Sapphire and Steel

by Violet Froste

  But before he could meet her eyes or approach her, a massive figure blocked his gaze. He looked up to see the only man he knew who was taller and bigger than him: his father’s brother, Ulvik. He had a puckered hole where his left eye ought to be, and a grin bright enough to rival the sun as he stared down at Svagnar.

  “My nephew, you’ve grown!” he boomed.

  Svagnar burst out laughing, clasping the colossal man to him.

  “Uncle! The gods truly bless me today!”

  “I would not have missed your wedding for all the silver and sapphires in Arkavik, nephew.”

  Standing back, Ulvik pulled a ring from his finger and handed it Svagnar: “This was your father’s, wolfling. It will no doubt be too large for your little bride’s finger, but you must give her something to wear.”

  Svagnar felt his throat tighten. His uncle’s presence and his father’s ring, a plain silver band with a wolf’s head engraved into it, made his marriage feel more real than it ever had before.

  “Thank you, Uncle. Wish the gods’ blessings upon me.”

  “Aye, I will, though I see not the need,” Ulvik said, beaming. “The gods have always favoured you, Jarl Svagnar.”

  He moved aside and said: “Come now, your bride awaits you, wolfling.”

  Svagnar approached Aster, unable to look away from her. He had not seen her since the night he had stormed into her chamber and almost taken her on her bed. The memories of that night - the hot kiss she had pressed to his mouth, her gasping breaths and the smell of her hair and throat - were vivid in his mind, urging him towards her. When he reached her, she looked up nervously at him: she seemed more afraid than he had ever seen her. And yet there was a challenge in those proud eyes of hers, and she stood as straight as an arrow.

  Pierced by a sudden surge of affection, Svagnar lunged forward and grabbed the princess, picking her up into his arms. A tiny cry of surprise escaped her, and her hands gripped his shoulders as he held her up, sunlight framing her face, the wind whipping her long dark hair and flowing skirts. She was exquisite - and she was about to become his.

  “Greetings, hellhound. I’ve missed you,” he said fearlessly, setting her down.

  “I’ve been busy,” she said, lightly and arrogantly, her chin pointed up, her eyes bluer than the sky, her gaze bold and direct. “The shieldmaidens have been teaching me to wield an axe.”

  “Aye, I’ve heard. Just in time for our wedding.”

  “Indeed,” she said with a sweet smile. “Just in time for our wedding night.”

  Svagnar burst out laughing, but before he could throw back a retort to make her blush and squeal, the Gods-man approached. He wore long robes and a necklace of bones, and blue paint covered his eyes and forehead, his mouth and chin. The Gods-man spent most of his time in the mountains, as close to the realm of the gods and goddesses as he could. An ancient and recluse man - but he had known Svagnar since he was a child, and a solemn joy lit his dark eyes.

  “Let the goddess Freja witness this,” he spoke, his booming voice silencing the crowd. “We have come here today on these hallowed shores to unite the bodies and souls of Svagnar of Arkavik and Adrienna of Veritier.”

  The princess’s face darkened as he spoke, and Svagnar frowned, trying to fathom the sudden darkness that lay there. Did she not wish to wed him? Was she concealing her regret, her sorrow? He met her eyes, but she dropped them, gazing at the floor between them instead.

  “We ask the gods to bless this union, to make it strong and unbreakable. We ask the goddesses to bless this union, to fill it with love and desire. We unite the man and the woman, and we unite two lands through them. May the gods and goddesses bless both our countries and build a long and lasting peace between them.”

  The crowd of guests and citizens cheered at that, and Svagnar snapped from his thoughts. He needed to remember why he was doing this. He was not marrying her for love or selfishness - he was marrying her for peace and the end of bloodshed. That was all that mattered. He unsheathed Himinbitr, holding it between him and the princess, and looked up at the Gods-man, who now said:

  “Jarl Svagnar Odliefsen, do you swear in front of the gods to honour this woman, to hold and protect her, to keep her safe from harm and serve her in whatever way you can?”

  “I swear it in front of the gods,” Svagnar said, his voice clear and unshaken.

