Sapphire and Steel

by Violet Froste

  Aye, he would take a slim, strong woman, with long, dark-brown hair and some bruises on her thighs. He would find a woman just like that, and kiss the breath from her throat and pin her to his bed and fuck her so hard she would scream and beg and call his name in her ecstasy.

  Then, maybe, he would be able to look at his future wife without feeling his cock harden and his blood boil. Then, he would finally be able to see her for what she was: a political pawn, nothing more than a prize with which to purchase peace for Arkavik.

  Chapter VII

  Aster the Worthless

  The sea voyage between Veritier and Arkavik went a lot faster than Aster had expected. On the fifth day, Aster was resting from an arduous morning of rowing when she heard the booming sound of drumming. She sat by the mast, eating an apple and watching Gunnar sharpen the weapons as she had taken to do. It soothed her to watch the grey-haired warrior work, for he reminded her much of Althius. Both warriors were full of wild tales and merry jests. At the sound of the drumming, Gunnar grinned and looked up.

  “Arkavik,” he said to Aster.

  His voice laced the word with so much love that Aster could not help but feel warmed. To these men, Arkavik was what Adrienna was to her: it was their reason for being, the heart of their love and loyalty. Aster could not fault that, no matter how much she resented them for stealing her away from her own country.

  Looking up, she watched as the vikingr rushed towards the side of the longship. They slammed their fists and axe pommels against the wooden railing, roaring their greeting. Aster stood and ran along to her usual haunt by the dragonhead, hoisting herself up by curling her arm about its neck to get a better look at the land Owayn so desperately coveted.

  The sky was cerulean, cloudless and bright with pale sunlight. A clear, crisp beauty was Aster’s first impression of Arkavik. The lines of its silhouette were stark and clean, snowy banks and dark mountains, pale glaciers and the black spikes of pines and aspens like arrowheads in the distance. Here, the sea was not green but blue, bluer than the sky, so limpid that Aster could see the colossal shifting figures of whales passing through the abyssal water below the longship.

  Aster took a deep breath, realising that her heart had seized, struck by the utter beauty of this land. She thought of Svagnar’s comments about Veritier, and she understood now whence his disdain sprung. This was a land fit for myths and gods, immense and breathtakingly beautiful, its air so pure that it seemed to swell Aster’s lungs with new space.

  The longship sailed past a coastline of dark cliffs and velvety woodland, edging along the coast heading for a port, no doubt. Aster watched the men busy themselves, rowing to get home faster, running to pull ropes, pack things, get themselves ready. A palpable excitement filled the air. The men spoke of their lovers and families, slapping each other’s backs, laughing and jesting in their delight to be so close to the land they called home. A strange homesickness suffocated Aster, making her throat tight and her eyes sting. Unlike the Viking, she was not sick for her land; she was sick for her home, at Adrienna’s side where she might never return.

  “Svagnar! Svagnar, look!”

  A new atmosphere suddenly fell over the longship. Aster felt the excitement evaporate like mist in the sun, and she frowned, trying to see the cause of the men’s concern.

  It did not take long to find it. The longship had finally passed the curve of a mighty range of mountains, and now a pale shoreline extended all the way to a great city on the edges of the water. But the sight was not magnificent, not heartfelt. For the blue sea here was strewn with bodies, tainted with blood. Aster stared in shock as the longship slid through the water towards the shore: corpses floated in the water, pierced with arrows or brutally cut through, empty faces staring at the sky or heads sunk in the water.

  Aster’s eyes widened, searching the shoreline, trying to fathom what she saw. This was the aftermath of some brutal battle, except that none but the vikingr remained. Here and there, soldiers in silver armour lay and Aster finally saw, floating half torn and blood-stained in the sea, a Veritian banner. A white serpent on a green field.

  Aster felt bile rise in her throat. Now she understood the massacre that had occurred: the dead Veritian soldiers were outnumbered by dead vikingr one to ten at least. On the shore, the survivors were doing their best to catch the floating bodies of their comrades, dragging them from the maw of the sea to lay them on the wet sand.

  Aster glanced up, her eyes seeking Svagnar. He was near, leaning heavily against the railing, his eyes calculating the cost of the attack he had not been there to defend. In that moment, he seemed a different man: impossibly weary, his shoulders drooping underneath the crushing weight of responsibility for the lives he had not saved.

  The longship was not even fully moored to the port and Svagnar was already leaping over the edge, running towards the shore. His movements were swift with desperation - he had not even put on his cloak. Aster watched him from the ship as he checked on the prone warriors, as he plunged, careless of how cold the water undoubtedly was, swimming, shark-like, towards each fallen vikingr, dragging their bodies back to shore.

  He did this over and over again, as though by retrieving their bodies he could somehow atone for his perceived failure. Aster felt the sickness of guilt tighten her own stomach, too. Her people had done this. King Owayn, out of nothing but greed for land that did not belong to him, had done this, had smeared with blood the beautiful shoreline of this land.

  Aster started when she felt a hand land on her shoulder. Gunnar, now wearing his armour and his heavy fur cloak, stood beside her. His face no longer held the mirthful smile she had come to associate with him. Instead, deep lines had appeared around his eyes and upon his forehead, making him look much older than he ever had before.

  “Come, princess. We must go.”

  “What happened?” asked Aster. “Why are there no ships?”

  She was afraid to know what had happened, but a part of her wanted to know the truth of King Owayn’s campaigns.

  “The same thing that always happens,” Gunnar responded glumly. “Owayn sends a few ships, well-trained soldiers. They usually hide in the fjords but attack the cities. They kill as many as they can and retreat. Our ships are fast but theirs leave before we have realised we are under attack, so we cannot give chase.”

  “Why - for what purpose? What is the purpose of the attacks, if the ships leave straightaway?”

  Gunnar laughed hollowly.

  “Oh, princess. Your father only has one purpose of late: to slay enough of us that eventually, none will stand in the way of him taking Arkavik.”

  He sighed, casting a shadowed look at Svagnar, who slumped on his knees by a pile of corpses.

  “We might be strong, but your father is a very patient man. These are not attacks of conquest - these are attacks of annihilation.”

  For an ephemeral moment, Aster thought to tell Gunnar that Owayn was not her father. She had done her best in Hawksmoor to deny any rumours that she might be his bastard, but being in Adrienna’s shoes was different.

  For the first time, Aster wondered what Adrienna thought of her own father: she had never approved of his campaigns, but she had never discussed them in any depth either. Like most people in Hawksmoor and Veritier, Adrienna had thought little of the war her father waged on distant shores. Aster burned to think that until now, she had never thought of it much either.

  She had been friends with many of the commanders and soldiers of Owayn’s armies, and she knew most of his Kingsguard well. She trained with them often in the barracks, and some she had known since adolescence. But they had never said much about the war either; Aster guessed that most of them preferred not to talk about it. It had seemed to her as though they followed the King’s commands out of duty and tried not to question their orders.

  She remembered Byram, the handsome guard she had once been close to, saying: “King Owayn sullies our country’s honour with this war.” But when she had questioned him
, he had said nothing more on the subject.

  Gunnar led Aster off the ship and she followed him, deep in thought. She realised now that a new challenge would soon be upon her: for if there was danger in being discovered for who she truly was, there was also danger in maintaining her lie. The people of Arkavik thought her their enemy’s daughter, and she knew they had every reason to hate her. Svagnar had brought back a princess to wed in order to buy his country peace - but it would not be within his power to get his people to accept his bride.

  Leading her from the dock, Gunnar took Aster into the shelter of a large stable. A path trailed from the stable up towards the city, and when Gunnar handed her the reins of a small, delicate mare, Aster frowned.

  “I’m taking you to Fjersfell, Svagnar’s castle,” Gunnar explained. He piled his own things on the back of a horse, then helped Aster onto her mare.

  “What of Svagnar? He is still on the shore.”

  “Aye,” Gunnar said, sombre. “He will be there for a long time. Svagnar always gathers the bodies of the fallen warriors. As many as he can. He will build the pyres, too, and lead the death ritual tonight.”

