The City Darkens (Raud Grima Book 1)

by Martin, Sophia

  “You’re coming with me?” I asked.

  He offered me his arm. “Liut’s in disgrace,” he said. “You’ve no one else but me.”

  I frowned even as I slipped my hand into the crook of his elbow. “That was never a problem before.”

  “Even if Liut’s attentions were secret,” Reister said, “Everyone knew you went on his arm.”

  “What about the first time?” I asked as Reister led me out of the door. “At Jarldis Vaenn’s soirée?”

  Reister looked straight ahead, not turning to meet my gaze. “I wanted you to fail, then. Or fall under Vaenn’s charms. Both, really. Understand, Myadar, a woman without a man in this court will only last so long before she is shunned, as will a man without a woman. Our mutual friend Liut has just begun to reap that punishment.”

  “The court is shunning him?”

  “Quite. As I said, he’s in disgrace. The konunger ordered him to give you up, and he obeyed. Had he defied the konunger, he might have face imprisonment—or banishment, more likely. But the court would have been delighted. He disappointed them when he did as he was told.”

  “It seems, then, that none of Liut’s choices were particularly appealing.”

  “Banishment ends. Shunning, however… rarely does.” Reister glanced at me then. “But Liut Krigr was ever a coward, Myadar. He served his purpose, I suppose, but now his time has ended.”

  “Was it always like this?” I asked, although I knew the answer.

  “Like what?”

  “A man without a woman would be shunned?”

  Reister’s brow wrinkled and he cut his eyes to me again. “Well, in a way. One never wished to remain too long unpartnered—the gossips must have grist for their mills. Although I suppose nothing is quite so unforgivable as to create a scandal only to flee from it.”

  We had ruined Liut, Kolorma and I, I realized. I wondered whether he still preferred this fate to hanging in Liten’s mysterious crypt.

  As we arrived at the Asleifer’s party, the pauses in conversation filled the air with suspended breath. All eyes took us in, Jarl and Jarldis Sölbói, entering together, arm in arm, as if I had not disappeared for a week with my lover. Then, as the tension in the air ballooned, Jarldis Asleifer, a blonde dressed in gray and rose, whirled over to us, arms outstretched, grabbing my right hand and Reister’s left.

  “Jarl and Jarldis Sölbói, I cannot express to you how tickled I was to receive your acceptance of my invitation. Please, come in! Api!” she called to her husband. “Brandy for the jarl and jarldis.” As if her cry had signaled them, the rest of the guests began talking all at once, and more than half of them made no attempt to hide that they spoke about us. No doubt the rest were just more subtle.

  “So he’s forgiven her,” I overheard one jarldis say.

  “I heard she’s a favorite of the konunger now,” exclaimed another.

  “Well I heard she’d cast off that silly Krigr and that’s why they returned at all.”

  “Nonsense! He led her into the ball!”

  “She only allowed him to lead her at the ball so she wouldn’t have to enter alone!”

  With an attempt to tune them all out, I focused on the drink that Jarl Asleifer had handed me. The brandy smelled of peaches. Oh, how I wanted to drink it down, and hold my glass out for another. How simple everything had been when I gave myself over to drunkenness in those first weeks. Simple, but miserable. I was miserable still, but I would not surrender to my fate so easily. I owed Bersi more than that. Without Bersi, would I have given in to Reister’s machinations? The irony was I would have found myself in the same spot either way—plotting the konunger’s death. Except without Bersi, no one could have forced me to go through with it, of that I was certain. I might have settled into the court life, perhaps, a pawn in the games Reister played, but useless when it came to murder. Perhaps the konunger would have uncovered my husband’s plans and sent him, and me, no doubt, to one of the work camps I had heard about.

  Much as I had done, before my illfated robbery that led to my week of exile, I set about ridding myself of the brandy without drinking it. Here a little spill, there a little spill. I could not afford to think of futures that would not come to pass, whether they promised paradise or torment. Nor could I anesthetize myself with brandies and meads as I had once done. I must bring my attention to the here and now. My scandal had made me sought after, but if I did not continue to entertain the court, they would, at best forget me, and at worst, shun me. For a moment, I considered whether such an outcome would be so undesirable. After all, with such visibility, I would find it very hard to slip out of the palace unnoticed to seek out Spraki in the Undergrunnsby tomorrow. In fact, all plans to impersonate Raud Gríma would be hindered greatly by my new fame. Everyone would want to know which soirée I had attended, who I had danced with, and whether I had come on Reister’s arm, and left on someone else’s. I had come to know these people—they would follow my every move.

  However, if I lost their interest and no longer received the invitations, or if, worse yet, they decided to cut me out of society as they were now doing to poor Liut, how could I hope to maintain the konunger’s interest? And I must do that.

  With an effort I chatted with Jarldis Asleifer about the musicians she had hired, who were playing a new tune entitled “The Lovers’ Retreat”—although the jarldis did not mention it, I knew that the origin of the song’s inspiration must be the story Liut and I had allowed to grow like a vine that hanged him and propelled me to the top of the palace and into the konunger’s bedchamber. No, I thought as I nodded appreciatively at her. I could not afford to free myself of this vine—but perhaps there was something I could do to split the court’s attention. Perhaps the very subterfuge their scrutiny would render almost impossible to accomplish could act to distract them, in the end.

  “Tell me, Jarldis,” I said when she finally stopped crowing about her acquisition of the musicians despite Jarl Fastulf’s attempt to hire them away, “when I was gone I missed out on all the news. I heard today that some jarldis nearly got her throat cut on the street? Surely it can’t be true.”

  Jarldis Asleifer’s eyes widened. “Oh yes, Jarldis! You have indeed missed all the excitement.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “It seems Raud Gríma prowls Helésey at night!”

  Feigning shock, I fluttered a hand at my breast. “Surely not! Raud Gríma? The children’s tale?”

  “Well, a man dressed just like him,” she said, tucking a strand of straight blonde hair behind a bejeweled ear. “He set fire to the street in order to stop Jarl Agvidar-ungr’s car.” I gasped. Emboldened by my reaction, Jarldis Asleifer pressed on. “I spoke to Jarldis Bótheidir-ungr myself, you know.”

  “She was there?”

  “My dear Jarldis Sölbói, she was the one who almost got her throat cut!”

  “Merciful Tyr,” I exclaimed.

  “She said the man wore a red mask, and he was tall as an oak and just as strong.”

  I nodded, my eyebrows raised.

  “He held her so tightly, her arms were both bruised—she showed me. Oh, it was awful,” Jarldis Asleifer said.

  “That poor dear,” I said. “But surely Jarl Agvidar fought to free her?”

  “He tried! He and Jarl Eythiófer-ungr—he was there as well, and so was Jarldis Fraekna. Jarldis Fraekna was so distressed she didn’t leave her apartments for days. She’s so young, you know, and without a mother to comfort her.”

  I thought of four year-olds sent away to school. “How old is she?”

  “But seventeen,” Jarldis Asleifer said, tut-tutting. “Her father insisted on her early return from school, you know, when his wife died—he should have remarried, I say. The court is no place for children.”

  “You are not the first to say so,” I remarked. Sometime since Kolorma’s experiences with Liut and Finnarún and now, the age of the youngest courtiers had risen; I supposed what used to be considered a normal time for entry into court had progressed la
ter and later as the machinations of the court became darker.

  A pearlescent robot appeared at my shoulder bearing a silver tray with a note.

  “For me, Kolberna?” Jarldis Asleifer asked.

  “No, Jarldis,” the robot answered in a female voice. “The letter is for Jarldis Sölbói.”

  I grasped the note with my gloved fingers. Jarldis Asleifer watched until I caught her eye. She made a show of turning away to give me privacy, and I angled myself so she would be able to read over my shoulder. Let the gossip see my summons to the konunger. It could do nothing but help maintain my popularity, and while that would create inconveniences, it was better to face those than lose the chance to access the highest echelons of the court.

  Sure enough, the note read,

  Present yourself at midnight to the robot on the Purple Stairs.

  There was no mistaking the meaning of the message. The stairs, purple to honor Tyr, led to the private chambers of the konunger and konungdis. My summons had come.

  Making a show of folding up the note and hiding it in my glove, I turned my attention back to Jarldis Asleifer, who failed completely to hide her wonder at what she had read. Her wide eyes regarded me unblinking for a moment before she recovered herself enough to answer my inquiry about the origin of some paintings on the wall. Mercifully, we were joined by two more courtiers, a man and a woman, who took the reins of the conversation and did not leave until Jarl Asleifer called everyone to dine.

  The meal had eight courses, and time passed, although I might have sworn it didn’t. I chatted and flattered and maintained my role as the enigmatic Jarldis Sölbói, even as I sensed the spread of the news of my summons. Eyes, already curious, locked onto me. Mouths, already whispering, gasped and hissed. Summoned by the konunger—the phrase throbbed like a heartbeat through the room, although no one spoke it aloud.

  At near eleven thirty we ate the last sorbet and sipped the last cordial—although I avoided the latter—and everyone left the table to return to the large ballroom where the musicians Jarldis Asleifer so prided herself on produced music too disjointed to promote dancing. I excused myself to the powder room and once there, retrieved the little brown bottle I had hidden away under the arch of my foot inside my shoe. I knew not what properties the medicine had, nor how long it would take to function. Perhaps I had waited too long, and I would face the royal couple before it had time to act; so be it. I had agreed to this before anyone gave me a potion to make the night go easier. If it worked, it would be a boon, and that was all. I drank half of it down.

  Despite the sweet scent, the taste was quite bitter. I grimaced and washed my mouth with water, swallowing that as well.

  As I exited the room Reister appeared at my side. He offered me his hand as if for a dance. I still could scarcely fathom Reister dancing, and the music was hardly any better than before, but I nodded and he led me out. Only a few couples attempted to follow the music, yet Reister pulled me tightly to him, as if the floor was packed. Hearing his voice in my ear, I knew he’d done so as a way to speak to me unobserved.

  “Is what they’re saying true?” he hissed.

  Annoyed at the pressure of his fingers gripping my hand as well as those at the small of my back, I almost decided to step on his foot “accidentally.” With a deep breath, I banished the urge, however. I might despise Reister, and I certainly would never trust him, but I needed his cooperation. “If you mean the summons, yes,” I replied with a smile. Let them all wonder what we were talking about. No one at court was fool enough to believe a smile was genuine at first glance, but it would add to the speculation.

  “From the konunger?” he whispered.

  “Yes, Reister, by all the Gods. From the konunger.”

  “You said you’d had no word.”

  “That was true until a few hours ago when I received a message through the intermediary of the Asleifer’s house robot.”

  “I won’t abide your hiding things from me, Myadar,” he growled, tightening his grip even more.

  I trod on his foot.

  Smothering a yelp, he loosened his hold. “Have a care, my dear, and don’t forget you are still my wife.”

  “No, you have a care, dear husband,” I whispered back. “You’re fortunate that our aims converge as they do. Push me too far, and perhaps that good fortune will come to an end.”

  “Try to ruin me, and I will ruin you,” he breathed.

  “I have less to lose.”

