Frida knew there were sorcerers up north, but she also knew she needed to mobilize the forces of Kjota, to gather them to fight the evil sorcerers coming up from the Borderlands. If Brynarr could teach her to use her magic and travel along with her, perhaps they would have a chance to do both things: mobilize the forces of Kjota and create a small army of sorcerers who might be able to hold their own against the sorcerers of the Borderlands.
She sighed and pressed her hands against her eyes. Something inside her still insisted that this was a bad idea, but maybe that was more to do with the fact that she had been raised thinking that magic was dangerous and led to all the horrors in the world. That was something she would need to get over, given that she herself had magic.
She held out a hand towards Brynarr and they shook hands for a second time that night—but this time, there was no spark of energy or flicker of candles to accompany it. Frida wondered if she had just imagined it the previous time.
“You'll teach me magic,” Frida said, trying to keep her voice level and firm. “But we aren't going to...” Her eyes slipped towards the bed, and she hoped that he could infer her meaning from that, without her having to say things in so many words.
Brynarr nodded, much to her relief. “Very well,” he said.
“And you'll travel with me towards the Borderlands, trying to raise an army as we go.”
Brynarr stared at her for a long moment and then laughed a little. “So very much like you,” he said quietly, as though he were speaking to himself. He reached out as though he were about to stroke her cheek again, but then he paused and dropped his hand, seeming to realize that Frida wouldn't appreciate that overly-familiar gesture.
“We'll leave tomorrow,” Frida continued.
“The day after tomorrow,” Brynarr corrected. At Frida's impatient look, he grinned but shook his head. “We'll need to gather supplies. And convince Culjer to send some men with you, despite the display that you put on tonight. A day won't make any difference in terms of the war anyway.”
“A day could make a lot of difference,” Frida argued, putting her hands on her hips. She stared up into the man's face, but her challenge withered in the face of his firm look. She ducked her head a little and then nodded reluctantly. “We'll leave the day after tomorrow,” she agreed.
She glanced around the mostly-barren room and then looked towards the door. “I should... go home and sleep,” she said. For some reason, the thought filled her with a strange feeling of reluctance in spite of those earlier warning bells.
“Yes,” Brynarr said, seeming amused when she still lingered there, as though her feet were stuck to the floor. He took two steps to reach her and pulled her into another hug, kissing the top of her head chastely. “Go home,” he said firmly when he finally released her.
And that was enough to break the spell. Frida left the room, her mind whirling with thoughts and questions. She reached up and touched her lips again, still feeling the ghost of that earlier kiss. Everything about Brynarr was so familiar, yet she couldn't remember a single detail about who he was.
They would need to have another lengthy conversation about this all at some point, once she was able to articulate all of her questions.
Chapter 3
Frida sat listlessly in her saddle, swaying gently from side to side as her horse ambled down the road behind Brynarr's. They were three days out of Daelfjord now, and if she didn't know better, she'd say that Brynarr must purposefully be taking them south along roads that didn't pass through any towns. But then again, Daelfjord was out in the middle of nowhere; the only reason the fortress had flourished like it had was because of its access to the ocean. The fortress was mostly self-sufficient; anything that they couldn't make themselves—or any luxury items that the townspeople desired—was brought on ships from across the ocean.
They had camped out for the previous two nights, and she presumed they would be camping out again that night. Brynarr had brought bed rolls and things to make their camp as comfortable as possible, but she would still be happy to sleep in a real bed again.
Sure enough, Brynarr stopped them in a circular close of trees. “This is a good spot to stop,” he said, tilting his head to the side as though he were considering the place. He smiled over at Frida. “There's lots of energy here. This was an important place to our ancestors, back before they came to fear all the things a person could do with magic.”
Frida frowned and looked around the place—but to her, it just looked like a circle of trees. She shrugged a little and swung down off her horse, brushing dust off her clothes as though it made any difference. She led the horse over to one of the trees and tied her off there, giving her enough slack so that the horse would still be able to wander around a little and eat some of the plentiful grass growing there in the shade of the trees.
Then, she hauled off her saddlebags and Brynarr's and started preparing the ingredients they would need for a hearty stew, while Brynarr did what he had done the previous couple of nights: he first started a fire using magic—a blue fire that crackled merrily there on the naked ground—and then dug an indent in the ground, using magic to pull water up out of the earth to endlessly fill this soft basin. The first couple of nights, Frida had watched with interest, but today, their third day on the road, everything just seemed a little... lackluster.
“You're quiet tonight,” Brynarr said as she put the pot on the stove to cook.
“Things are moving too slowly,” Frida said after a moment. She didn't want to sound as though she was whining—of course it took time to cross most of the kingdom. But she was impatient, ready to be down near the Borderlands and doing what she could to protect her homeland.
Brynarr reached over and lightly touched the back of her hand in a sympathetic gesture that surprised her a little. “All in due time,” he said. He frowned a little. “Why don't I give you your first magic lesson here, though? There's plenty of energy for you to play with—whether you can see it or not. And there are some basic tricks—like making fire—that every sorcerer should know.”
Frida smiled a little at him. “I'd like that,” she told him.
Brynarr caught her hands in his, turning the palms upwards. “I'm going to channel magic through you first,” he told her. “I want you just to concentrate on feeling what I'm doing, all right?”
Frida nodded, staring down at their joined hands. As with her initial interactions with Brynarr, there was something about this that felt achingly familiar, as if she'd been here, in this same position, before. She shook her head a little to get rid of those feelings—obviously that wasn't the case.
She could feel when Brynarr started pushing magic through her, using her as a vessel. Suddenly, there was a burst of purple flame resting on her palms. She stared down at it, watching it dance across her skin for a moment before vanishing. But she had no idea how it had started to begin with.
She cocked her head to the side, staring quizzically at Brynarr. “I'm sorry, what exactly am I supposed to do?”
Brynarr looked momentarily disappointed, but he caught her hands again, repeating the same thing as before. But there was something happening between his pouring energy into her and the flames appearing—something that she didn't seem able to see or sense. No matter how much she thought about her energy turning into flames there in the palm of her hands, nothing happened.
Brynarr was beginning to look just as frustrated as she felt. “Here,” he said, catching her hands again. For the third time, he repeated his actions—but she still wasn't getting it.
“Can't you just tell me what I'm supposed to be doing?” Frida asked, frustration putting a sharp edge in her voice.
Brynarr scowled. “You know it doesn't work that way. There are no words in this language that would allow me to explain what you're doing. So unless you're telling me that you've miraculously finally become fluent in Old Iskandian, then you're going to have to follow along with what I'm doing. Now, I'll show you one last time...” He repeated the same action as b
efore, his movements harsher than before, and Frida felt the sudden urge to cry.
“I just... don't know what I'm missing,” she said, shaking her head. She felt tears prick the corners of her eyes and was surprised when Brynarr reached up to gently wipe one off her cheek.
“I'm sorry,” he said quietly. “I shouldn't have lost my temper.” He frowned. “It could be that the same thing that's keeping you from seeing the energy is keeping you from seeing exactly what I'm doing.” He cupped Frida's cheek, looking deep into her still-moist green eyes. “Don't worry, though—we'll figure out what it is. I'm sure we can fix it.”
Frida sighed and slumped a little against his hand. “Okay,” she whispered. “Do you really think it can be fixed, though? What if I can never...”
“We'll figure out some way to harness it,” Brynarr said confidently. “You have too much power for it to go to waste.”
Chapter 4
Kelsholgar wasn't nearly as large a fortress as Daelfjord, and its surrounding walls were built of huge wooden beams from the nearby forest rather than from stone. But given its rustic location and lack of proximity to the ocean, the town didn't experience nearly as many attacks. Thus, they weren't nearly as strongly-guarded.
