My eyes searched the dim corners far above me. The walls were lined with books, up to the dark receding beams of the ceiling. This must be a treasure room, then, meant for safe storage. Or to impress guests.
I turned back to the room. A low fire smouldered on a hearth, and two straight-backed chairs stood before the low flames, one very large, imposing, and wrought with embossed leather, one smaller and made of wood. Both chairs were occupied. Nøkkyn’s pale face loomed against the gilded leather. With my heart in my throat, I turned to see his companion.
It was not Fenris. Relief flooded my body. For a moment, I forgot my stiff muscles and the fresh insult of the bruises around my neck.
The man sitting opposite Nøkkyn was older, with a closely cropped beard and a soft body that spoke of middle-age, wealth, and affluence. He was oddly dressed in a very colorful shirt and what looked like the flare of a cape around his neck. His hair was delicately sculpted into a wave above his face, which must once have been very handsome, but was now a bit faded and pale.
He did look very nervous. Nøkkyn must have been pleased.
“Ah, and here she is,” Nøkkyn said, smiling at the guard behind me. “If you please, bring her to me.”
The guard walked forward, handing my chain to Nøkkyn. I shivered as his long, pale fingers closed around the links. Nøkkyn’s smile widened, revealing even more of his teeth. My arms tightened around my waist.
“Sit,” Nøkkyn snarled at me.
I fell to my knees next to his chair. Absurdly, I half expected him to pat me on the head, as if I were a bitch who’d been especially obedient. Instead, Nøkkyn ignored me and turned back to his guards.
“Leave us,” he said with another dismissive wave of his hand.
The stranger in the wooden chair grew even paler as the little room’s doors slammed shut with a dull, hollow thud.
“My Lord,” he began. His voice was strangely resonant, even though it trembled. “If I’ve committed any offense against Your Highness, I beg your legendary mercy—”
“Stop,” Nøkkyn said. “Do you know why you’re here, Bard Sturlinsen?”
My eyes widened. This man was Bard Sturlinsen? I’d thought he was a myth, the same way I’d suspected the Æsir were a myth, a story to calm children at bedtime.
The Bard shook his head. “I’m afraid I do not, my Lord. But whatever it is, I’m prepared to—”
Nøkkyn raised his hand, and the Bard’s words froze on his lips. In the silence between them, I could hear the embers of the fire rustle and shudder. Nøkkyn laced his fingers together and brought them to his lips.
“Is it true,” Nøkkyn asked softly, “that you have traveled to Asgard?”
Sturlinsen straightened his back. “It is. I have performed for the Æsir on three separate occasions.”
“Excellent.” Nøkkyn’s lips pulled back into another predatory grin. “Then I have wonderful news for you, Bard Sturlinsen. For you have just received a prophecy.”
Sturlinsen’s brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”
“A prophecy directly from the head of Mímir. It came to you in a dream, a dream so vivid and realistic that it made the rest of your life pale in comparison.”
Sturlinsen was frowning now. Dark creases began around his lips and spread over his entire face.
Nøkkyn leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. “And in this dream, Bard Sturlinsen, the future was revealed to you.”
Sturlinsen made a deep, hollow noise somewhere in the back of his throat. “My Lord. I don’t believe that’s how prophecies work.”
Nøkkyn sighed and sank back in his chair. “Bard Sturlinsen. I do believe you have a family?”
“I do. But I hardly see how that’s relevant here, my Lord.”
“Your wife is much younger, is she not? You old fox. And you live on the sea?”
Sturlinsen’s eyes grew wide. He said nothing.
“Three daughters and two sons. What a happy family,” Nøkkyn drawled. “And your youngest is really quite lovely. With her long, golden hair.”
Nøkkyn reached across his chest and pulled something from his breast pocket. It glimmered in the firelight, his fist full of a bundle of long, golden hair.
Nøkkyn clucked as he swung the hair backward and forward. “It would put Sif’s to shame, really.”
“M-my Lord,” Sturlinsen stammered.
Nøkkyn cast the hair into the fire. It hissed and curled up on itself before bursting into red flames. Its acrid, choking scent filled the room.
