Dolor And Shadow E-Book

Angela B. Chrysler

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

A great power has awakened within Princess Kallan.

To keep the princess hidden, she is taken to Alfheim, her abilities suppressed and her memory erased. Years later, Kallan inherits her father's war and vows revenge on the man she believes responsible: Rune, King of Gunir.

But soon, a twist of fate puts Kallan in protection of the man she has sworn to kill, and Rune in possession of powers he does not understand.

Lost in the world of Men, the two form an unlikely alliance to make their way home and solve the mystery of their past - and of the Shadow that hunts them both.

An epic fantasy adventure steeped in Norse mythology, Angela B. Chrysler's 'Dolor And Shadow' is a riveting story of war, friendship, magic and high adventure.

Leseprobe

Copyright (C) 2015 Angela B. Chrysler

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Cover art & Title Page by Deranged Doctor Design

Edited by Mia at LKJ Books

Maps & Illustrations by Isaac Gooshaw

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Dedication

To my dearest love: my friend, my muse, my Isaac, my mate. You, who carried me from the darkest caves, and you, who believed in me when no one else would, even after reading the first draft…and for that, I am sorry.

To my sweet Tribble, who gave me so much for seventeen years and who passed away just before the publication of this work.

To the people of Norway whose country and culture I fell in love with so deeply, it inspired me to recreate their heritage and, who I hope will forgive me if I got it wrong.

Your Free Book Is Waiting

The Fae gods draw near, and Queen Kallan’s strength is tested. Reluctantly, She follows King Rune, but the Shadow Beast caged within Rune’s body is writhing in hunger, and Kallan’s newest companion, Bergen – the legendary Berserk – is determined to end the conflict in her life.

As the three come together, the truth buried in the past resurfaces. Now, Kallan must master a dormant power… or watch her kingdom fall to the Fae, who will stop at nothing to keep their lies.

Get a free copy of Fire and Lies (The Seidr Cycle Book #2) here: www.angelabchrysler.com

DolorandShadow

Sink into my books with me,I will show you what I see.

Prologue

“How fare the gods? | How fare the elves?

All Jotunheim groans, | the gods are at council;

Loud roar the dwarfs | by the doors of stone,

The masters of the rocks: | would you know yet more?”

- The Poetic Edda 48th stanza

“Think back to the oldest era your mind can fathom, back beyond everything we can remember, when gods were still men who had not yet lived the deeds that would deify them.” Gudrun's aged gold eyes peered from behind her curtain of long, silver hair. “Think back before the time when the Aesir and the Vanir were still men who had settled here on ancient Earth, ages before their war.”

“Back when the Earth was new?” Kallan asked, looking up from the vellum scroll before her on the table. The tips of her tapered ears poked through the brown hair she had tied back to avoid the candle's flames.

“Was it?” Shadows flickered over Gudrun's face and shelves full of jarred things. All sorts of unusual jars of powders and exotic roots had been crammed into every available corner. Dried herbs hung from the crossbeams. The light from the candle and small hearth fire mingled and added a heavy thickness to the room that smelled of boiled heather and sage. “The Earth was still very old by the time the gods found it,” Gudrun said. “By then it was already ancient soil, which stirred beneath their feet. Can you see it, Kallan?”

The girl closed her eyes, an iridescent blue like the lapis stone, and thought back to the earliest memory she could recall, back before the Great Migration, when the gods lived in the Southern Deserts and the Land of Rivers. Back before the Great War between the Aesir and the Vanir.

“I can,” Kallan said.

The old woman kept the dry sternness in her voice. “These are the antiquated stories that predate the empires of men. We have studied the Vanir and their ways, their medicines and herbs. Now think of the gods of our gods, the gods so old that we have forgotten. The gods our gods once taught to their young. And think of their ancient stories and their myths, the legends they once revered before they themselves became myth. And think of everything now lost to time.”

Kallan nodded. “I see it.”

“The Seidr is older still,” Gudrun said. “Like veins, it flowed from the Great Gap, spreading through all elements of the Earth, stretching out, threading itself into the waters, the air, and earth.”

