Though she had observed him much from afar, she had also done her best to avoid him. Since the night he had mentioned not forcing her into his bed, he had deeply troubled her. It was as though she had gained a new awareness of him, and whenever she saw him now, she could not help but notice his physical presence. His towering height, how enormous he was, how hard his muscles were beneath his dark clothes. She noticed his gaze, so direct and piercing. She noticed the alluring way scars decorated his large hands and bulky arms.
Aster had not been with many men. The quick, fumbling moments of intimacy she’d experienced had more often resulted from frustration or drunkenness than passionate desire. But Svagnar’s words had sent a spear of intrusive thoughts through her mind.
She found herself wondering what it might be like to be in his bed. Not in the dark on some narrow barrack cot, but lying on a bed of furs with the powerful jarl, his hands upon her skin, their bodies bathed by firelight. She imagined that Svagnar would be as bold and indomitable in bed as he was on the battlefield, and the thought both petrified and thrilled her.
Now, with Svagnar standing next to her in the stark light of day, Aster found heat flooding her cheeks, terrified that he might somehow read her thoughts.
“Yes,” she replied quickly, standing up and doing her best to appear her normal self. “I hunt.”
“My Jarlsguard and I go hunting today. Will you join us?”
Aster stared at Svagnar in disbelief. In truth, she was desperate to do anything that might remind her of her old life. Ride, run or hold a weapon once more. Anything that made her pulse quicken and her muscles work. The life of a princess was dull, and every day she drifted further from her true self. Watching the shieldmaidens and vikingr train had not helped this feeling either.
“Yes,” she said, trying to control the enthusiasm and joy that spilt into her voice. “I would love to hunt.”
“Come, then.”
Aster swiftly followed Svagnar past the courtyard and through the archway where the stables and castle smithy stood. There, Gunnar, Eirik and a few of Svagnar’s guards were already saddling their horses and preparing their weapons. Svagnar pointed Aster towards the smaller mares, prompting her to pick one.
Aster did so hastily, selecting a grey mare with a dark spot on her head, a clever-eyed beast with a beautiful mane of white hair. Grabbing the saddle at the side of the mare’s stall, Aster placed it upon the horse and buckled the straps with swift efficiency, half-afraid that Svagnar might change his mind.
When she finished, she turned around, to see Svagnar approaching her, holding a bow and a quiver of arrows. They were both exquisitely crafted Arkaviki wares. The wood of the bow was arched and carved and perfectly balanced, the quiver supple and ornate. Aster wrapped her hand around the grip of the bow, feeling how perfectly it fit in her fist. Svagnar’s gloved hand curled around hers, and he pulled her close, sending Aster’s heart into her mouth. She looked up, wide-eyed and breathless, meeting Svagnar’s piercing glare.
“Now,” he murmured with a half-smile. “Can I trust that you will not try to bury an arrow into my heart?”
He was so close that Aster stood in his shadow, his huge frame blocking out her view of the stables. Heat flooded her cheeks, and she breathed shallowly, unnerved by the directness of Svagnar’s gaze, by his roguish smirk. Glancing down, she muttered: “I’ll aim to shoot where it won’t kill you, then.”
“Will you, by the gods?” he breathed. He stood so close that Aster suddenly feared he might kiss her. But he laughed softly and said: “I’ll be interested to see if the speed of your archery matches the speed of your tongue, hellhound.”
“I would not wish to humiliate you in front of your own guards,” Aster said. “So if you need me to pretend to be as slow as you, you need only ask.”
“You are ever so bold, princess,” Svagnar pondered, taking her chin in his hand. He lifted her face, compelling her to meet his gaze. “I wonder what it would take to make you sweet and pliant for once.”
His eyes dropped to her lips, as though he had a precise idea of how to make her sweet and pliant. Giddy, nervous and reckless, Aster opened her mouth to dare him to kiss her, just to see if he would. But before she could speak, Gunnar’s head appeared from over Svagnar’s shoulder, his expression delighted.
“And so what do we have here, my jarl?” he asked, his tone solemn and his voice shaking with amusement. “What tyranny are you subjecting the princess to this time?”