  He realised in that very moment, that he was not merely agreeing to vows, but taking an oath. An oath he would uphold until his death, for he would live the rest of his life honouring and adoring and worshipping the woman who stood facing him now. He would do anything to serve her, to protect her, to make her safe and happy. Regardless of what happened between their countries, he knew then that his marriage would not just be a political alliance. It would be more. So much more.

  “Then give her your ancestor’s sword, which she will guard until she bears you sons.”

  Svagnar handed the sword to the princess: it was an old, heavy weapon, an Arkaviki blade of balanced steel. But to his surprise she took it, holding it in the proper grip, with both palms between the pommel and crossguard. She held it straight and unflinching, as though she was used to holding such a weapon. Her confident, firm grip on the sword filled Svagnar with mingled dread and lust.

  “And you, Adrienna daughter of Owayn of Veritier. Do you swear in front of our gods and your saints that you will honour this man, that you will love him and cherish him, and protect and serve him in whatever way you can?”

  She took a deep breath. This time she held Svagnar’s gaze when she said: “I swear it. I will protect you in whatever way I can, Svagnar.”

  The sapphire-blue of her eyes enthralled him: he found something there he could not quite fathom, something strong and yet hopeless. He knew that she meant what she said, for she had spoken the words with utter sincerity. And yet he could not help but feel that she was telling him something else too, something he could not yet understand.

  “Then in front of the gods and goddesses, in front of the mountains and the sky and the sea, in front of your people and your friends, you are now husband and wife. You may exchange symbols of your union.”

  Svagnar handed her the ring his uncle had given him. She put it on her finger, and when it was slightly too loose, she closed her fist, as though to keep it close. She said, her voice small: “I have nothing to offer you in the way of jewellery, for I own nothing. But until I do…” and she pulled free the leather string she always wore around her wrist or braid. Taking his hand, she knotted it around one of his fingers. “Will you wear this in place of a ring?”

  Svagnar looked down at the little string around his large finger, then back up at her eyes, those wide pools that seemed to overflow with secret emotions. A feeling such as he had never experienced before overwhelmed him - as though she had reached into his chest and clenched his heart in her palm, her fingers digging into the pulsing, bloody muscle. His chest tight with barely contained words, he grabbed her face in both hands, pushing aside the sword she still held, and kissed her full on her pearl-pink mouth.

  She parted her lips, her hands flying to his neck. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his tongue exploring the hot, sweet taste of her. He pulled back slowly and heard her sigh, a strangled, breathless sound that made him stiffen in his trousers. His eyes searched her face, finding her cheeks flushed and her eyes glittering like gemstones.

  “Svagnar,” she breathed. “I…”

  She hesitated as he waited, his breath held. But before she could finish, the galloping of a horse shook the ground, and the crowd parted. One of the young scouts posted at the closest fjord dismounted, saying breathlessly: “The beacons of Northfjord are lit. The Veritian fleet has appeared on the horizon.”

  “How much time do we have?” asked Svagnar.

  “If they’ve been seen from the Northfjord then not long,” replied Gunnar thoughtfully. “Two, three days at most.”

  “Very well. We’ve prepared as best we can,” Svagnar sai
d, turning back to the princess. “But for now, I will not have my wedding spoiled by my bride’s father. Come, there is a feast awaiting us.”

  And he swept his new wife into his arms, and though she held him tightly, her head pressed against his neck, he could not help but notice that she was trembling from head to toe.

  Chapter XIII

  Aster the Lustful Jarl

  Aster’s time had run out. Byram had told her to meet him on the seventh day, but Owayn would arrive before then. Her best hope would be to get to the meeting point she had agreed on with Byram and pray to the Arkaviki gods that he would be there earlier than promised. And that Adrienna would be with him.

  Already, Aster had hidden an axe under the mattress in her bedchamber, though it had pained her to betray the shieldmaidens’ trust. She had mapped out the quietest way to the stables, and where the saddles were kept, and which horse lay closer to the doors. In truth, it would not be so difficult to escape Fjersfell, for everyone within it was friendly and placid, and she knew many of them by name now.

  The challenge was not truly in evading others - it was within her evasion itself.