Kallan opened her eyes as she drew the connection to the tri-corner knot enclosed in a circle hanging from the chain on her neck. Gudrun smiled, confirming that Kallan's conclusion was correct.

“Your mother's pendant,” she said. “Na Tríonóide: the three united. The Seidr fused itself to the elements, until it lost itself inside the Earth, becoming a part of it, flowing with the waters, churning with the soils, and riding on the wind through the air. The Seidr is still there sleeping, waiting for us to remember.”

Kallan shifted forward in her seat.

“When the Vanir found the Seidr, they recognized it. In secret, they honed it and mastered it. They hoarded it, keeping it concealed from the Aesir.” Sadness hovered in Gudrun's tone. “Afraid the Aesir would learn of their treasure and exceed them in power, the Vanir refused to divulge their secret.”

“What happened to the Vanir?” Kallan asked.

Gudrun visibly fought back the bitter sting of tears. “They died.” Her voice was low. “Doomed to be forgotten, and living only within the ancient stories now nearly extinct.”

Kallan bit the corner of her lip as if biting back a question.

“Deep within the earth, beyond the sea to the west, they met their end,” the old woman continued. “Some say they perished far beyond the western-most reaches of the world where the beginning formed. There where the Seidr emerged from the life source and fused to the elements and life itself. The Seidr now resides dormant in all of us. However, for most of us, it sleeps, available for the host to use, but never awakened, its keeper unaware of its presence.

“But don't think its power is lost,” Gudrun said. “Even dormant Seidr, ripped from its host, will destroy the life line that has formed around it. It lies sleeping within every man born to Midgard. Just as the races of Men have it, we elves have it—”

“Elves?” Kallan repeated.

“Alfar,” Gudrun clarified, forgetting the word was foreign beyond the Ocean Isle where she had lived for the past three hundred years. “The Dvergar, the Svartálfar. Even the Ljosalfar—”

“They have it?” Kallan interrupted. “King Tryggve?”

Gudrun nodded. “King Tryggve and King Eyolf—”

The name of her father sharpened Kallan's attention. “Father has it?”

Gudrun continued, not daring to encourage the princess's interruptions.

“As do the reindeer that migrate across the valleys of King Raum in the north and the elk birds that fly across the southern realms of King Gardr Agdi. The sea worms that swim, and the pines that grow tall in these lands. However, among us all, Men and the three races of the Alfar, only a rare handful are still aware of its existence. Of those precious few, only some can waken it. Fewer still can wield it.”

After concluding her lecture, Gudrun spoke faster, more sternly, leaving behind the mysticism of the storyteller.

“To wield the Seidr is to pull on the lifeline that has formed within the confines of your center. To master the Seidr is to pull on the threads that have woven themselves within the elements. Find it!”

As if suddenly aware of the stuffy room, Kallan narrowed her eyes to better see the Seidr that was somehow there suspended in the air. This time, Gudrun's smile stretched across her wrinkled face.

“Start small,” she said. “The Seidr around us has not conformed to the order of a path and goes where the elements take it. Try to find the Seidr within you, at your center. That is where it sleeps. That Seidr will know you and be the first to obey you.”

Slouching, Kallan nodded and closed her eyes, then changed her attention to the center of her body.

“Once you master your own Seidr, you can reach out to the Seidr in others. It won't be as willing to obey as your own, but it too has adapted to the confines of a living being.”

Kallan opened her eyes, eager to collect the knowledge that always seemed to pour out of Gudrun. “Is it within the fire you summon?”

The old Seidkona shook her head.

“Fire is not an element, but a reaction, like when the cook blends stews or when I mix spells.”

“Like bubbling water or brewed tea?”

“Exactly,” Gudrun said. “Fire is only present when other actions bring it out, whereas soil, wind, and water are always there, maintaining a permanent state that defines the Seidr.” As she listed each element, Gudrun pointed to each point of the pendant hanging from Kallan's neck. As she finished, she traced her finger around the circle enveloping the knot. “The elements don't require fuel. However, Seidr is living. It is a life form made of pure energy. Compress enough Seidr, and it will release heat. Compress it more, and it will become hot enough to produce flame.”

