Sapphire and Steel

by Violet Froste

  He saw the mercenary archer dip behind a tent just as he felt the arrow pierce his thigh. The pain was more shocking than debilitating, and Svagnar responded quickly. Grabbing the arrow, he yanked it free from his leg, a dribble of blood following the sharp arrowhead as it tore free. He threw it aside and saw a mercenary run towards him.

  Before he could turn, the princess had stomped forward and caught the mercenary with a slice of her sword. The mercenary gasped and fell forward, catching the princess beneath him. Both fell into the snow, and the mercenary pulled a dagger from his belt as they did. Svagnar moved before thinking, rushing forward to drag the Sefenan man away. Then he heard the whistling sound again.

  He jerked back to avoid it, taking the mercenary down with him. As he fell back, he caught the man’s shoulders and head in each hand and yanked hard. A brutal crunch resounded, and the body fell limp against him. Svagnar threw it aside as he had done the arrow and rolled up.

  “Adrienna!” he called hoarsely.

  She turned, too late. A third arrow buried itself into her side and she gasped, stepping back in the shock of her pain. Another mercenary leapt forward and slashed at her. She had only the time to raise both arms in front of her, then the grey fabric of her gown went crimson and she fell back under the impact of the blade.

  With a roar of fury, Svagnar ran into the Sefenan man. He smashed his shoulder into the mercenary’s gut, cutting the breath from him. The man tripped backwards, then Svagnar was hacking at him with his axe, uncontrollable wrath moving his arm.

  Casting a glance around, Svagnar saw that the battle was dragging to an end. Gunnar had now returned from the mountain slopes with his men, and they were finishing what the mercenaries had started, taking no prisoners. The princess lay on the ground in a pool of blood, trying to crawl upright. Svagnar felt as though an arrow had pierced him in the heart at the sight and he ran to her, pulling her up into his arms. Her head rolled back limply, her eyelids fluttering.

  Leaving his vikingr to finish dealing with the mercenaries, Svagnar ran to his tent. His thought was only of the princess, his anger towards her quelled by the icy terror that flooded him.

  Laying her into the bed of furs, he immediately inspected her arms: the flesh had been sliced deep across both arms, the cuts gashing open and bleeding profusely. Glancing up, he saw that her face had gone deathly pale, her lips drained of blood, her eyelids fluttering.

  “Forgive me,” she breathed weakly. His heart clenched at the smallness of her voice. “It’s been a long time since I’ve wielded a sword.”

  And with this formal apology, her eyes rolled back into her head and she fell lifeless into the furs.

  Her blood pulsed thickly from her wounds, turning her grey gown scarlet as it spread. Svagnar bit his lip as he left her briefly. He needed herbs, bandages, perhaps some alcohol to revive her. His tent had been well-stocked, and he soon returned with an armful of items. He had no hot water to clean her wounds with so he went outside, grabbing handfuls of fresh snow. Returning quickly, he packed the snow over her wounds to staunch the bleeding.

  Waiting for the bleeding in her arms to stop, he inspected the arrow in her flank. It had pierced her through, and the wound would hurt her terribly for a long time. She would bear terrible scars if she survived this, he realised. Scars given to her by the same mercenaries who had disfigured him as a youth. A strange twist of fate. Snapping the arrow in half, he tore both sides free in brusque motions, thankful that she was unconscious.

  Once he had stopped the bleeding, he began tending her wounds. The cuts in her arms would need sewing before he could lay a poultice over it - but Svagnar’s hands were trembling. He was forcing himself to remain calm, but he was still reeling from everything that had just happened. Questions assaulted his mind, disturbing his concentration.

  She had fought like a soldier. Why had she fought like a soldier? Had she trained like a soldier? She had never seemed to him to fit the role of a princess. And now he thought about all the peculiarities he had noticed over time: her muscles, her bruises, her fearlessness. He remembered how she had ignored the cuts from the Veritian arrows and how she had rowed with the others on the longship, without complaint. He remembered how she had threatened to stick a knife in his ribs when he had first met her, and how she had escaped alone through the storm.

  He remembered the night he had taken her. She was asleep in the tent, nestled next to another girl. What had she said then? “This is my lady-in-waiting. Do not harm her.” She had begged him fearfully to spare the girl. And she had almost struck Gunnar when he had returned with news that he had lost the lady-in-waiting during the Veritian attack. He had been surprised to find her so unselfish, so loyal, so steadfast.

  She had always surprised him with how different she was to what he had expected. It had not occurred to him that she might not seem regal because she might not be regal. But now, he could think of nothing else.

  Her sorrow, her worries, her melancholy in Fjersfell. He had wondered so often what had troubled her. Could it be that a deeper, greater lie than he had imagined troubled her?

  The only way Svagnar would get answers would be to ask her. Running outside, he saw that his men had ended the fight, and they were now checking on the dead and wounded. Gunnar had already ordered the mercenaries’ bodies to be dragged into a pile for burning, and Svagnar immediately sent for a healer.

  Eirik was amongst the warriors seeing to the wounded, for he had steady hands and healing knowledge. After he had helped reset a bone into a socket, Svagnar brought him to the tent.

  “She needs stitches, Eirik.”

  Eirik nodded. Svagnar had always admired the firmness of his actions, his precision. Svagnar prepared the needle and thread, and Eirik held the point of the needle over the flame of a candle, cauterising the steel.

  “More lights, Svagnar.”

  Svagnar hurried to fetch some lanterns and candles, then stocked the fire in his brazier high. Firelight faltered then flooded the tent.

  “How did this come about?” asked Eirik.

  Svagnar crouched by Eirik and glanced at his face. It was grave with concentration, and a black contusion already bloomed across his face from the recent fight.

  “She fought at my side against the mercenaries. Arrows separated us and she got struck down.”

  “She fought by your side?”

  Svagnar nodded grimly.

  “She fought like a Veritian soldier.”

  “This wife of yours is always full of surprises, is she not?” Eirik said ponderously.

  Svagnar nodded and watched tensely as Eirik sewed each wound shut. Both gashes were frighteningly deep but fairly short, and soon Eirik was tying a loop at the end of each cut. Svagnar crushed a poultice of herbs to staunch any further blood loss and packed it carefully over the wounds. Then Eirik held her arms one by one as Svagnar carefully wrapped bandages around them.

  Once they had seen to her arms, Eirik checked the wound in her gut and said: “It pierced her clean through. With any luck, it damaged none of her organs. Time will tell, Svagnar.”

  They wrapped a bandage over her dress, covering the twin punctures on either side of her. Afterwards, both men sat back, taking turns drinking from a flask.

  “How many of ours have fallen?” Svagnar asked quietly.

  “Three I know. Lodmund, young Iver and Halvi. Kylan was wounded but he’ll live - as always. Bjern was struck by five arrows and now lies unconscious. But he, too, might live. The rest of the fallen I do not know.”

  “You should go see to Bjern,” Svagnar said with a sigh. “I fear that many more of us will die defending Arkavik.”

  “You believe your marriage will not stop Owayn?”

  Svagnar cast a look at the pale face of his wounded wife. Whoever she was.

  “I’m not sure what to believe anymore, Eirik. I’m not sure I even know who my wife is.”

  Eirik frowned, following Svagnar’s gaze to the girl they had both believed to be a princess.
She looked as though she slept, her mouth half-open, sweat gleaming on her forehead, her dark braid coiled into the furs. She was breathing shallowly, her chest heaving beneath her blood-drenched gown, and small noises were trying to emerge from her lips.

  “Go see to Bjern and the others, Eirik. It seems I must speak to my wife.”

  Eirik bowed his head and handed Svagnar the flask. Before he left, he paused and said: “Svagnar. Whatever lies you might discover, I believe there has been some truth in what you felt. Perhaps in what she felt too. Remember that, before you speak too harshly.”

  “I know, Eirik. May the gods always favour you, my brother.”

  “And you.”