  The number came to an end and I gave him a little nod. Reister stood looking stunned as I left without a backward glance.

  ~~~

  Four guards stood on the landing at the base of the Purple Stairs, as well as a robot who was little different from any other in the palace, save for the gold trim at the edges of his sleeves and collar, and the gold plating on his face. He gave me a bow much like Sveinn might, and I walked behind him up the stairs covered in thick, soft velvet. I wondered whether anyone ever spilled anything on these stairs, and how hard it might be to remove the evidence of such an unlucky mishap. What would happen to the perpetrator? Disgrace? Imprisonment? Exile? Execution?

  A shiver traveled down my spine as the robot swung open overlarge gilded doors and I stepped past him into the unoccupied grand salon of the konunger and konungdis of Ódalnord. I wondered what my father would think of his investment now. Had he any inkling I might one day serve at the pleasure of our rulers? And that in doing so I hoped to murder his majesty, Eiflar?

  Clenching my jaw, I took in the tapestries on the wall—stylized and modern, each depicted some legend of Tyr’s—and the furnishings of the room. Nothing marred the theme: nearly every item was made of chrome or some other metal along with the fashionable fabrics of the court, and every design represented Tyr’s sacred number, three, or His scepter, or the ever present upward pointing arrow. One pattern in a rug in front of a bookshelf that appeared to be nothing but copies of the Book of Tyr, showed lines of hands—a reference to the legend that stated that Fenrir, the wolf, had bitten Tyr’s hand off when he chained the beast.

  I found a tapestry depicting the legend, and shivered when I noted that Fenrir was represented with a collar of symbols I recognized: Draupnir, Alfódr’s sacred ring; the Berkano, or double triangle, symbol for Frigga; and the flower known as Baldr’s Brow, as well as several more symbols for the lesser divinities.

  “It’s made of the most fine fibers of silk,” a woman’s voice said behind me.

  I turned to face Leika-Konungdis, and immediately inclined my head. “Majesty.”

  “Do you like it?” she asked, approaching. She wore a long, flowing satin gown of white, her dark curls contrasting against it.

  I looked up at her through my eyelashes and she gestured for me to turn back to the tapestry. I did so, exhaling slowly. I was starting to feel warm.

  “The lines are bold,” I said thoughtfully. “The artist’s design conveys great strength.”

  This seemed to satisfy her. She ran a hand down the length of the hanging, and despite the mounting heat I felt, I shivered again.

  With an abrupt turn, she extended her hand to me. I took it.

  Wordlessly she led me into a corridor and through a door. The room beyond was small—smaller than any private salon or bed chamber. In fact, it was about the size of my bathroom. A settee upholstered in black and gold was the only furnishing, and it faced a large black curtain.

  “Please, sit,” she said.

  I did, my heartbeat accelerating. She wasted no time, I thought.

  Although I expected her to come to me then, she walked instead to the curtain. Grasping a thick pulley, she drew the heavy black velvet aside, revealing a window. Beyond it I saw a room fitting the expectations I’d had for the konungdis’s private chambers: a huge bed, covered in shining satins, a marble table in the center of the room with a large glass vase of calla lilies, gilded wardrobes and bookcases against the walls, and tall floor lamps casting a white glow that didn’t quite illuminate the room. The k
onunger stood by one bookcase, and he was not alone. Leaning against the edge of the marble table, her back mostly turned to us, was Finnarún Vaenn.

  At the sight of them I stiffened, and Leika smiled at me, raising a finger to her perfect red lips. She leaned to my ear and whispered, “They cannot see you, Jarldis, but if you are loud enough, they will hear you. The other side of this window appears to be but a mirror. My liege lord knows its true nature, of course, but we’ve never shared the secret with Finnarún.”

  Despite this reassurance I could not seem to catch my breath, and a flush rose in my cheeks. Leika remained close to my ear.

  “Eiflar has heard somewhat of the games Finnarún and Liut Krigr have been playing of late. You know of what I speak, do you not?” she murmured.

  Beyond the window, Finnarún tossed her golden waves and made some comment, but I heard nothing. It seemed to me the mirror blocked sound out with no difficulty, no matter what Leika claimed. Eiflar answered, his face stormy.

  “We’ve both enjoyed sweet Finnarún for many years now,” Leika continued.

  My head spun at the word “sweet”—sultry I would have called her, yes, poisonous, or even charming, but sweet?

  Leika whispered, “And we’ve turned a blind eye to her appetites. What good is being a royal’s favorite if it doesn’t earn you some benefits?”

  I thought I heard a harder note in her otherwise melodious voice, and considered that Leika herself had not always been a royal.

  “But Eiflar’s taken it into his head that her latest game shows… disrespect.” As she said this, she slipped her hand between the fabric of my gown and my skin, tracing a finger down between my breasts. The response of my flesh made catch my breath—surely this was the effect of the elixir, potent after all.

  Through the mirror, Eiflar closed the distance between him and Finnarún, grasping her upper arm.

  “He’s decided to punish her, you see.” And Leika intended for us to watch.

  Eiflar flipped Finnarún’s body so she faced us, leaning her over the table as he hitched up the flimsy silk of her dress. I must have whimpered, for Leika assured me, “Don’t fret for her, Jarldis. Finnarún may desire women first, but she likes men as well, and she has always enjoyed a bit of discipline.”