“And hotter still produces your lightning.” Kallan grinned.

“Exactly.”

Part One

Chapter 1

Lorlenalin

Aaric, the king's high marshal, towered over the refugees in Lorlenalin's keep as he made his way through the moonlit halls. Sleeping families had done their best to nestle up for the night on the stone floor. Every passage and stairwell overflowed with Alfar. No one had room to stretch out. His men performed well considering the circumstances, but still.

Ninety thousand.

He glanced into one of the countless rooms filled with more than two dozen people. Only this morning he had used most of the rooms for storage. Now, children slept sitting upright against their mothers.

Ninety thousand.

He couldn't believe the report when he heard it two weeks ago. He and his men did well to prepare, but seeing this many refugees arriving at the steps of his keep without home or food had been enough to shock him into the reality of the numbers. His keep simply could not house them all. Outside, his men erected tents, thousands of tents, along the outer battlement. Alongside the river and even the waterfall, they had pitched rows upon rows of tents that would serve as permanent housing for the Svartálfar until his men could build proper establishments.

He still wasn't sure where he was going to put them all until then. The spring nights could get cold.

Aaric stopped at a closed door in the hall where orange light seeped through the crack at the floor and spilled onto the stone. The quiet whimper on the other side pulled at his broad chest. He uneasily shifted the sword on his hip and pushed the door open.

The room was laden with simple fixings fine enough to belong to a field marshal: a desk, a table, no ornamentation. On the wall beside a door that led to a balcony hung a tapestry embroidered with the Svartálfar seal: a hammer intertwined with a tri-corner knot. The same seal the smiths had engraved into the armbands worn by all of the king's men. On the bed, Kallan sat sobbing softly on King Eyolf's lap. From the red of his dry eyes, Eyolf had found more tears to shed for his wife.

Kallan stared wide-eyed, her lapis eyes swollen and red like her father's. The child lay with her fist pressed into her mouth, uninterested with anything he had to say.

“Daggon's ready,” Aaric said.

Eyolf dug at his eyes and nodded. Despite having reached his elding ages ago, gray now streaked the black of his shoulder length hair and his full beard. The eternal youth of the king had waned since last they met. Exhaustion pulled on his face and made him appear much more like a middle-aged human instead of an Alfar king blessed with the eternal life of his people.

Eyolf returned his hand to his daughter's back. “How is everyone?” he asked. “Have the Dokkalfar settled?”

Aaric furrowed his brow. “Dokkalfar?”

“That's what the Svartálfar who followed started calling themselves,” Eyolf said. “I'm not sure when, really. Along the way, they started, I think. The name just stayed with them.”

“We found everyone a bed. My men are still working on the latrines. I have another group working on food supply.”

Eyolf nodded wearily.

“What of the others?” Aaric asked. “Have you heard anything?”

“No. The Svartálfar who stayed behind were not happy with my decision.” Aaric watched Eyolf tighten his mouth. His lip had started to shake. “I urged them to come with us, but they wouldn't abandon the fight.”

“How many?” Aaric asked.

Eyolf rubbed his face. “More than half. One hundred and twenty maybe.”

Nausea flipped Aaric's stomach. “One hundred and twenty thousand left in Svartálfaheim?” He tried to imagine the number of Alfar who had chosen to stay behind as the city went up in Seidr flame. He and Gudrun alone knew it was Seidr flame. He was certain to keep it that way. Aaric shook his head. “They won't make it.”

“They wouldn't listen.” Aaric heard the grief swell in Eyolf's voice. “And if I stayed to fight that battle…”

Kallan sniffed and Aaric watched a tear spill down her nose. “I had no choice, but to protect those who I could,” Eyolf said.

“How is she?” Aaric asked, nodding to the child.

Eyolf made a conscious effort to rub her back again. “About as tired and scared and grief-stricken as the rest of us.”

“I have time,” Aaric said. “I can take her if you wish.”

Eyolf nodded and placed a hand on her head. “Kallan.” Aaric watched her eyes wander then focus. “I have to go.”