Aster and Svagnar jumped apart, Aster stumbling back against the wood of the stall, her cheeks burning. Svagnar whirled around like a thief caught in his crime and preparing to flee.
“Do not let her fool you!” he exclaimed, pointing the bow at Aster in accusation. “The princess is the true tyrant here. She has been threatening to shoot me on this very hunt.”
“What greatest beast to fell in a hunt than the jarl himself?” Eirik pointed out from where he awaited, already mounted and observing the scene with a knowing expression. “I can only respect such ambition, Svagnar.”
“We should praise this young huntress for her courage,” Gunnar added, helping Aster onto her mare and patting her back with a wink. “She is fearless, this one. Like a shieldmaiden in the old tales.”
Svagnar cast a baleful look at the grizzled guard, and handed the bow and quiver to Aster, sighing: “You might as well shoot me and end my torment.”
“As you wish, great jarl,” she said demurely, taking the bow and buckling the strap of the quiver around her chest. Reaching behind her, she made sure it was in the perfect position for withdrawing arrows, her pulse singing in anticipation of the hunt.
Once Svagnar was ready, Eirik led the hunting party out of the stable. They rode in a line up a path towards a stretch of woodland that led to the mountains. A snowy field separated the castle from the woodland beyond it. Aster used the time to acquaint herself with the balance of the bow, the weight of the arrows. Ahead of her, Svagnar rode with Gunnar, Eirik and three other guards. Aster knew only one of them: Kylan, a young man about Eirik’s age with a proclivity for bawdy jests and heavy drinking.
The men all seemed in great spirits, and even Svagnar soon forgot his frown as he prompted his horse onwards through the snow. Aster was the only one with a bow and arrow; each vikingr armed with only an axe and a small knife. Aster had noticed that each man, woman, and even child in Arkavik always carried a small knife on their belts. Ylva had explained to her it was a useful tool, and none in Arkavik went anywhere without theirs. None apart from Aster, who had not been trusted with her own.
And Aster could not blame them. Svagnar’s unbearable arrogance could easily prompt her to fulfil her promise to stick a knife in him. His behaviour in the stable had been utterly boorish, and Aster glared at the jarl’s back remembering it.
She wondered what she would have done had he kissed her, as he had seemed about to do. Well, she would have slapped him. Svagnar seemed the kind of man who would kiss hard, who would demand dominance. And Aster had never been one to be dominated in anything. She would have had to slap him.
As they entered the woodland, Aster was grateful for the distraction of the hunt. The trees were colossal, towering so high she could not even make out the tree-tops. The thick, feathery pine needles crowded thickly on each heavy branch, blocking out much of the daylight. The forest ground was only half-covered in snow, revealing the soft moss and fallen needles beneath. The soft ground stifled the horses’ hooves, masking their approach, and the forest was ripe with wild beasts. Slowly, the hunters began to spread out amongst the trees, and Aster felt the familiar quickening of her pulse as she set out to track a nervous young doe.
She followed its tracks for a while, tracing its path towards a dip in the ground. Further down the slope, she saw the young doe standing amongst the thorny undergrowth. Sliding from her mare, Aster crouched into the snow, cautiously making her way towards a moss-devoured fallen trunk, hoping it would hide her presence. The young doe looked
up but stayed still, waiting.
Breathing deeply to fill her lungs and steady her limbs, Aster pulled an arrow from her quiver, drawing the bowstring and holding it tensed and ready. The fletching of her arrow brushing her lips as she steadied it, the arrowhead perfectly poised, ready to find its target.
Aster held her breath, keeping her body as still as the trees that surrounded her. The doe relaxed visibly, lowering its head, and she loosed the arrow. It pierced the air with a faint hiss and found its home in the creature’s flank, startling it into a run.
Slinging the bow around her chest, Aster leapt onto the mare, urging her on to follow the doe. She found it soon enough, collapsed into a patch of half-melted snow. It was dead by the time she reached it, and Aster took a moment to thank the saints for giving her this creature’s life. In her heart, she thanked the forest god of Arkavik too, for giving her one of its beasts.
