Her eyes flitted from one man to the other: Byram’s dark eyes were troubled, his countenance solemn. Svagnar was impassive, his scarred features indecipherable. As usual, his faint half-smile hid his true feelings as surely as a visor of steel. If Byram had revealed the truth, then would he not be furious? Would he not be advancing upon Aster and seizing her by the throat? But Svagnar leaned indolently against the doorway, mutely observing his guests.
Aster’s heart heaved in her throat. She had spent the night forcing herself to breathe, forcing the trembling in her hand to cease. But she could contain herself no more. Diving through the merry-makers, she rushed towards Byram. His eyes widened when she grabbed his arm, but he let her lead him away, out of the hall and into the inner courtyard.
The night had fallen, and the icy blue calm of the mountains crystallised the world. The sky was black and strewn with stars; the air perfumed with the smell of pines and frost. Though Aster could see her breath in front of her face, she could barely feel the cold. Facing Byram, she met his eyes with all the force of her anger and frustration:
“Why are you here?”
She had to stop herself from shouting at him, but her question still came out in a bark.
“I have been helping the people of Arkavik to find peace for their land. The jarl invited me here.”
“Why did you never speak of this?” Even as Aster questioned him, a dull realisation descended heavily upon her. “Did you tell Svagnar about Adrienna’s marriage? About her travelling?”
“Yes,” Byram made no effort to lie, answering with no hesitation. “I knew he would never harm her. But you are not Adrienna, and our plan has gone awry.”
“Yes! It has, Byram! I took Adrienna’s place, I’ve been lying to Svagnar, I-” Aster felt sobs grab her throat like a vice, strangling her. She stopped, breathing deep and hard, forcing herself to swallow her distress, her anger, her resentment.
“Svagnar intended to take Adrienna and leave the Princessguard behind. I never intended you or the princess to come to any harm. You know this, Aster.”
“Why - why are you doing this?” Aster’s voice broke. “Why would you not tell me?”
“I knew not your thoughts on the matter of the war. I’ve long hated the barbarity of the king’s attacks upon Arkavik, you know this. Telling you would have compromised a plan I believed would work.”
“But it hasn’t worked! I’ve ruined your plans - you should have known I would do anything in my power to keep Adrienna from harm.”
Byram cast her a wry look, shaking his head: “It is not the first time I’ve underestimated your unwavering loyalty to the princess.”
A sudden anger suffused Aster, and she slammed into Byram, grabbing him by the collar.
“She is the only thing that matters to me! And by your fault, she is taken from me and I am powerless to protect her, or anybody else!”
Byram made no move to stop her or push her away. Instead, he tilted his head and said, his voice odd with sadness: “And what about you, Aster?”
She blinked, stumbling upon the question.
“What do you mean to say?”
He pushed her gently away: “And who protects you, Aster? Who lives to serve you? Who do you matter to?”
The thought had never occurred to Aster. In Byram’s mouth, it felt sharp as a cut, slicing her open, exposing parts of her she had never sought to uncover. The implications of his words were clear, and the truth of them hurt vividly. Once more, the sting of tears burned her eyes, and she blinked them back angrily, holding her head high, her fists clenched.
“I protect myself. I serve myself. I matter to myself,” she spat out.
He laughed in disbelief: “If you believe this in your heart, then you deceive yourself most grievously, Aster.”
She opened her mouth to make a biting reply, the urge to justify herself almost uncontrollable. But Byram held up his palm, gesturing her to listen.
“I’ve not travelled all the way here to dredge up old feelings, Aster. A day will come when you will need to confront the truths you hide deep in your heart - but now is not the time. Listen to me carefully. Owayn comes to Arkavik soon, and Svagnar intends to take you for his bride to stop further bloodshed. But Owayn will know you for who you are, and his attack upon Arkavik will be swift and terrible.”
Aster dropped back, sinking upon the courtyard steps, crushed under the weight of this new knowledge. Owayn was coming to annihilate what remained of Svagnar’s power, and Svagnar believed himself in possession of a charm of invincibility. But that charm would turn to dust when the time came. Her existence was not a charm - it was a curse. A curse that would deal him and his country a mortal blow.