“No.” She sat up, her lip trembling as she looked to her father. “No—I don't—”

“Aaric is here,” Eyolf said. “He'll watch you.”

“No, please…What if—”

“I'll be right back.” For his daughter, Eyolf forced his best smile. “You must be strong.”

“I'm not strong.” Kallan shook her head. “I'm not.”

Eyolf planted a kiss on the top of her head and stood from the bed. “I'll be right back,” he whispered and nodded to Aaric before heading out the door, down the hall.

Aaric watched the princess pull her legs into her chest as she gathered the furs around her and dropped her face to her knees. Her long brown hair fell to the bed, shielding her face from the light.

“Kallan.” Aaric walked to the bed.

“I miss Ori.” The furs muffled her voice.

Aaric sat on the bed in front of her.

“I know, Kallan.” He tried to smile. “But he'll be alright.”

“And Grandmamma,” Kallan continued.

Aaric nodded. “Gudrun will be here soon.”

“I miss Mommy.”

Tremors tightened his body. Kallan looked up from her knees.

“I want Mommy.”

Aaric clenched his teeth until he was certain they would break and held his breath until the pain eased enough for him to speak.

“I know.” He swallowed the knot in his throat. “We all do.”

“I couldn't save her.”

“No one could,” he said.

“But I really couldn't.” Kallan tipped her head, insisting. A beam of light caught her eyes, illuminating the rings of gold encompassing her iridescent irises. Aaric caught himself from exclaiming.

“I wasn't strong,” Kallan said. “Father says I am, but I'm not.” Another tear. “Mommy wasn't strong either.”

Kallan buried her face back to her knees and cried.

She mustn't know.

Aaric leaned closer. They were no longer alone.

“Kira was strong, Kallan.” Kira was. His eyes burned. “Very strong.”

“Not like Daddy,” Kallan said, raising her face to Aaric's. “Not like you or Daggon…”

Aaric gently cupped Kallan's chin, which appeared dwarfed by his fingers.

There was no mistaking the prominent ring of gold. If she hadn't been crying, if Eyolf hadn't been grieving, they all would have seen it too.

“Kira had strength, Kallan.”

“Then why is she dead?” Her eyes searched his face as if she would find the answers there. “If she were strong, then why?”

A tear escaped him and Aaric closed his eyes, cursing Eyolf. He never should have left her. Not when he knew Danann was hunting them. He was a fool for obeying his king.

Kallan pulled her chin away and dropped her face back to her knees.

“I want to go home.”

She needs to forget.

“And what would you do there? Hm?” Aaric asked.

She must forget.

“I could find her.” Kallan sniffed. “Ori and I would find her.”

Aaric watched her silent thoughts fly and Kallan descended into another bout of crying.

If she forgets, her grief will end. “Come here, Princess.” Aaric beckoned and, picking up the child from his bed, he pulled her into his lap where she curled up into a ball.

“It hurts so much,” she said. “I just want it to stop…to cut it out of me. If I were stronger…”

“And what if you were stronger?”

Aaric rocked.

“Then I could go back and get her. I could have saved her.”

Not all her memories, Aaric decided. Only some. And her Sight. Surely her Sight must go. If she Sees, then she'll know. And if she's anything like her mother…Aaric continued to rock her back and forth.

There are things she can not know. She already knows enough to figure things out when she gets older. If she remembers. She can not remember.

“Aaric?”

“Yes, Princess.”

“Princesses aren't strong,” she said. “Do you think I will be strong?”

“Yes, Princess,” Aaric said. “You will be strong.”

“Like you and Daggon and Father?” He felt her hair brush his chin.

“Yes, Princess. Just like Daggon and Eyolf.”

“And you?” she asked.

Aaric placed a hand to her forehead.

“And I,” Aaric whispered. Threads of gold, like sand, flowed from his hand and encompassed Kallan's head. Through her body, he reached with his Seidr until he located and linked the golden strands within that harbored her power. One by one, he tugged on the strands, and pushed his own Seidr inside them until his Seidr bound hers and pulled and changed its direction.