Frida and Brynarr rode straight through the open gates into town and paused in the market square, looking around. There were about a dozen stalls crammed into the space around the square, with all the wares that a town like this might need: there was a blacksmith with a pile of roughly-worked iron tools, a farmer's wife with vegetables, many of which were slightly over-ripe, a weaver with piles of stained and faded cloth. All the goods were saleable, but none of them were the choicest goods.
Frida wrinkled her nose a little at the scent.
They paused there for a couple of minutes before they were approached by a man wearing a long but crude-looking knife. “Who are you, and where have you come from?” the man asked, eyeing the pair suspiciously.
Frida swung down off her horse, and Brynarr followed after a pause. “My name is Frida Grimsdottir, and this is Brynarr...” She trailed off, realizing that she didn't know Brynarr's full name or even where he was from. She frowned over at the man, wondering suddenly why she had agreed to travel with him.
But Brynarr was walking forwards as well, his arm outstretched. “I'm Brynarr Vargsson.” He shook hands with the villager, a charming smile on his face. “You'll have to forgive us for our grimy appearances; we've been on the road for days now, coming from my wife's home in Daelfjord.”
The man's eyebrows raised, and he looked back and forth between the two of them. Frida suddenly realized that Brynarr was claiming her as his wife—but perhaps that was best. If they were newlyweds, there would be a reason for them to be traveling alone together. They would raise less suspicion that way.
“And just how did a southerner like yourself come to be wed to someone from the far reaches of the north?” the villager said, his eyes narrowing and his hand dropping to the hilt of his long knife. He glanced around. “You haven't got a guard, so I can only assume that you aren't wealthy. However, your hands are smooth, not calloused—you don't work with your hands.”
Brynarr shook his head, but there was still that charming smile on his face. “I know that in these days, a man must be suspicious of everyone—but trust me, my good sir, you have nothing to fear from us! I married the girl for her looks; my father learned about her from one of our village's traders, who had come north looking to acquire some amber, which we do not have in the south.” He smiled over at Frida and reached out to put an arm around her. “Nor do we have wenches as pretty as her in the south—our women tend to be fairer and tanner.”
The villager stared for another moment and then gave Brynarr an answering grin that bordered on a leer. “Yes, she is quite pretty,” he agreed. He tilted his head to the side. “I assume the two of you will be requiring lodging, at least for the night?”
“We will,” Brynarr said, while Frida nodded emphatically. “Is there an inn in this town?”
“I'm afraid not,” the villager said. But he held out a hand to Brynarr. “My name is Colburn Ingvarsson. I am the captain of the guard here in Kelsholgar. You may stay with my family in my hall. The servants can draw you a bath so that you can recover some from the wearies of the road, and you will have a soft place to lay your heads.”
Brynarr gave the man a grateful look, slipping an arm around Frida's lower back. “We would appreciate that,” he said enthusiastically. “Especially my wife here—I'm afraid the road has been long for her.”
Frida gritted her teeth a little, hearing that—she didn't need Brynarr treating her as though she was some sort of weak female; she wouldn't be there if she was. No, if she was weak, she'd be back in Daelfjord, working as a medic. Maybe taking a husband and having children.
She certainly wouldn't be marching to battle.
She wanted to protest—it would be impossible for her to drum up soldiers and support for her cause if they thought that she was a weak female who couldn't even handle camping out and sleeping on the ground for a few nights in a row. But maybe Brynarr knew what he was doing.
He certainly seemed to have charmed Colburn, if the chatty nature of the captain of the guard was anything to go by. The two of them walked ahead through the village until they reached Colburn's hall, which stood in the very center of the place.
It was a long, wooden building with a low ceiling. One of the kids broke apart from the group he was playing with outside and came to take their horses away. Colburn and Brynarr took care of their saddlebags, leaving Frida empty-handed. She bit back her complaint and followed the two men into the building.
Inside, it was smoky, and the torches scattered around the beams did very little to illuminate the place. Frida stood blinking in the entryway for a moment, waiting for her eyes to adjust. She could see people scattered around the place—a woman cooking by a fire over in one corner, an older woman sitting on a pallet watching them as they entered. Two dogs raised their heads and stared at them for a minute before rolling over and going back to sleep.
“This way,” Colburn directed them, bringing them over to a raised platform near the door. It was clear that this area wasn't in regular use: the floor was less packed down and the bedding a little less threadbare. It must be an area reserved specifically for this, for having guests. It made Frida frown a little, wondering just how many times this little village in the middle of nowhere received guests. But then again, she supposed they must receive traders at some point.
They left their bags on the platform and let Colburn lead them to the bathing chamber. A servant was just finishing drawing a bath, and Colburn quickly left them alone in the room.
Frida glanced nervously over at Brynarr, hesitating before removing her garments. As much as she wanted a bath… Well, there was only the one tub, and they were there in the room together. She could feel a blush starting on her face even before Brynarr casually stripped down to nothing.
He looked expectantly over at her, an eyebrow raised. “Well?” he asked. “The water's going to get cold.” He grinned at her. “And grimy. I think I'm carrying half the road on me.”
Frida swallowed hard, eyes darting anywhere except his naked form. But she couldn't help stealing glimpses of his well-toned abdominal muscles, of his proud manhood. A deep-seated need stirred inside of her, but she refused to show it. “I don't think...” she began, trailing off as she watched Brynarr climb into the tub, sinking down into the steaming water.
“Ahh,” he sighed, dropping his head back against the edge of the tub. After a moment, he opened his eyes, fixing her with a challenging look. “You just going to stay there covered in that filth?”
Frida bit her lower lip. There was no way to ask him not to look at her. But there was also no way she was going to keep from washing off—and she also didn't want to wait until the water cooled off and he climbed out, leaving tepid and dirty water for her to clean off in.
So she swallowed h
er feelings—and tried to forget about that kiss he had bestowed on her that first night when she had met him in Daelfjord—and began slowly stripping down.
Brynarr whistled reverently when she had fully revealed her naked curves. “Look at you, darling,” he said, moving over to make space for her in the tub.
Frida climbed hesitantly into the tub, wincing as she settled between Brynarr's outstretched legs, facing towards him. She splashed some water up against herself, trying viciously to scrub the dirt of the road off her body.
Brynarr held up a bar of soap and a bit of coarse material. “Need this?” he asked, a smirk on his face.
Frida swallowed, not trusting her voice. She held out her hand, but Brynarr shook his head. “What…?”
“Come here,” Brynarr said, tugging at her leg and moving her around until she was nestled between his legs with her back to his chest. He slowly began to drag the cloth across her body, hands moving to use firm but gentle strokes, effortlessly scrubbing away the dirt. Frida watched breathlessly as he worked down her arms, cleaning from her shoulders down to her fingertips.
When he moved to her breasts and began using the same technique on them, she gasped a little, squirming against him. She bit her lower lip, feeling his arousal pressed against the small of her back. “Brynarr,” she whispered, her voice quavering.
“Shh,” he murmured, brushing her hair off to the side so that he could kiss the junction between her neck and her shoulder. “Relax into me, darling. I won't hurt you, I promise.”
Frida trembled against him, but she didn't move away, and Brynarr continued his ministrations, moving down from her breasts to her belly and then lower. He leaned forwards so that he could scrub her legs, pausing periodically to scrub the soap bar, making sure that there was ample soap there to cleanse her.
When he came to the cleft between her legs, he paused and then very deliberately continued cleaning her. She shuddered as he dragged the cloth across her sensitive bits and bit back a moan as he repeated the movement. “Brynarr,” she said breathlessly, her hand falling to rest on his wrist, not sure if she wanted to stop him or urge him on.
Seduction of the Bear (Bear Kamp Book 1) Page 16
