She whimpered, eyes rolling back a little as the magic prickled with even stronger intensity. “That feels amazing,” she told him, pressing her head to the side against his bicep.
Brynarr smiled a little but seemed to be concentrating on something. But perhaps he was just feeling the same incredible sense of magic that she was.
Frida pushed herself down just as he started to slide back into her, and the quick movement was just on the right side of too much. She practically sobbed with how good it felt, and she could tell from the way his mouth dropped open and his eyes widened a little that he was just as surprised by the feeling as she was.
After that, Brynarr set a slow rhythm that should have been easy to match, but Frida kept getting distracted by the feeling of magic on her skin, of his body moving against hers.
Brynarr bent down and sucked a mark into the side of her neck, right where her neck and shoulder met, and Frida gasped again, dragging her fingers down his back and tilting her head away to give him better access to the spot.
Suddenly, the magic crawling across her skin seemed to reach a frenzied peak, and she gasped as it exploded around her, bringing the whole room into sharp and dizzying focus for a moment. Even as the aftershocks of her second orgasm faded away, Frida realized that she could see the energy floating there in the air, scattered like stardust around the bed and shimmering in the low light of torches scattered around the bedroom. She looked up at Brynarr and could see light emanating from him as well, twisting around his form like black snakes.
She pressed her forehead against her forearm, needing the contact to ground herself. “Oh, fuck,” she said quietly, although she normally wasn't one to swear. But the situation seemed to call for it; she couldn't seem to find any other words for how she felt. Her magic was back, in full force.
She opened up her eyes, just to make sure that was, in fact, the case—but the shimmering bolts of energy were still there, overlaying her view of the room. “Brynarr, we've done it,” she said quietly, reverently. She shook her head in amazement, stroking her hand down the edges of his aura. “I can see the energy again.”
Brynarr grinned down at her, nodding to himself as though that had been just what he'd thought would happen. “Good,” he said, rolling away from her and then snaking an arm out to pull Frida close against his side. “Tomorrow, we will start magic lessons,” he told her.
Frida hummed softly and curled into his side, still happily watching the play of energy around the room. “Did you know that was going to happen?” she asked.
“I had thought it might,” Brynarr said.
“But why didn't it happen before, when we had sex at our camp?” she asked.
Brynarr shrugged. “Magic does what magic does. There aren't always rules to it. I thought, though, that if there was a big enough surge of your power, then perhaps it might happen.”
Frida nodded and settled back, closing her eyes as exhaustion washed over her. “I don't have to go back to King Varg's feast, do I?” she asked.
Brynarr kissed the top of her head. “No, darling—don't worry about that. If the king says anything, I'll tell him that you were exhausted and needed your rest. So sleep now.”
Frida hummed a little in response and fell asleep quickly, a smile on her face.
Chapter 14
However, unlocking her magic wasn't the only thing that their lovemaking had done—that much was clear the following morning. She woke up alone, confused as to where she was. When she finally remembered that she was in King Varg's castle—and that the man had apparently made a pact with the sorcerers to secure his own safety—she frowned, wondering just where Brynarr might have gotten off to.
A look in the wardrobe revealed more clothing like Brynarr had been wearing the night before, and she wondered again if perhaps this was his private suite here in the castle. She would need to ask him—she wasn't sure why she hadn't asked him the previous night, before getting swept up in…
She glanced guiltily back at the bed. She couldn't say that she regretted her actions from the previous night, but at the same time, she knew that she needed to focus on more than Brynarr's sex appeal. The whole of Kjota was depending on her ability to lead this army—with Brynarr's help, of course—and fight the sorcerers.
She was pleased, at least, to see that she could still pick out the energy patterns swirling around the room—so the night hadn't been a total waste, then. She wondered if she would be able to use her own magic, but she didn't dare try anything without Brynarr's supervision. The last thing she needed was to attempt to make a ball of fire on her palm and accidentally set the castle on fire instead. With the number of tapestries spread around the place, it wouldn't matter that the castle itself was built out of stone; they would all burn up just the same.
She made her way hesitantly out into the hall, wondering if perhaps Brynarr would be back in the main hall. But she didn't want to see King Varg if she could help it. Perhaps one of the servants would be able to point her in the right direction? But there didn't appear to be any servants lurking about when she stuck her head out the door and there didn't seem to be any means of calling them from there in the room.
She wandered down the corridor and paused outside the hall, biting her lower lip. “I'm looking for Brynarr,” she told one of the guards.
“He's inside,” the man said, nodding at her. Before she could decide what she wanted to do, the man was pushing the door open and ushering her inside and up the runner towards the dais.
Brynarr was sprawling in a throne set one level lower than King Varg's—occupying the space where yesterday the king's councillor had stood. He looked regal there, especially with a gold circlet in his dark hair and rich, blood-red clothing adorning his body. He smiled lazily at Frida as she was led towards the dais.
And suddenly, she remembered him.
She fell to her knees, a splitting pain in her skull as the memories came tumbling back. She could remember the time when she had first met Brynarr—back when she had been a young woman named Eir. A young sorceress named Eir. That had been decades ago, as King Varg had said—and oh, she remembered him as well.