“And Gudrun,” Aaric said. “Just like Gudrun.”

He withdrew his Seidr, leaving hers alone to flow in the new direction. Already, the child slept. Carefully, he laid her back on his bed, pulled his furs up around her neck, and kissed her brow.

“Goodnight, Princess,” he muttered.

Several times, he rubbed his hand over his face and made his way to the balcony.

He needed air.

The sea crashed upon the jagged rocks that made up the base of the keep carved into the mountainside. The black waters greeted him as coldly as a late winter chill. Aaric breathed deep the sea air, expanding his chest as far as it would go. Before he released that breath, he knew she was there.

“What did you do to her?” Fand said.

Slowly, Aaric turned his head to the woman leaning too lax against his balcony. Her golden irises gleamed with that same nonchalance that urged him to attack her.

“I sealed off her memories,” he answered with a tone of disgust and pulled his attention from the goddess.

Fand tucked a strand of black hair behind her white, tapered ear.

“It won't work,” she chimed, too happily for the dreary mood of the keep.

Aaric stared at the generous curves of her body.

“What are you doing here, Fand?”

“You didn't kill her.”

Aaric looked back. The nonchalance was gone. In its place, fury peered from her golden eyes. “Our agreement was that you kill her.”

“I didn't agree, you proposed,” Aaric said. “I'm not going to kill a child.”

“She won't always be.”

Aaric took a step toward the railing, adding several feet of space between them.

“She's hidden,” he said. “Danann won't find her. She doesn't even know Kallan exists.”

“You think Danann won't find out?” Fand pushed off the railing. “Granddaughter to the Great Drui and you think Danann can't find her.”

Fand stepped in, closing the space Aaric had reserved between them.

“Kira is dead,” Fand said, shoving her face uncomfortably close to Aaric. “Danann is hunting you and Gudrun.”

Aaric's throat tightened at the sound of Kira's name.

“Kira didn't make it,” he said and formed a fist when Fand cocked her hand and feigned pity.

“Oh, so sorry.”

“We've blocked Danann's vision,” Aaric said. “We blocked her sight. Danann can not find us.”

Fand shrugged with a grin that encouraged Aaric to leap off the balcony.

“There is still Volundr,” Fand said.

Aaric's back stiffened as he held his breath. “Volundr is—”

“Unpredictable.” Fand smiled. The moon did well to illuminate her face. Aaric had to force himself to look away.

“He doesn't know where Kallan is,” he said, knowing how little that mattered.

“It's Volundr,” Fand said. “He will find out.”

“Gudrun and I are both with her.”

“Gudrun isn't.” Fand tipped her head ever so slightly. The black strand of hair fell back to her face. “Where is Gudrun, Aaric?”

“I don't know.”

He felt her eyes scrape over him.

“You're telling the truth,” she said. He could hear her smile fall. “You really don't know.”

The space between them eased as he felt Fand back away.

“That child is better off dead than alive to me,” Fand said over her shoulder. “If Danann even suspects there was a child—”

“You will not kill Kira's daughter,” Aaric said, meeting Fand's narrow eyes.

“She would never have you.”

Fand turned and walked to the edge of the balcony. The wind whipped her black hair about.

“Where are you going?” Aaric called.

“If the mood suits her, Danann can track me,” Fand answered, staring out over the sea. “If I stay too long, it will raise questions. Once Danann withdraws her troops from Svartálfaheim, she will begin looking for you. And Gudrun. Once that happens, if I go near that child, Danann will find her.”

“You will not kill Kira's daughter.”

“You can have your precious princess,” Fand said and released a chuckle. “But the moment Danann finds her, the moment that child knows…I'm coming for her.”

Aaric paid no mind as Fand took the shape of a raven. With feathers as black as her hair, she flew into the night, leaving Aaric alone with his princess.

Chapter 2

Gunir

Ten years later…

Swann pushed open the heavy oak door of Rune's chambers. The hinges whined and her silver eyes peered through the crack. The sitting room was empty.