“You will do as I say,” Nøkkyn said, his voice low. “Or I will burn your lands and destroy your home. I will see your wife and children raped by every soldier in my army before their skulls are added to my ramparts. Do you understand?”
Sturlinsen had gone as white as ashes. “Yes, my Lord.”
“Anyway.” Nøkkyn stretched and leaned forward again. “As I was saying, you have been visited by the head of Mímir. You have seen the future. And in this dark vision, you saw the Fenris-wolf of Ironwood, son of that bitch Angrboða and the bastard Loki.”
Sturlinsen nodded slowly. “I saw him.”
Nøkkyn raised a finger. “That’s not all. In this dream, you saw the Fenris-wolf kill Óðinn the All-father, and end the peace of the Æsir.”
Sturlinsen’s pale neck flickered as he swallowed. “I saw the Fenris-wolf kill Óðinn.”
The men fell silent. The rank scent of burned hair lingered in the room. Sturlinsen’s fists clenched the arms of his wooden chair. My entire body felt cold, as though I’d been turned to stone and locked away in this treasure room. It wouldn’t work, of course. It couldn’t work. Óðinn and the Æsir already knew about Fenris. They gave him bread and mead. Surely they would never fear him?
The collar around my neck suddenly bit into my skin. I yelped in pain. Nøkkyn’s black boot shot out front beneath his chair and connected with my thigh.
“Slave,” Nøkkyn barked. “Tell this man what you know of the Fenris-wolf’s lair.”
I drew a shaky breath and repeated my lies to the Bard. They came easier this time, the stories about the river that flows past Evenfel and the enormous cave just below the snowline. It was exactly where you’d expect to find a monster, and nothing like the tiny little crack in the mountain where Fenris and I had made love so many times.
Once I fell silent, Nøkkyn asked Bard Sturlinsen to repeat what he’d learned. The Bard stared into the fire for a long time, rubbing his hand across his graying beard.
“I have been visited,” he began, “by a dark prophecy. The great visionary Mímir, whose undying head knows and sees all, saw fit to appear within my dreams, while I lay abed with my wife. He spoke to me from the waters of his well, and he carried terrible tidings.”
Sturlinsen fell silent. I realized I was leaning forward as well, as if I were a child who couldn’t wait to hear how the story would end.
“Mímir spoke of the monster wolf Fenris, he who dwells within the heart of the jagged Ironwood mountains. The great black beast lies in his den like a dragon, growing with terrible speed. And he plots. Daily he plots against the kings and the gods, for he seeks only to sow chaos, and to see the world of the living plunged into darkness.”
A shiver raced up my spine. This was not true; I’d just witnessed the birth of this terrible lie. I knew my own husband, and he wanted nothing other than to be left alone.
Yet it sounded so real, spoken in these grave tones by the low firelight.
I clenched my hands into fists and listened.
“Destroying the Ironwood alone is not enough for this monster. No, he wants more. He would devour the sun and the moon, if he could. Yet not even that is his worst ambition.”
The embers of the fire rustled as Sturlinsen took a deep breath. His face was as pale and grave as a man on the executioner's stand.
“Mímir showed me a death,” Sturlinsen said. “And it was not the death of the Fenris-wolf. No, it was the death of the mighty Óðinn, All-father to the Æsir,
Borr’s son, the gallows god, the father of poetry. Within my dreams, the highest of the Æsir fell to the gaping black jaws of Fenris-wolf, the cursed son of the Lie-smith Loki and She-who-brings-sorrow Angrboða.”
Only once Sturlinsen fell silent did I realize I’d been holding my breath. By the Nine Realms, I’d seen his vision. I’d seen the All-father Óðinn swept away by Fenris’s great jaws, just like the soldiers in Evenfel. I saw the body, bleeding and broken, crushed beneath the claws of my terrifying lover.
“Very impressive.” Nøkkyn’s teeth flashed white in the low light. “Now I think you’d better go and tell the Æsir about your dream, Bard Sturlinsen. Best be convincing.”