  “For every fallen warrior?”

  “For every fallen warrior. He has been doing this every time we’ve been attacked, as long as he has been jarl. That man has lit more funerary pyres in ten years than most men will in a lifetime.”

  Aster swallowed hard. She could not explain the lump that swelled in her throat, threatening to choke her words.

  “Why does he do this?”

  Gunnar climbed his horse, settling himself on his saddle, and led both his and Aster’s mount slowly out of the stable. He replied thoughtfully: “Svagnar believes that because he is jarl, every life in Arkavik is his responsibility. They chose him to rule, and I think that choice weighs heavy upon his shoulders.”

  Aster nodded and fell silent. She was beginning to understand why Svagnar had done what he did: he had ventured deep into the territory of his enemy, risked his own life in the very jaws of the beast that sought to obliterate him, and tied himself to a bride he could only truly loathe.

  All this, he had done for his country, because it was his duty to safeguard it and that was the best way he devised for its safety. Aster would have done the same for Adrienna. To protect Adrienna, Aster would have crawled to the other end of the world, would have lied through her teeth and taken any wound. She would have sacrificed anything and everything if it meant the princess was safe and well.

  Gunnar led her through the city, the hooves of their horses clattering upon the cobbled streets. It was a beautiful place, smaller than the town that surrounded Hawksmoor, but its houses were narrow, sturdy, well crafted. Arkavik was a land of craftsmen and blacksmiths, and that was abundantly obvious the more Aster saw.

  Elegant archways of carved stone connected different parts of the city, forming a labyrinth of ever-rising streets. Each shop had intricately painted signs on curled iron hooks. Lights burned on ornate sconces beside doorways and windows. The city bustled with activity, the air rich with the scent of hot iron and smoke and the icy perfume of the sea. Blacksmiths worked tirelessly building weapons and armours, aided by young apprentices; the sound of hammers striking anvils seemed to form the heartbeat of the city.

  Women in woollen dresses and fur-lined mantles carried wood down to the shore, undoubtedly for the pyres Svagnar was building. Here and there, Aster could see injured warriors being carried by helpful citizens, brought through the brightly lit entrances of taverns.

  The city was built on a hill. Gunnar and Aster travelled in one long spiral up to its peak, where Svagnar’s castle presided. It was an imposing fortress, supported by heavy pillars, its roofs steep and slanting, banners flying from turrets and spires of blue slate. Fortifications surrounded it, and yet golden light spilt from its window, surprisingly inviting.

  Gunnar and Aster passed through a huge court leading up to the entrance of the castle. Servants and warriors filled the court, busying themselves in preparation for the return of their jarl. They seemed so different to the people of Veritier: the men wore their hair long, flowing or in braids or half-shorn, most garbed in armour. The women wore simple shifts and apron-dresses, their hair free and loose around their shoulders, carrying knives on their belts. In Hawksmoor, it had always been easy to differentiate the noblemen from the servants - here, Aster could hardly tell the difference.

  As soon as Gunnar dismounted, he was immediately surrounded by crowing men. They greeted him with laughter and curses, grabbing him hard, slapping his back affectionately. He seemed to be known by all, for shieldmaidens in leather armour also embraced him warmly, and Aster watched him shake the hands of even the youngest squires.

  “Where’s the jarl?” one warrior asked, peering around the court with a frown.

  “Down the shore. Gathering the dead.”

  “Without us?” said the warrior. “Why doesn’t he just disband the Jarlsguard? I barely remember what he looks like, by the gods.”

  Aster looked at the men with interest. They wore simple armour, chain-mail beneath black tunics. Their shields bore the same image as the longship sail had: a black wolf with wings. These men were Svagnar’s guard. Unmistakably strong men, battle-worn and powerful. Aster could count four of them; she wondered if Gunnar was one of them. Svagnar had treated him more like a brother than a guard - but then, Adrienna had treated Aster more like a sister than her captain too.

  “I ride now to meet him,” Gunnar said. “I’ve come only to bring back his bride before she tries to do something foolish, such as swimming back to Veritier.”