She had been brought to Laedrickshold to become his slave—but after catching the eye of his son, she had been betrothed to him. And she had thought things would work out with her and Brynarr. She had thought that they would have an ordinary life and build a home together and have children and teach them magic, if they were lucky. She had thought that they would live together for many decades—because sorcerers always lived longer than humans—but she had thought that eventually they would pass on into the next life, when they were satisfied that their part in this story was finished.
She remembered learning to fight. She remembered Brynarr's army, and his attack on Kjota's then-capital of Trandinga. She remembered blood and death and chaos. She remembered fearing for her life.
But most of all, what she remembered was the change in Brynarr's demeanor over the years. Where once he'd been kind to her—where once she'd have sworn that he loved her, she now saw nothing more than an aching emptiness to him, where his soul had already disappeared into the blackness of the void. It was just the way their teachers had always cautioned them, back when they were learning magic: with each use of magic, there was a price. With each use of magic, you lost a little more of your soul. She wondered how much of a soul Brynarr still retained. She doubted it was much.
Most of all, she remembered how he had used magic to force men to join their battle—and she supposed that was how they had gathered this army that sat in Laedrickshold's barracks even now. And she remembered the very end, using what magic she had left to send herself off into a foreign body, just to buy herself time so that she could eventually defeat Brynarr.
But here she was, by his side, helping him as she had always done.
“What is it?” Brynarr asked, suddenly by her side. He crouched down next to her, catching her shoulders in his hands. “What do you see? You must tell me, Frida.
”
She wrenched away from him, staring in horror at him. He had been so kind to her over the past weeks, and she almost wanted to believe that he had changed—had become the person whom he once had been. But she knew that was impossible: once a soul was shredded, once each little fragment of yourself was lost, you never got it back. It must have been a ruse, a way of getting close to her again.
So that he could steal her magic. She realized he must still be after the blood debt—he must still think that if he mixed their blood together, he could rule all of Kjota. She wasn't exactly sure how he thought he would steal her magic—she couldn't remember those theories the way that she had once been able to. She supposed it had to be similar to when he was showing her how to use magic, when he had used her as a vessel. But instead of filling her with his magic, he would be filling himself with her magic. And the easiest way to bypass her barriers would be to force her body open to him by mixing her blood with his.
And he, of course, wouldn't have forgotten the old theories like she had. She wondered how she had never realized it before—how none of them had ever realized it before. Sure, King Varg himself wasn't a sorcerer, but didn't people realize that his son, Brynarr, was the sorcerer who had led the attacks?
She shivered a little, feeling ill. When Brynarr reached for her again, she flinched another time. “Don't touch me, you monster,” she snarled. “I know you're just after my blood. And you...” She turned her eyes to King Varg. “Don't you realize what your son has done—what–”
“I see you've finally figured it out, Eir,” Brynarr said, using her old name. He grinned sharply at her, not a trace of humanity left in his gaze now that he had nothing to hide.
She trembled, still feeling a strange urge to press herself into his arms and bury her face against his shoulder. And suddenly, she realized what that feeling was. “You've been drugging me,” she accused. If she'd needed any sort of confirmation that this wasn't the Brynarr that she had first fallen in love with, that realization was it.
But Brynarr laughed at her accusation. “Nothing so crude, I assure you,” he said. “I put a spell on you. Or rather, on the amulet that you're currently wearing—but as long as we were close to one another, the amulet worked just as well.” He reached up and yanked the amulet off her neck, throwing it across the room. It rolled and bounced the length of the red velvet runner, until it crashed into the far wall—and all of Frida's feelings of desire disappeared in an instant.
She felt an utter revulsion rise within her, and she didn't know if she wanted to run Brynarr through with her knife or claw at him slowly, tearing at his flesh. But of course, she would never be able to do either of those things—because as soon as she launched herself at Brynarr, he used his catlike reflexes to duck out of the way—and then he used his magic to hold her there.
“She has become... something of a liability,” Brynarr said, smirking a little at the king. “But you must realize what uses she has for us.”
“Oh, plenty, I'm sure,” King Varg said, eyeing Frida as though she were some sort of prized horse or hunting dog. For her part, Frida found that she was unable to move and unable to speak. “What will you do with her, as you drain her of her magic?”
“Chain her up,” Brynarr said, without a moment's thought. “I want her to watch all of this—all of the fighting.”
“Who are you fighting against?” Frida finally managed to ask, curiosity getting the better of her. “You've already claimed Kjota.”
Brynarr laughed, a maniacal edge to the sound. It echoed around the hall, bouncing off the stonework, somehow not muted in the slightest by the tapestries spread around the walls. “Kjota, my darling, was just the beginning. We plan on conquering the entirety of the known world.”
“We?” Frida asked, suddenly wondering if there was somehow a new woman in Brynarr's life. Something within her felt a stab of jealousy at that, even though she knew the Brynarr that she had loved was long gone to the abyss.
“We,” Brynarr agreed, narrowing his eyes at her. “You must have seen us in your dreams. I have quite the army built now—our ktherii, our children of the rocks.” He grinned even more maliciously. “You must have recognized them—I made them from your designs.” He shrugged. “I collected an army with you because I need some more blood so that I can create more of them.”
Frida thought back to the blackened warriors that she had seen in her nightmares and shuddered, remembering suddenly the experiments that she and Brynarr had carried out, trying to create life once they had found out that she was barren and would never give him any children.
This entire war, it seemed, was her fault.
“Do you remember your designs?” Brynarr asked her, coming in close, lightly stroking her cheek. “You were so desperate to give me a child that you didn't care how the child was created or how many innocent lives were wasted in the process. And you finally found a way: infuse your magic into the very earth, give it your life, and breathe your magic into it. Unfortunately, the whole process only works with the right mixture of blood and earth, plus a healthy dose of magic.”
“So all of those soldiers...” Frida said quietly, her gut twisting.
“Are going to give me the blood that I need to work with,” Brynarr said, giving her a look as though she were a child and he was particularly proud of the answer she had given. “And you, my darling, are going to give me the magic that I need to complete the process.”
Brynarr finally waved his hand, allowing her to move—likely sensing her defeat. Frida put her head down in her hands and wept.
Chapter 15
It was later that week—once Brynarr had got his fill of his home—that Frida found herself in a scene from her worst nightmares. She was standing on a rocky outcrop overlooking the army. At her left was Brynarr, who was absolutely terrifying in his lack of humanity. He had a few stripes of deep, blood-red paint down one side of his face, and he stared with crystal-clear eyes out over the mass of warriors. Suddenly, he smiled, his teeth sharp.
He looked around until his eyes suddenly focused on Frida's. She could hear him laugh, and he reached out a thin, spidery hand to beckon to her, his nails long and also painted a gruesomely bloody color.
In the past week, she'd come to realize how much he was relying on magic to cloak his true appearance. He no longer looked anything like the man she had once known. Instead, he looked positively skeletal, or perhaps bestial—a touch of both, really. Where he had once been gaunt, now there were deep chasms in his face, his eyes sunken into his skull. His skin appeared wax-like and pale, and his clothes hung off him like rags, despite the fact that they had once been tailored to perfectly fit his muscular form.
He had once been so handsome, so charming, so pure. And now…
“Don't you love our army, my darling?” he asked her, reaching out to caress Frida's cheek. His touch was cold and made her feel almost slimy, as though she were touching something utterly filthy.
“Don't touch me,” Frida managed, stumbling back a step and throwing her hands up into the sign that her grandmother had always used to ward off evil. She didn't think the sign would actually do anything, but it was a habit long ingrained in her memory, and she performed it almost subconsciously.
This prompted more laughter from the man. “Still not able to use magic, I see,” he said. “Such a pity.” He looked back out over the army. “We were meant to be together, and you know that soon enough, you'll be my queen. Why, the fates wouldn't have it any other way. Of course, there is the matter of your betrayal, which will not go unpunished. You made my position very uncomfortable for a little while there, my lovely Eir. But not to worry; I won't be too horrible to you. If I'm being honest, it will be good to have you back; you always were a brilliant strategist.”
“I will never be your queen,” Frida said shakily. She wanted to back further away from the man, but it seemed as though her feet were almost glued there to the ground. She frowned. “I'm not Eir, not anymore—and you're not
Brynarr, or at least, not the Brynarr that I once knew,” she told the man. “I'm just... Frida, from Daelfjord. You're an absolute monster.”
The man glanced at her for a moment, something coming over his features, but then he turned back towards his army, watching them consideringly. “We'll begin in Derithan,” he told Frida. “Those poor farmers and peasants won't know what has hit them. Then we'll move onwards from there. It shouldn't be long before we meet again in the north of Kjota, in the land of the ancestors, where the final battle was fought. We will take all of the northern lands as our own and kill those who have been hiding in the caves of ice. They won't push us back into the darkness again.”
“But you are darkness now,” Frida protested. She gestured between him and the army and shook her head. “You don't have a soul left in you; it has long since been shredded by the magic you've performed, all the pieces of you scattered away to the winds.”
Brynarr turned his strange, soulless eyes back on her, staring at her for a long moment before turning away, actively dismissing her. “So fight, then, if that's what you want,” he told her, his voice flat. “Before the end, though, you'll see what's worth fighting for. You remember how they treated us—how they continue to treat us. You remember why we started this battle in the first place.”
“I already know what's worth fighting for, and it's nothing I'd ever find with you,” Frida said. “There are friends and family—my hometown, Daelfjord. I have relationships with people that you would never even understand. I have lived a better life this time around.”
“Nonsense, my darling,” the man said, sounding amused. She could see half a smile on his face, but he remained staring down at the army. “You're just as soulless as the rest of us. You know you used magic as well, and you know how warped you became. None of us managed to escape from that.”
Seduction of the Bear (Bear Kamp Book 1) Page 21