“I must tell Svagnar the truth,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I cannot lie when Arkavik stands to fall by my lie.”
Byram shook his head, pacing up and down the courtyard. Finally, he stopped, and said: “Only Adrienna has the power to stop the war.”
“And how? She is lost - I let her go. Svagnar’s men had her, believing her to be my lady-in-waiting, and they lost her in turn.”
“Yes, I heard. I heard other rumours too,” Byram paused, deep in thought. “I did not believe the rumours then, for Svagnar was certain he had Adrienna. But perhaps there is hope yet.”
“Hope of what?” Aster sat up, a spark ignited within her. “What rumours, Byram?”
“On the Karschan side. Rumours of a Veritian maiden being rescued near the border. A noblewoman. I hoped it was you, perhaps, for some say you look like the princess…” he looked up at her and shook his head. “But you look nothing like her, and I heard that Althius was with her. So she might be alive in Karscha.”
Aster stood up. Now the spark of hope blazed in her chest. Now she felt herself grow back into her old shape: Aster, the captain of the guard. Now was the time for planning and acting. She had wallowed and despaired long enough. If there was hope that Adrienna lived, then she would tear apart the earth from the skies to find her.
“I must go to her. If I tell her everything, she will come, she will aid Arkavik.”
Byram stopped and lay his hand upon her shoulder. Pulling her close, he said calmly: “Listen to me, Aster. Owayn comes soon, and we cannot let Arkavik fall in your absence. But we will mend what was broken: I will leave tonight for Karscha and find Adrienna. And when I do, bring her back here.”
Aster dared not say anything; her heart fluttered like the wings of a captive bird striving to be free.
Byran continued: “In the meantime, do not relent, do not falter. Marry Svagnar, buy me the time I need, and await my return with Adrienna. On the seventh day, come to the northern shore by the fjords that protect Fjersfell.” He hesitated. “If I am not there, Aster, then it will be too late. You must choose whether to escape or tell Svagnar the truth.”
The shackle of her deception once more closed upon Aster. She had hoped she would escape it - she had felt the truth close enough to touch. But seven days was a short time to live a lie. And she would do as she must in order to protect all those she had come to care for. Gunnar, Eirik, beautiful Ylva. And above all Svagnar, the jarl who carried the weight of his dead people around him like a heavy mantle.
Nodding, she said: “I will do as you say. I will marry Svagnar and meet you on the seastrand on the seventh day.” She swallowed hard. “Please return.”
“I will, Aster. We will end this war, I believe it.”
He finally pulled free, and she stood trembling at how fragile their hope was, thin as the thread of a spider. So ephemeral that the softest breeze might yet destroy it - for too many things could go wrong. Byram might not get to Adrienna in time. Owayn might arrive earlier than they expected. Adrienna might not agree to return with Byram. Or agree but arrive too late. Svagnar might find out the truth. Svagnar might be surprised by a war he thought he was ending. Svagnar might he betrayed or hurt or killed.
Sensing her swirling fears closing upon her, Byram slapped Aster’s shoulder as he had in
the old days when they had trained together in the barracks.
“I know you to be strong enough, Aster. But you do not carry the world upon your shoulders. Trust me, trust Adrienna. Trust Svagnar.”
She nodded and stood very straight. He was right. She had never been one to despair and wilt in fear. She must not to so now. Now, she must be stronger than ever before, and hide every part true part of her, no matter how much she longed to reveal the truth, to come clean, to surrender to Svagnar’s wrath.
“I must go now, Aster. If Adrienna is alive, I will find her. I promise you this.”
“Thank you, Byram. You’re a good man and… and I believe you did the right thing. You are right about the war. You were right all along. It is ignoble.”
He smiled wearily, and they finally parted:
“Fare you well, Byram.”
“And you, Aster. May the saints keep you.”