Sturlinsen nodded. Nøkkyn clapped his hands together twice, slowly. The sound was so loud in the small room that I flinched. A moment later the doors opened, flooding the room with sunlight. Sturlinsen came to his feet, bowed low before Nøkkyn, and swept from the room.
I wondered if anyone else noticed he was trembling as he left.
THE MONSTER AND THE PRISONER: CHAPTER TEN
“It won’t work,” I spat.
Nøkkyn turned to me. His victorious grin had spread so wide it made his pale, narrow face appear almost skeletal.
“I like you better gagged,” he said. “Guards!”
The tall, silent guard entered the room and bowed low.
“Tie her up,” Nøkkyn said, waving his hand lazily at me. “Leave her here. Set a guard on the door.”
Nøkkyn came to his feet and dusted his hands together, as if he’d just finished a long day of hard physical labor. “I’ve something to celebrate,” he announced.
The guard with the overripe beet nose nodded at Nøkkyn as if he too had something to celebrate, and together they turned from the room. The tall guard crouched low before me, frowning. I met his eyes.
“There’s not much in here to tie you with,” he admitted.
I glanced around the small room, seeing only dusty bookshelves and the two chairs that had held King Nøkkyn and the Bard Sturlinsen. The room held no windows, and only one door. The little fireplace had a chimney so small and narrow only a child would be able to climb through it. Perhaps Egren. My heart clenched as my vision blurred with sudden tears.
The guard shook his head and sighed heavily. Then he picked up the heavy chain from Nøkkyn’s chair and threaded it through the fireplace screen. Even I could tell it was a half-hearted attempt; the knot was sloppy, and he didn’t even bother to check the collar around my neck. I supposed I should feel thankful.
The guard’s knees popped as he came to his feet. He brushed his hands once on his shirt before pulling the door shut behind him. The little treasure room turned once again gloomy and dark. The fire had burned even lower, and it cast strange, twisting shadows across the walls of books. I only wished they didn’t remind me of the terrible story Bard Sturlinsen had just woven into existence.
I set myself to untying the chain. It didn’t take long. My legs ached as I stretched and paced the length of the small room. Now that I was free, I realized, I could do what I wanted in this room. I could pull all the books from the shelves and feed them to the fire. I could set the entire room alight.
But what good would that serve? I’d be the first to perish if the room caught fire. Nøkkyn’s threat of a bad death still hung heavy in my mind. That, and the heart carved into a piece of bread. Fenris was here, in this castle. Waiting for me.
I had a nightmare image of what would happen if Fenris found me here, in this dark, claustrophobic room. What if he tried to shift to his wolf’s form? I doubted he could even get the snout of his head through that little door.
I yawned and sank back onto the floor. The rug here was thick and lush, almost as soft as a bed of new rushes, and the fire pulsed with a pleasant, low heat. It had been a long time since I’d been warm with something soft beneath me. My mind spun out, trying to remember how many days it had been since I’d left the comfort of Fenris’s little cave. Sleep claimed me before I could find the answer.
THE HEAVY SCRAPE OF a door across the stone floor woke me. My heartbeat sounded an alarm, and my eyes snapped open. Too late, I realized I hadn’t re-tied the chain through the fireplace screen. I scrambled to my knees, trying to hide the loose end of the chain with my body.
“Stars, it’s dark as a grave in here!” a woman’s voice called.
I sighed in relief. That was Brunhild, the woman who’d brought me Fenris’s bread.
“Won’t you be so kind as to light a torch for an old woman?” she asked.
Someone grumbled in response, and the shuffle of feet against stone echoed in the little room. A moment later, a guard entered with a torch and touched it to a wall sconce. Low, orange light filled the room.
Brunhild entered, smiling. She carried a chamber pot under one arm, and a small woven basket under the other.
“Now, a touch of privacy, if you would,” she said to the guard.
He frowned in response. “I don’t—”
“Ach,” Brunhild clucked. “Stars, Ivensen, you can trust me! What do you think I’m going to do, read a book?”
She laughed mightily at this little joke, until even the guard chuckled.
“Fine,” he said. “Do your business. But be quick about it.”