  The closer Svagnar held her to him, the more he kissed her, the more she felt the flimsy fabric of her disguise tear loose. And now that her time was up, the temptation to tell him the truth was stronger than ever. But she knew that telling him the truth would ruin any chance Byram’s plan might have of working. Now more than ever, she needed to be patient and secretive. She had the trust of everyone in Fjersfell - now was the time to use that trust to deceive it. She would save Arkavik even as she betrayed Svagnar.

  “Come, wife, do not look so sad,” Svagnar said, taking her cheek in his palm to make her face him.

  They both sat at the top of the banquet table, their seats pressed close together. Svagnar’s other hand held hers where their armrests met, and she did not have the heart to pull it free. Thankfully, Gunnar soon arrived, carrying a cup with two handles, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

  “Now is the time for the lovers to share their first drink,” he said with a wicked grin.

  Svagnar took the cup, his eyes narrowed, and held it to his lips.

  “By the gods, Gunnar, do you seek to kill us both tonight?”

  “No, only to lighten your moods, for you make a morose pair between the two of you!”

  A powerful vapour emanated from the cup, and Aster watched with apprehension as Svagnar took a sip. He swallowed and shuddered, then mutely passed her the cup. Breathing deep, she took a sip too. It was honey mead - sickly sweet, but powerful enough to rouse the dead. Aster took another sip. Then another. Then another.

  “Aye, what a woman, by the gods, what a woman!” Gunnar exclaimed, throwing his head back with a roar of surprised laughter. “A woman worthy of a wolf to be sure!”

  Svagnar took the cup back from Aster and drank too, his eyes fixed upon hers. Now that the alcohol warmed her gut and made her feel slightly dizzy, Aster decided it was time to banish her worries. Pointing towards Gunnar, she commanded: “Gunnar, Captain of the Jarlsguard. Tonight, your duty is to make sure whenever I reach for a cup, that cup is full of mead.”

  Gunnar bowed low and said: “I swear in front of the gods that I will not fail you, jarl.”

  She laughed and turned to Svagnar: “Am I jarl, now?”

  “You rule Arkavik by my side,” he said, his voice low, his eyes hooded as he watched her. “You are jarl.”

  She fell back into her seat and said: “Symon would be very shocked to see me now.”

  He frowned, and she smiled up at him. She had been foolish to say this, and in truth, she knew not why she had said it at all. She felt untethered and wild: the wedding ceremony had given her the sense that she was in a dream, moving through a fantasy of a life that would never truly be hers. A life where she might have a husband who loved her, and a family to belong to. A life that was a shadow of her own, something she could touch but not grasp.

  For none of this was hers. It was all Adrienna’s.

  Svagnar was watching her, his eyes searching her face. Lately, he always seemed to look for some answer when he looked at her - but to what question, she knew not. She could feel the mead loosening her tongue already. She felt brittle and molten all at once, she knew that if he pulled on even one thread of emotion, all of her would come undone.

  And then everything would be ruined.

  So she stood, and said: “I’ve not danced in a long time.”

  It was true. She had not danced since one drunken night, whilst Adrienna and her father had been at a ball in Hawksmoor. That night, the Princessguard and the Kingsguard had been drinking together in the inn across from the castle, and they had drunkenly decided to have a ball of their own. Aster had never learned to dance - but then, neither did most of the guards she danced with. She had felt careless and silly and free that night.

  She stomped through the crowd and Ylva met her, taking both her hands in hers and linking their fingers.

  “Good evening, my sister!” she said, reaching forward to kiss Aster’s cheek.

  She smelled of honey and ice, and Aster looked admiringly at her pale hair, so similar to Svagnar’s.

  “Are we sisters now?” she asked, teetering and steadying herself against Ylva.

  Ylva smiled dazzlingly: “Aye, indeed! Svagnar is my brother and you’re married to him. That makes you my sister. The gods must have heard my prayers, for I’ve always wished for a sister.”

  Aster’s heart faltered as she was reminded once more of Adrienna. She, too, had always wished for a sister, and the gods must have heard her prayers as well, if they were giving her Ylva. For Ylva, just like Svagnar, would soon belong to Adrienna.

  “Come, dance with me, sister,” Aster said, swallowing back the knot in her throat.

  She would not cry on the night of her own stolen wedding.

  Instead, Aster got delightfully dizzy on honey mead. Gunnar was steadfast in his duty to keep her cup full, for there was not an instant when Aster drank from a cup that was not filled with lover’s mead. Soon, her troubles were forgotten and her head spun deliriously.

  Aster danced and realised that she must keep dancing, or else collapse entirely. So she danced with Ylva, and then she danced with Eirik, who courteously offered her his arm and made no comment when she repeatedly tripped over his feet. She danced with Svagnar’s uncle - the biggest man she had ever seen and an enthusiastic dancer. She danced with the shieldmaidens, who all wore gowns the colour of jewels. She danced with Kylan, who was about as intoxicated as she was, and together, they made lewd comments about Svagnar’s appearance.

  “You will appreciate seeing him naked, princess,” Kylan slurred. “For he has a big chest and a tight arse.”

  “Oh, it is well, very well,” Aster giggled, and leaning conspiratorially, she asked: “But does he have a big cock?”

  Kylan spluttered, almost choking on his tongue.

  “Jarl!” he said beratingly. He leaned forward and whispered: “Distressingly big.”

  Aster laughed, throwing her head back, and she would have fallen off her feet from the momentum had she not been swept up by a powerful arm and pulled into an impressive chest. She looked up from beneath heavy eyelids and saw that Svagnar now held her, glaring balefully at Kylan.

  “Take your hands off my wife, Kylan Without-Death, before I test the gods that protect your life.”

  “Aye, Jarl Svagnar,” Kylan bowed deeply and winked at Aster. “I am only warning the princess of the… enormity of the task ahead.”

  Aster choked on a shocked laughter and Kylan darted off into the crowd, followed by the daggers of Svagnar’s glare.

  “You’ve gotten yourself in quite a state, my wife,” said Svagnar, plastering Aster against him as though he feared she might fall.

  “Aye,” she said, hoisting herself onto the tips of her toes to better face him. “Gunnar is a good and conscientious man. Not a moment has gone by tonight when my cup has been dry. No wonder you’
ve made him captain of your guard.”

  “He has been overzealous in his duty,” Svagnar said, his voice so low it made his chest rumble against Aster’s breasts as they pressed against it. “For I am afraid my wife might be unconscious before I ever take her to our wedding bed.”

  At that, Aster’s pulse quickened and her breath caught in her throat. This was not her wedding night to have. And yet - what other wedding night would she ever have? Besides, it was her Svagnar held in his arms, and it was her mouth he fixed with his piercing gaze, and her waist his hands clasped. He might call her by Adrienna’s name, but it was Aster’s body he held, not Adrienna’s.

  “Then why don’t you take your wife to the wedding bed while she is still conscious?” she said, biting her lip at her own audacity.

  A low, deep sigh crawled from Svagnar’s throat as he picked her up into his arms, his eyes locked on the lip she had caught with her teeth.

  “You may be a drunken fool, hellhound, but your suggestions are shrewd and wise.”

  She coiled her arms around his neck and giggled quietly against his neck. As they left the noise and chaos of the great hall, the silent darkness of the corridors enrobed them in a strange intimacy, and she felt her breath become short, her heart hammering wildly.

  She knew she was being unwise. She had been unwise all along to covet him, to desire him. But she had not meant to do so. Her feelings had stalked and ambushed her without her realising anything was wrong.

  At what point had her admiration melted so insidiously into attraction? At what point had she stopped dreaming of escaping and started dreaming of his hands and lips on her? She was drunk on mead, but that was only temporary, that would fade in the morning. Her foolish infatuation did not seem to fade - in fact, it only seemed to grow more ardent with every day that passed.

  Perhaps she only wanted him because he could not be hers. Perhaps a secret, malicious side of her coveted what would never belong to her because she would always have nothing for herself. She could not dream of a noble marriage, of a husband as worthy as Svagnar. She could not dream of a marriage bed like his, of a future with him. And so now she sought to take whatever she could get, while she could. Because soon, all of this would be snatched from her. Soon, she would have nothing left but a life lived in duty and a useless heart.