Braver than she had been a moment ago, the girl threw open the door, slipped into her brother's bower, and quietly closed the door behind her with her back pushed flat against the oak.

The hem of her silk chemise caressed her bare toes. Her golden locks framed her slender face before falling to her knees. A soft smile pulled her lips and, as she pushed herself off the door, she brought her hands to her front, clasping a small box filled with her newest treasure.

Skipping lightly, she crossed the Eastern rug that spanned the length of the grand sitting room. Dyed with reds and gold, the rug filled the sitting room with regal warmth and caressed the tips of her toes as she made her way to the dresser to rummage through her brother's things.

Rich wood decorated every corner and ornamented the wardrobe, the tables, and the mantle. The desk, the chairs, even the wooden framework surrounding the doors and each of the four windows was ornamented with the craft of the Ljosalfar woodcutters. Few could claim their equal.

Humming a ditty, Swann arrived at her brother's desk and riffled, combed, and turned over each artifact.

“Sing and skip o'er Faerie mounds,” she sang as she inspected a broken piece of thick, green glass that had come from the Desert Markets. “O'er the hill and through the dalr.”

Swann moved on to the center window and welcomed the earliest of morning light. A recurve bow and quiver resting in a chair didn't interest her. Nor did the collection of sharpened swords splayed out on a corner table.

With a deep breath, she leaned out the window. Ignoring the courtyard below, she looked to Lake Wanern where the longboats creaked in port. Swann widened her smile at the sunlight and morning breeze as she turned her gaze to the east, beyond the city's end and across the river to the Alfheim Wood.

A groan from the bedchamber pulled her from the window, and Swann grinned with rejuvenated excitement. Pushing off the window's sill, she ran to the bedroom as if ready to burst from the news she was eager to tell.

Encumbered with sleep, Rune lay buried beneath a mountain of blankets, furs, and pillows.

“Rune,” Swann said in singsong.

He knew her voice, but couldn't move to answer. A weight in the dreaming was holding him still.

“Wake up,” she said.

But Rune didn't wake. Instead, the voice penetrated his dream and became part of it.

“Rune,” she said as she climbed his body like the steps of Jotunheim and sang, her voice as crisp as fresh fallen snow on ice:

“Sing and skip o'er Faerie mounds,

O'er the hill and through the dalr,

Where sleep's joy spins my dreams.

There the moonlight finds its beam.”

Clutching her small box, Swann slipped on Rune's hip and caught herself before breaking off into the second verse.

“Sing and skip o'er Faerie mounds,

O'er the hill and through the dalr,

Where the rolling brook doth play,

O'er the hill and far away.”

Without hesitation, Swann projected her voice into the morning air that blew in with the breeze through Rune's chamber window. As Swann climbed and chanted, her locks spilled over the blankets like sunlight. Swann succeeded in perching herself atop Rune and shoved her face so close, the tip of her nose grazed his.

“Rune,” she shouted, pulling Rune from his dream.

With a howl, Rune pushed a pillow into his sister's face, sending her falling onto her back with the pillow, her box, and her golden tresses. Undaunted, Swann jumped up and slapped the pillow back on Rune, who had pulled his blankets over his head. Before he could groan, Swann broke off into another verse.

“Sing and skip o'er Faerie mounds,

O'er the hill and through the dalr,

Where the ancient scrolls doth lay.

Think of their secrets far away.

“Ruuuuuuuuune,” Swann said, relinquishing the pillow.

“Whaaaaaaaaaaat?” The furs on Rune's head muffled his voice.

Swann grinned.

“Great! You're awake.”

Another groan.

With a hop, Swann said, “Rune, come. You must see. You must see. I've found one!”

Swann squealed as she bounced on her knees beside him.

“Found what?” Rune asked, refusing to budge from beneath the blankets.

“A Fae's mound,” Swann cried and sang:

“Sing and skip o'er Faerie mounds,

O'er the hills and through the dalr.

Faerie song will lead you there,

To their sunlit halls so fair.

“Just like what Mother said,” Swann exclaimed the moment her song was done. “And 'glowing as if sunlight flowed from the earth,' just like the ones she saw in Eire's Land.”