“You’ve a sharp eye,” commented Svagnar’s voice.
She looked up. He stood away from her, on higher ground amongst the trees. He held his axe in his hand, and his mount already carried the bodies of two slain creatures. Aster wondered if he had been tracking the same doe as her and if she had beaten him to it.
“Thank you. I… I don’t hunt often.”
It was the truth. She only hunted in her spare time: when Adrienna was safely in her chamber or dining with her father. She loved the intense focus of the chase and the silence required to do well. It made her feel elated and serene all at once.
Now, she felt anything but serene, staring up at Svagnar, with his eyes piercing her surer than any arrow. He looked at her as though she were his prey, and he the hunter tracking her, closing in for the kill.
“Come hunting with us more often,” Svagnar drawled, a suggestion disguised as a command.
He urged his mount around the ledge upon which it stood, tracing its slope in an arch down towards Aster. She hoisted the doe over her mare, straining under its weight, and he watched her as she did, making no attempt to help her. Once she had hoisted the beast over her saddle, she secured it with straps and climbed back on her mount.
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “I will.”
She fell in behind him as they travelled through the forest, keeping her eyes sharp for the next prey. Svagnar was looking straight ahead, carving a path through the trees, past fallen trunks and avoiding uneven ground. In the white and green forest light his hair took on an eerie glow, and the furs wrapped around his shoulders made him look as though he, too, was a creature of the forest.
“There is a feast, tonight, in honour of our wedding,” Svagnar spoke suddenly. “Will you come? It honours us both.”
Aster had spent her evenings lately sitting by her window either thinking of Svagnar’s bed or imagining the inevitable moment when he would know her for the liar she was. Both lines of thought were equally distressing, though not in the same way. But a feast… music would drown her thoughts, and she could eat and drink and perhaps dance with Ylva or Aethrid or Helle, the shieldmaidens she had befriended.
And Svagnar would be there, and it was better to be around him than haunted by thoughts of him.
“Yes, I will come,” she said, speaking towards Svagnar’s back. “Thank you.”
She could not see his reaction, and soon Eirik joined them, then, one by one, the other hunters. Having gathered enough beasts, they agreed to return to Fjersfell.
As soon as Aster was in her room - before she even had time to remove her mantle - Ylva ran in. Her pearl-grey eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed from the exertion of running through the castle.
“Svagnar tells me you are coming to the feast?”
“Yes,” Aster nodded with a little smile. “Will you dance with me there?”
Ylva laughed: “If I can wrest you away from Svagnar, then yes, I will dance with you.”
She called for a bath and told Aster she would return later with something lovely for her to wear. She left before Aster could protest, disappearing in a flurry of enthusiasm. The melancholy thought struck Aster that Ylva and Adrienna would have made excellent friends - they were of a similar disposition, both carefree and joyful. The feeling of being an impostor settled upon Aster, and she shook her head, trying to free herself of her gloom. It would not do to be sad at the feast.
Aster had finished bathing by the time Ylva returned, carrying an armful of clothes and flowers. She handed Aster a towel to dry herself with and then helped her into the garments she had fetched. There was a white shift dress of fine wool, an over-dress of midnight-blue velvet, which she laced tightly at the back, accented by an ornate belt of leather and crossed gold thread. Once Aster was dressed, Ylva combed out her hair, brushing perfumed oils through them until the tresses shone like silk.
“Now, my dear Adrienna,” Ylva said placatingly. “I know how much you love to be practical. But will you let me dress your hair? For tonight only? For the feast?”
Aster laughed. Adrienna, too, had often insisted on combing her hair and lacing flowers through it. But she would always end up disappointed when Aster, frustrated by the impracticality of it, ended up ruining it all by scraping her hair back into a knot.
“Yes, Ylva. Make me beautiful enough to shock your brother into silence.”
Ylva threw her head back, laughing delightedly: “Nothing shocks Svagnar into silence! But if anything can, it will most certainly be you.”