Once Byram had disappeared back into the great hall, Aster long stood in the darkness of the courtyard, breathing in sharp lungfuls of icy air. It was so cold and harsh that she felt it might turn her insides to frost. Though perhaps that might be a blessing.
In the hard, beautiful land of Arkavik, Aster had never felt herself softer, sweeter. Every part of her seemed to be keen with raw emotion. She had never felt this way before, for her duty had shut out everything from her heart.
But now that she was away from Adrienna, she felt herself open up to everything and everyone: she loved the mountains and the indigo sky, and she loved the steadfast, strong people of Arkavik. She loved Gunnar and the loyal, laughing guards, who cherished their jarl and mocked him in equal measures. And she loved Ylva, and the shieldmaidens, who had welcomed her amongst them with no protest or resistance. And she loved Fjersfell, its courtyards and turrets and ornate decorations, its walls always resounding with conversation and laughter.
As for Svagnar, she could not truly fathom what she felt for him. She could not look upon him without her stomach twisting with some unknowable thing, and yet she could not help but admire his strength, his humour, his loyalty. Earlier, he had held her chin in his hand, and the gesture had been so shockingly affectionate she had felt herself almost come undone. She had almost told him the truth. She longed to tell him the truth.
She longed to tell him the truth, and in her innermost heart, she longed for him to tell her it did not matter. That he cared nothing for a princess. That she was enough.
But she wasn’t enough. She was a lowly bastard, with no parentage or land. She would never buy his kingdom peace, and she had little else to offer in exchange
Steeling herself, Aster stood very straight, facing the doorway to the great hall. She needed to remember this; to remember the truth of her own self, lest she forget it in the silver of Svagnar’s eyes. She was a liar and a deceiver, and her only purpose now would be to hold Adrienna’s place until she returned to take it.
Aster returned to the great hall. She was no longer in the mood for a feast. The guests danced and ate, and she spotted Ylva, conversing with Lazulai merchants. Further away was Svagnar, drinking heartily amongst his guards. Let them rejoice. But she could not stomach any more of this torment. So she quietly slipped out of the hall and ran through the corridors, desperate to reach her bedchamber.
Once there, she stormed in and slammed the door shut. Even though the fire had smouldered to embers in the hearth, she felt hot and furious and restless. Looking at herself in the narrow mirror by the fireplace, she scoffed. The regal velvet and exquisite dress were stolen garments, and she could no longer bear to wear them. She tore at the laces, pulling the bodice loose as though it burned her. She pushed the dress and shift to her feet and stepped away from them, kicking the mound of fabric from her.
Standing in her thin chemise, she hugged herself against the cold. And then the tears finally came, flowing freely. For the first time in many years, she allowed herself to weep, the luxury of it almost delightful. Aster wept hot, endless tears, her face buried in her hands, her body wracked by sobs. She cried for losing Adrienna and for losing herself, for her lies and for all those that she had lied to. She cried until there were no tears left, and then she sank back onto her windowsill, curled up against the icy glass, and let her sobs shake her as they faded away.
If Byram returned with Adrienna, she would become herself again. Staunch, steady Aster, with no lies to keep and no tears to shed. Watching Adrienna take Svagnar from her would be a bitter draught indeed - but she would swallow it. And with it, she would swallow every rebel emotion, sever every heartstring that linked her to him. She needed only to become her true self again, and she would once more be the master of her own heart and mind.
A knock at her door pulled her from her thoughts. She wondered if Ylva had come to share gossip and bid her goodnight, as she often did. Opening the door, heat flooded her cheeks when she found it was not Ylva, but Svagnar standing in her doorway. Too late, she remembered that she wore nothing but her chemise. The gossamer fabric clung to her body like mist on a lake, revealing her pale limbs and the dusky points of her nipples. Svagnar stood frozen in the shock of seeing her thus dressed, and his eyes travelled the length of her, unhurried and unashamed.
Her cheeks burning, she hastened to cross her arms over her chest, but Svagnar’s eyes devoured what she sought to hide.