  Eirik disappeared, and Svagnar took a brisk gulp from his flask before lowering it to his mysterious wife’s lips. Propping her head up carefully with one hand, he lifted the flask, letting droplets of strong mead pour between her lips, moving her head so the liquid would slide down her throat. She swallowed and coughed, and he repeated the process. Soon, her eyelids were fluttering, and she was mumbling: “Symon told me not to fight.”

  “Oh?” Svagnar said, leaning forward to better hear her. “Who’s Symon?”

  She blinked, her hazy eyes slowly focusing on him. She smiled, a tiny, sad smile that made his heart clench.

  “The master of orphans at Hawksmoor.”

  “The master of orphans told you not to fight?”

  “He said I’d only get myself killed,” she whispered pitifully.

  “I thought a witch told you that your death would be on a sword.”

  Her eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she said: “The mercenary had a sword.”

  Svagnar shook his head, trying to ignore the terrible pain her words sent through his chest.

  “You’re not allowed to die,” he growled. “The gods won’t allow it. I won’t allow it.”

  She nodded and tried to sit up. When she failed to do so, she lifted her arms, staring at the bandages, then dropped them her side, closing her eyes with a shuddering sigh. Some profound turmoil seemed to rage within her, and Svagnar, swallowing hard, finally forced himself to ask: “Who are you?”

  She breathed deeply, half from pain, half as though she were bracing herself for the answer. Then she spoke, her voice clear and formal.

  “I am Aster, the captain of the Princessguard.”

  And the truth tasted both sweet and bitter - for there was a delicious triumph in knowing the true name of the brave, beautiful woman he had taken for his bride.

  And yet, there was also a dark, wretched failure, for he had not married the princess of Veritier, and his marriage would no longer be enough to save his country. Everything he had done had been in vain. And Owayn was here, with the Karschan fleet, and now Svagnar saw the future of his country lie in ruin, bloodshed and despair.

  Chapter XVII

  Aster the True Bride

  The abject despair that clouded Svagnar’s features when she spoke her name struck Aster as surely as a slap across the face. What else had she expected? That he would rejoice in her lie? That he would forgive his plan being ruined? That he would be satisfied with a low-born wife?

  She faced away from him. Tears pooled in her eyes, but they were not for him to see. If she’d had the strength, she would have walked away. Anything to hide how much his disappointment hurt her. Instead, she swallowed hard, steeling herself. She owed him an explanation. She owed him the truth if nothing else.

  “Listen,” she said, her voice hoarse and laboured. “I want to tell you the truth. You don’t have to believe me, and after I am done speaking, you may dispense whatever justice you see fit. But first, I will speak.”

  His grey eyes pierced her, unreadable. He raised no objection, though he did not encourage her. He fixed her with the impassive coldness of his eyes and awaited her words.

  “That night you found our camp near the Karschan border, I thought you meant Adrienna harm. You… you love your guards like friends, like brothers. But to me, Adrienna is more,” Aster hesitated. “She was more. She was everything to me, my reason for being alive. Without her, I would be nothing. A Hawksmoor bastard with no purpose, no destiny.”

  She dared not meet his gaze as she said this. He was a jarl, a respected warrior, groomed for greatness, chosen by his own people to rule a country. How could he understand the life of someone unremarkable and unimportant? Someone who had grown up unwanted and neglected and hollow?

  “You came to take Adrienna, and I thought of nothing but protecting her. I believed you might wish to use her against Owayn. I knew you were Arkaviki, and I knew you had many reasons to despise her and her father. I was afraid, so I lied to buy her time. When I tried to run away, it was only to find her. When Gunnar returned and said he had lost her, I feared I had failed my duty. I… I do not regret lying to you then, Svagnar. I would do it all over again if I thought it might save Adrienna.”

  Now she faced him again, and she paused, stilling her voice.

  “When you brought me back to Arkavik, I saw how much you and your people needed this alliance, this marriage. Only then did I understand why you had done what you did. I knew then that you had no intention of killing Adrienna - you never did. But what could I do? It was too late, and I didn’t even know if she still lived. I wanted to tell you the truth, but I feared you would kill me for my lie.”

  Her voice trembled when she carried on.

  “I expected your people to hate Adrienna, but everyone in Fjersfell accepted her - accepted me. And my deception haunted me every day as I grew closer to your family, your household. I knew I would never be enough to stop the war. I knew you rested all your hopes on this marriage. But I’d destroyed your plans already, and you didn’t know it.”

  “You should have told me,” he interrupted, his face hard. “If your lie hurt you so. You should have told me.”

  “I wanted to. I wanted to, but then Byram arrived, and…”

  “Your knight,” he interrupted bitterly. “Yes, I remember.”

  “Not my knight. The king’s knight. He knew me for who I was, and I thought he would tell you the truth. But he told me Adrienna was still alive, and he went to find her in Karscha.”

  “Karscha?” he frowned.

  “You must know of the Karschan encampment by now,” she dropped her eyes then, and breathed: “Your real princess is there, Svagnar.”

  “Adrienna?”

  “Yes. I… I hoped to bring her back to you, to fix my wrongs. But she is already married, she is the future queen of Karscha now and-”

  Svagnar stopped her, taking her face between his large, scarred hands.

  “Bringing me the princess would not right your wrongs, you mad hellhound. Can you not see that?”

  She felt her lips quiver and bit down hard, forcing herself to remain strong. Fighting her tears, she said: “I wanted to give you back your royal bride. To save Arkavik.”

  “Giving me a royal bride would not mend what you broke,” he breathed, his eyes capturing hers in a burning gaze. “Saving Arkavik would not mend what you broke.”

  “I never meant to hurt you,” she said, her voice breaking.

  “Then why did you make me believe you loved me?” he asked, and it was his voice that was wretched now, his face that twisted with regret, with despair. “What did you gain from doing that, Captain of the Princessguard?”

  Her heart froze, crystallised in her fear. “I told you I love you because I thought I might never see you again. I wanted my final words to you to be the truth. I wanted-”

  His stopped hers, swallowing the words she could barely utter. He kissed her hard and hungrily, as though he sought the truth on her lips. She returned his kiss, opening her mouth against his. Wrapping her aching arms around his shoulders, she drew him close, as close as she could.

  “You said you loved me. Was that a lie?” he asked against her mouth, his voice low with pain, with hope, with fear.

  “That was the truth.”

  “You said you needed me
. Was that a lie?” he continued, his hands travelling the shape of her body, touching her as though he had feared he might never touch her again.

  “That was the truth.”

  “You said you wanted me. Was that a lie?”

  “That was the truth,” she gasped as his warm palm found her leg, pulling up her skirts as it slid up, caressing her thighs, her hip. “I want you. I want you, Svagnar Odliefsen, though you’re not mine to have.”

  He crushed his lips to hers, his tongue seeking hers, his hunger incandescent. His hands gripped her, his fingers sinking into the flesh of her buttock. His mouth slipped down, kissing her jaw, her neck, her throat. His hand spread her thighs, seeking the part of her that ached for him most desperately. She sighed in contentment at his touch. Her sigh melted into a moan as he cupped her sex, one finger curling in to find her dripping with honeyed wetness.

  “You’re telling the truth,” he groaned against her throat, relief flooding his voice. “Your body cannot lie.”

  She arched against him and gasped as pain shot through her. Her wounds felt as though her muscles had been sliced open, and she fell back with a keening cry.

  “Don’t move,” he said huskily.

  Sliding down the length of her, Svagnar gently propped her legs over his shoulders, his palms caressing her buttocks as she lowered herself upon him. Peering down, Aster saw that his steel-grey eyes fixed her ravenously as his mouth moved down upon her. Kissing her silken mound of dark hair, he moved further down, his tongue seeking the warm, velvety opening between her legs.

  Aster forced herself to remain still in the furs as he licked her with long, lingering strokes, sending hot waves of pleasure shuddering through her. She turned her face into the furs, trying to stifle the moans that spilt, unbidden, from her lips.

  “You taste like the sweetest nectar,” he murmured against her, his deep voice vibrating through her. “My delicious wife.”