The door closed behind him, and the smile vanished from Brunhild’s face. She crossed the room quickly to kneel before me. Something small and dark appeared from the folds in her dress, and she pressed it into my hands.
“Your young fool paid me a king’s ransom to pass this on,” she whispered.
I looked down. It was a small, stoppered glass bottle wreathed in silver, the kind that may have held oil for a fancy wedding. I met her eyes, frowning.
“Go on,” she hissed, with a quick glance at the door.
I pulled the cork from the bottle and brought it to my nose. It smelled of honey and herbs, a sweet, summertime scent that made my mouth water even as my stomach clenched. Mead. The mead of the Æsir, a drink that healed wounds and brought intoxication.
But why? My fingers drifted to the cold collar around my neck and the bruises beneath. This mead would heal those bruises, of course, but they were hardly serious injuries. Did Fenris believe I was hurt?
“What did—”
“Hush,” Brunhild said, cutting me off. “Are you going to drink it?”
I shook my head. I wasn’t sure why Fenris sent me a bottle of the Æsir’s mead, but healing the superficial injuries on my neck hardly seemed like the appropriate use.
Brunhild’s face knotted in concentration, and she pushed a burned pastry into my free hand. “Eat,” she hissed.
While I nibbled at the blackened biscuit, she pulled a needle and small spool of thread from another hidden pocket in her dress. With a tiny silver knife, she cut open my dress along the bustle.
“Hand it over,” she whispered, without looking up from her work.
I gave her the slender, little bottle, and it vanished inside the folds of my dress. By the time I’d finished the burned pastry, Brunhild had sewn together the cut in my dress, creating a hidden pocket for the vial of mead. She rocked back on her heels and met my eyes.
“I’ve four granddaughters,” she told me, her voice low and serious. “What your man’s paid me is enough for their dowries. With a bit of luck, they may yet escape this place.”
Her lips pressed together into a hard, thin line. For a moment I was reminded of my own mother, and a dark, cold emptiness rose inside my hollow chest. The burned pastry churned unpleasantly. I bit down on the inside of my cheek, trying to will myself not to vomit.
Brunhild placed the chamberpot before me, then took my hands in hers. “Whatever they do to you,” she said, “I am sorry.”
A moment later, she pulled open the door and vanished from the room. I ran my hand along the folds of my dress, feeling the small, hidden curve of the bottle inside.
The guard did not return to extinguish the flickering sconce on the wall, so Nøkkyn�
�s small treasure room remained illuminated, although the uneven light cast odd, wavering shadows across the books. I stood and stretched, wincing as the metal collar bit into my skin. My hands returned to my neck, puzzling over the leather clasp. Before my mind had time to fully register what I was doing, I’d worked the thick leather strap through the metal clasp, and the collar flew open. I pulled it from my neck. It shone with a dull gleam in the orange light. I stared at it, my mind spinning.
I didn’t dare set it down. Whoever opened that door would expect me to be chained. If my collar was off, they may search me more thoroughly. My hand dropped to my hip, pressing into my dress for the reassuring, hard swell of the bottle. I slipped the collar over my arm before raising my hands to my neck.
Wincing, I ran my fingertips over the bruises and raw scrapes Nøkkyn’s collar had etched upon my skin. They burned at my touch, but my skin was still cool, and no fresh blood oozed from the wounds. So far, then, I’d avoided infection. Thank the stars.
Was that Fenris’s worry? That I’d been injured, or I was sick? Was that why he’d sent me the mead of the Æsir?
Or had he caught wind of Nøkkyn’s future plans?
Despite the warmth of the small room, I shivered. My feet moved with a restless energy, propelling me around the perimeter of the small room. I trailed my hand across the spines of the thick books. They’d been bound in soft, oiled leather, but the shelves themselves were dusty. I stopped to examine them more closely.
No, not universally dusty. Standing with my nose almost pressed to the leather bindings, I could make out tracks scraped in the dust. Some of these books had been recently moved. The enormous red volume in front of me must be something Nøkkyn had just read because the dark wood of the shelf gleamed before it.
The Complete Fenris Series Page 30