She pulled Aster’s hair into smaller plaits along her head, pulling them tight and lacing them with ribbons. She weaved some plaits together, pinning some down and letting some loose, and threaded some wildflowers through the strands in certain places. The rest of the hair, she let loose down Aster’s shoulders.
Glancing into the small mirror Ylva had brought with her, Aster thought she looked almost Arkaviki. She certainly did not look like her own self. She looked regal, like the daughter of a king… or the bride of a jarl. Ylva then smeared some kohl around her eyes, making Aster blink back tears. Finally, she stood back, like a blacksmith admiring a finely made sword.
“Svagnar will want to wed you this very night when he sees you,” she said triumphantly. “You look exquisite.”
“It is you who looks exquisite,” Aster protested, taking her wrists. She spoke sincerely: Ylva wore a white and crimson gown that made her look like a goddess from one of her tales, and she wore her hair both intricate and wild. She looked both wolf-like and breath-taking. “Thank you for being so kind, Ylva. I feel quite beautiful thanks to you.”
“Speak nothing of it. Come, it’s time to shock Svagnar into silence.”
But when they arrived in the great hall, it was impossible to see Svagnar. The castle had already filled with guests, and Aster could see that although most of them were Arkiviki, the rest had come from all parts of Westmere.
Some guests were from Lazulai, easily recognised by their swarthy skin, dark eyes surrounded by gold paint and draped robes. Some had come from the East, for she saw the dark-haired, golden-skinned people of Assaria and Erkatha mixing in the crowd.
Music was playing, mingling with the sound of voices, and the animals of the hunt hung over fire-pits, perfuming the air with the scent of roasting meat and herbs. More food was being brought in upon the great tables, laid amongst decanters of wine and barrels of mead.
Aster walked amongst the crowd, observing the guests with curiosity. These were all people who had come here to pay tribute to Svagnar, to celebrate the success of his great plan. Some of these people must have travelled far, both by sea and by land, to be here. Had so many people desired the end of the war? Did Owayn know how many countries disapproved of his attacks? She walked on behind Ylva until she finally spotted a familiar face: Gunnar stood near the entrance, talking to a guest. Aster took Ylva’s hand and began to lead her towards the old man. She was in a mood to make the grizzled warrior laugh and dance.
Then the man Gunnar spoke to turned around, his eyes searching the hall, and Aster stopped dead in her tracks.
>
Her heart faltered, the blood drained from her face.
Byram was here. Byram, the knight she had known well and often trained with. Byram, of Owayn’s Kingsguard, stood in Svagnar’s hall, talking to Gunnar and holding his arm as though they were old friends. And his dark, searching eyes had landed, as though by some cruel choice of fate, upon her face. His eyes widened, his shock mirroring Aster’s.
Before she could do or say anything, Gunnar pulled Byram through the crowd. Aster could do nothing but stare, mute and frozen and nauseous with terror, as both men headed straight towards Svagnar, where he stood, bright-eyed and smiling, in the hall's entrance.
Chapter X
Svagnar the Troubled
Svagnar entered the great hall in an excellent mood. The thrill of the hunt had refreshed him, and his interactions with his bride were becoming increasingly less fraught. He was pleasantly surprised when she agreed to go hunting with him at all. For a moment he had regretted asking her, remembering her past death threats. But both of them had survived the hunt unscathed, and he had rather enjoyed watching her as she crouched on the forest floor, her eyes focused, her arms holding her bow with perfect poise.
Svagnar’s intention was to find his huntress bride as soon as he entered the hall. But he was barely through the doorway when Gunnar intercepted him. Alongside him was a young man in elegant silver armour. Svagnar cast him a quizzical look - he knew most of the guests at the feast, but not this man. Gunnar soon satisfied his curiosity by saying: “Come, Svagnar. Let me introduce you to the man who has helped us save our country. This is Sir Byram.”
Svagnar now observed the young man attentively. Sir Byram was a handsome man, younger than Svagnar, with dark eyes and dark hair. He had that customary Veritian mien of decorum and discipline. His posture was straight and formal, his demeanour earnest and courteous.
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