Huffing, Rune threw back his blankets. His blue-tinted silver eyes squinted in the light.

“You found a Faerie mound?” he asked, arching a single brow in doubt.

Swann nodded vigorously.

“Swann.” Rune slapped the furs. His lack of enthusiasm did nothing to deter her spirits. “I suppose I'll have to go see.”

“Get up,” Swann said, throwing her hands into the air and leaping down from the bed. Her hair followed like golden rain.

“Not right away, Swann.” Rune swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I have lessons all morning with Geirolf. And if I skip them again, he'll have my hide. Not to mention the Hel I'll get from Father.”

Swann dropped her arms and slouched with the box still tucked away in her hand.

“But the holiday,” Swann said over a puffed bottom lip. “It's Austramonath.”

“Not for another few days. The Dokkalfar haven't even arrived yet,” Rune scolded and watched as his sister curled her bottom lip out further. “I'll be around later.”

Swann didn't move.

Rune groaned, throwing himself onto his bed and staring at the ceiling.

“When would you like me to be there?” he asked.

“Now,” Swann said, making a full recovery from her sulking.

“Swann,” Rune said, and she was on the bed again, holding her face upside down over his with a wide-eyed grin that never waned.

Rune batted at one of her locks.

“Go on ahead,” Rune said. “Do whatever it is you do in that valley of yours, and I'll meet up with you before the sun is high.”

Her joviality fell again, but she did her best to hide her disappointment.

“That's what Bergen said.” Swann sat back on her legs and did her best to not look too upset.

Rune crunched his brow. “Bergen's back?”

With a grin, Swann nodded.

“When did he get back?”

“Just,” she sang, thrilled to know something her brother didn't. “Look what he brought me back from Râ-Kedet,” she said and shoved her precious box into his face.

Rune sat up, turned himself around, and flipped up the latch. The hinges creaked. Inside, nestled in red Eastern silk, an egg gleamed in the light. 

Vibrant, yellow circles capped each end where lines like sunbursts spilled into a black base coat. The rays met the peaks of deep, blood red mountains that encircled the egg. Their bases stopped where a wide strip of black enveloped the egg's center. There, within the strip of black, a red circle drew Rune's attention.

“It's a worm,” Rune said as he made out an image of a snake, twisted into a signet until it had formed a circle. Two black slits, like eyes, peered from in between the snake's body. A single yellow eye dotted its head and its tail and Rune turned the egg upside down. 

“With two heads,” Rune said, seeing the dotted tail was indeed another head. He turned the fragile jewel over to find a second signet snake that mirrored the first. “Where did he get this?”

Swann bounced as if she would burst. “Bergen said it was a gift.”

Rune turned the egg over again, clearly unable to tear his eyes away.

“Did he now?”

“He said, 'it was a gift from the queen, who ruled the lands below the White Sea'.” Swann repeated Bergen's words verbatim with an air of mysticism as she stared at the ceiling in thought then leaned over Rune's shoulder and added in a normal voice. “He said it came from a Sklavinian ship.”

“Sklavinian,” Rune said. He knew the name too well.

“Bergen gave you this?” Rune peered up at Swann. “All the more reason why you should heed Bergen's request and go play in the valley.” Rune grinned and Swann sighed, taking back her egg with an eye roll that became a head roll. Carefully, she returned it to its silk and latched the lid like a treasured secret.

“You're older,” Swann said. “I was hoping you would override Bergen's instructions.”

Rune smiled. “Older by moments.”

“Enough to be heir.”

“Perhaps,” Rune said. “Besides, no one really tells Bergen what to do. Not even Father.”

“Before the sun is high?” she asked, looking up from her box.

Rune nodded.

“Promise,” Swann said, “and you'll bring Bergen too.”

“I do and I will,” Rune said.

“Hala,” Swann announced and slid off the bed. As she ran from the room, she sang:

“Sing and skip o'er Faerie mounds,

O'er the hill and through the dalr,

Where the mystical spriggans play,

O'er the hill and far away.”

Forced to pull his body from bed, