It was the knife he’d given Ingrid, and she’d lost it in the dirt before she’d slipped away with Jarrick—unarmed and in the arms of the enemy. His gut twisted as he opened the door.
Before him stood a guard. He wasn’t dressed in the same style as Kelvhan, but rather in simple black leathers without denotation of rank. Wary, Jorg tightened the grip on the knife.
“If you want to know the way through the mountains to Montibeo, follow me.” The elf darted glances over each shoulder and then settled his stare on Jorg. “We need to hurry.”
Every impulse inside Jorg screamed to stay. This was not one of the king’s guard, and it could be a trap—but it could also be exactly what he needed to get to Ingrid faster than the plan Thelonius and Eir would come up with. He’d move faster alone, and this way, he wouldn’t endanger the others.
“Lead the way,” Jorg said and closed the door quietly behind him as he stepped into the hall.
With no further words, the guard hustled away with Jorg on his heels.
28
Ingrid
Ingrid scanned her new cage. As expected, the walls were dark, but it had three large windows on the far wall that started at waist height and soared to the high ceiling above, curving to a point at the top. There were no curtains or shutters to block the cold, yet no cold entered.
A large but simple raised bed nestled against the wall to her left. It was covered in furs and tempted her to burrow under them, but that wouldn’t do. She had a plan to make.
Built into another wall was a hearth. While chilled, Ingrid still wasn't ready for the sight or smell of burning wood. She shuddered. What’s wrong with you? It’s not the same as dragon-fire. Besides, Jorg and Selby are alive. Perhaps she would try to start a fire . . . later.
Then she saw it. Hiding behind a simple woven basket that held extra kindling and slim logs was the handle of a small axe. Whoever’s job it was to fill the basket must have left it there.
Ingrid hurried over and picked up the small weapon. The handle fit her palm perfectly, and the axe-head was small but sharp. If it didn't kill someone outright, it would cause severe enough injuries to slow them down. Then she could deal the deathblow. She caressed the smooth handle and ran her finger over the metal. The ironwork, like everything else, was without ornamentation, but it was sharp.
She realized then that she’d never get close enough to either Jarrick or Urkon with an axe strapped to herself. It was too blatant and crude, not clever. What she needed was something small. Something that would fit in her hand. She’d never last in a fight against them. They’d overpower her with magic before she could strike hard enough to kill. Whatever she did would have to be fast and precise.
The basket of wood caught her attention, and a curve tipped her mouth. She’d made many nalbinding needles in her life. Whittling a sapling branch into a small flat piece then shaping a point on one end. This time, it had to be bigger.
Two hard-backed wooden chairs sat near a table holding a bowl and pitcher. Ingrid dragged one over to the hearth and chose a small, sturdy chunk of kindling. Using the sharp axe she scraped. The shavings fell to the floor, and she periodically brushed them into the firebox.
It was awkward going at first, with the handle spinning into her way as she held just the sharp iron. When she forced the axe-head off the handle, the work progressed much faster.
Not long after, she held the first make-shift knife in her palm. It needed refinement, but it was sharp enough to pierce skin and thick enough to do good damage. It was thin, yet sturdy. Once embedded into a jugular or a kidney, she could snap it off, making the fragment irretrievable. That would give her time to get away.
About to start on a second knife, Ingrid heard voices in the hall. Quickly, she threw the axe-head and handle into the basket and swept most of the shavings into the firebox. She’d just sat back down, hiding the finished knife under her, when her door opened.
“Hello, Ingrid,” Jarrick said. He’d expected her to be on her bed, and he snapped his eyes around the room before finding her. The momentary flash of concern on his face amused her. Composing himself, he said, "It's time for dinner. I'm here to escort you."
“I’m not hungry.”
“We are high in the mountains, and that can cause a loss of appetite. However, it might make a good excuse for you to have company.”
“Will Galwain be there?” Ingrid started to stand and caught herself.
Jarrick narrowed his eyes as he snatched a glance at the floor near Ingrid’s feet. Several shavings lingered, and she tried to act as though she didn’t notice. “No, she takes her meals in her chambers. When she’s ready to entertain company, I’ll be sure you will be among the first to visit.”
Settling against the wooden back of the c
hair, Ingrid folded her hands in her lap. “Then there’s no reason for me to leave my chambers either.”
Jarrick wandered near the bed and ran his fingertips through the top fur. “Did I ever tell you how I met Urkon?”
Ingrid sliced a glare in his direction. I don’t care.
Jarrick grinned and flicked his eyebrows at her reproach. She was sure her mental barriers were intact, but if he heard her, it didn’t matter.
“I was on Vanaheim, searching through the ruins. Many Vanir have carved out an existence there. It's meager and simple, yet they survive. It's nothing of the culture it used to be.”
Jarrick walked to the windows and stared out at the mountains. While he seemed lost in thought, Ingrid considered leaving the room; then decided against it since she didn’t have her knives ready. She slumped in her chair, using her foot to clear away the stray shavings while Jarrick wasn't looking.
It was several minutes before he spoke again. “I spoke with a group of elders, those who remembered the war. Even though they lived among ruins and rubble, they assured me their lives held contentment. They even lied to themselves that they had all they needed. That a simple life had taught them the value of what's truly important. Poor idiots. But what else could they say to keep their sanity?
“As I was walking away, another individual approached me. He wore the same simple robes as everyone else, but it was obvious he was different. For a while, we spoke of the situation. He gave me his insights as the other elders had, but he was testing me. He wanted to know where my heart was, wanted to know if I was strong enough to be the leader he needed. We wandered through the village, conversing for hours. We shared our visions of what the realm once was and could be again.”
Jarrick left the window and walked back to the room’s center, his hands behind his back as he sauntered slowly across the darkening space. Ingrid rested her hands in her lap as if she didn’t have any cares.
The Viking Maiden Box Set Page 63