For the first time, he wore no smile upon his lips. His features were cast in shadows; his gaze hooded and yet piercing her like a blade. At first, she thought he must be tired, but soon she realised that he was intoxicated, the smell of spiced wine drifting from him. He leaned against the doorway with the lazy confidence of a wolf - poised and yet terrifying.
“Why are you here?” she asked, trying to still the trembling of her voice.
Had he finally discovered the truth of her deception? Had he come to her chamber to slay her there? Aster had awaited her death at his hands for so long that she almost welcomed it now. Living as her true self would be a relief, even if she should only live for a moment.
“Will you not invite me inside, my bride?” said Svagnar, his voice low and dark, his eyes burning with a devouring heat.
Her heart hammered so hard in her chest she feared he would hear it. She stepped aside, mutely allowing him entry. He slipped past her, shutting the door behind them. Now he stood so close to her that she stepped back, evading the pulsing heat of his proximity. But he stepped forward, following her, maintaining their closeness.
She took another step backwards, then another, and still he followed her, wordless, his eyes holding hers captive. She gasped when her back hit something hard. She had reached the wall by her bed. Svagnar’s hands rested on either side of her head. He leaned down and spoke, his voice so low she could feel it vibrate in the air between them.
“Did my feast displease you?”
“No,” she replied, her voice strangled, her hands plastered to the wall behind her.
He was so close she could feel the heat emanating from him, her senses filled with the scent of him: the musk of his sweat, the richness of his perfume, the smell of ice and iron he always carried about him.
“Then why did you leave?”
He was not as intoxicated as she thought; his eyelids were heavy but his speech was smooth and deliberate. His voice was hoarse, but his words were clear.
“I was tired.”
“Aye, and sad, too,” he glanced at her cheeks. “There are tears upon your face. Why do you weep, hellhound, when it you who hurts me?”
She rankled at that, standing straight, glaring at him as she snapped: “How do I hurt you when you are the master of everything here?”
“You hurt me with everything you do. You hurt me when you avoid me, you hurt me when you mock me, you hurt me when you touch another man knowing you belong to me.”
“Touch another man?” she cried, realising too late that she should have protested the other part of his claim.
“I saw you with the Veritian knight. Grabbing him like a secret lover,
stealing off with him,” Svagnar’s voice was low with tightly contained fury and raw with something else. Something she did not understand until his hands dropped to catch her waist, pulling her close, and he growled: “Do you love him because he is a good man and I am not?”
Aster’s cheeks burned to feel his hands against her. The flimsy fabric of her chemise barely separated her skin from his, the proximity of his touch tantalising. He looked down at her with thunder in his eyes, his scarred, handsome features twisted in misery.
“You are a good man,” she replied, dropping her eyes, unable to withstand the hunger in his. “And I do not love him.”
“Then why won’t you be mine?” he said, his voice raw with despair.
Because she was not who he thought she was. Because she was not a princess, but a bastard, a nobody. Because he was a good king, and she was a worthless liar. Because she might doom his country to war and carnage. Because it was another he wanted, not her.
The truth trembled on her lips. To stifle it, Aster could only think of one thing to do. Throwing her arms around his neck, she pressed her mouth to Svagnar’s.
His eyes widened with surprise then fluttered closed. He pulled her up against his chest, crushing his lips to hers in a kiss so ardent Aster ached. He opened his mouth against hers, his tongue sliding hotly against her lips. Aster parted them, allowing him access. Allowing him to deepen the kiss, to touch his tongue to hers. She met him kiss for kiss, for kissing him was better than telling him the truth, better than hurting him with her betrayal - better than anything else
“Gods, hellhound, your mouth…” Svagnar grunted thickly.
She felt him carry her and slowly lower her onto her bed, kissing her hard and hungry as he did so. The awareness that she was naked beneath her thin chemise evaporated like mist in the sun. At that moment, she longed to be as close to him as she could get, her arms pulling him to her, her thighs parting to allow his hips to press against hers. She could feel the hardness of him between her legs, and she moaned, arching against him, her anguish forgotten in the crucible of her burning need.
Sapphire and Steel Page 12