  He cast Aster a pointed glance and she shrugged. He had never seemed to truly resent her attempt at escape, but Aster saw why it was so important to everybody to keep her here. Every person in Arkavik seemed to rely on Svagnar’s plan working. Aster felt the heaviness in her heart return, knowing that eventually, they would find out the truth. She would not save them; Svagnar had stolen the wrong woman. And it was all her fault.

  Before she could sink further into dark thoughts and worries, a young woman interrupted her by holding up her arms to help her dismount. Not wishing to appear discourteous, Aster grabbed the offered arms and leaned on them as she slid from her mount.

  The young woman must have been only a few years younger than her, perhaps Adrienna’s age. She had a veritable mane of pale hair, half scraped back and bound by leather strings, and her eyes were grey as pearls, piercing and inquisitive. She reminded Aster immediately of Svagnar.

  “Come with me, princess. Svagnar will be back soon, and I shall see to you until he returns,” the young woman said, motioning Aster towards the doors to the castle. “I’m Ylva.”

  She needn’t tell Aster she was Svagnar’s sister - Aster could hear it and see it plainly enough. The girl had the same wolf-life prowling walk, the same fierceness around her mouth, as though she could tear the heart out of her enemy’s chest with her teeth. Yet there was a sweetness to her, to her youth and her friendliness, that Aster immediately admired. She could only hope that Ylva did not hate her for Owayn’s acts.

  Fjersfell was a beautiful castle inside and out. Its halls were wide and swept with cold drafts, but every room they passed was generously lit by torches on wrought iron sconces, ornate lanterns and enormous hearths. Wooden beams supported the archways and ceilings, intricately carved with plaited patterns and runes. Woven tapestries covered the stones of many of the walls, depicting Elven maidens, mythical heroes and Arkaviki deities.

  “Do not think my brother a beast,” the young woman said abruptly, stopping in her tracks to face Aster. “He does only what he believes to be right for Arkavik. He will not harm you, nor- nor be a… well - a lout.”

  Aster had a sudden urge to laugh, but she could see that Ylva was deadly serious. She spoke as though this particular concern had weighed heavily on her mind. Swallowing back a smile, Aster nodded.

  “I understand… thank you. I saw the… the dead warriors on the sh
ore. I’m sorry for what the- for what my father is doing to your country.”

  Ylva seemed surprised, and a smile broke upon her solemn face.

  “I told my brother not all Veritians are violent monsters! I know you’re being forced to marry Svagnar, but this marriage will bring both our countries peace. I believe it in my heart.”

  The twinge of guilt twisted Aster’s heart once more, but Ylva was already leading her on, through a long corridor and past a door of polished wood. Inside was a spacious room lit by a generous fire and two tall, narrow windows. A large bed enshrouded with green curtains stood near one window, clean white bedding glowing in the daylight that fell between the heavy curtains. Furs and finely weaved carpets lay across the cold flagstones, and the room was furnished with a small table bearing an iron basin of water, some chairs, a narrow wardrobe and some chests. In a nook behind a curtain, close to the fire, crouched a brass tub full of water, steam wreathing faintly over the surface.

  “This is to be your bedchamber until… well, until the wedding,” Ylva seemed to blush a little as she spoke. “Since you’ve been travelling for a long time, you’ll want a bath, so I’ve had water boiled for you. Please, bathe and get dressed.”

  Ylva threw a little glance at Aster’s pitiful appearance: her mud-streaked under-clothes, the pale blue wool now transformed by mud and grass stains, Svagnar’s tunic hanging loosely around her. Even her hair, still squeezed into its plait, was matted with dirt and sweat from rowing. She sorely needed a bath, and Ylva’s barely contained disgust was well-deserved.

  “I’ll fetch some clothes while you bathe,” Ylva said.

  She left, but before she closed the door behind her she stopped, hesitated. Then she said: “Please… I do not wish to lock you in here, but please do not escape. There are warriors everywhere and Svagnar… Svagnar has many things to worry about already.”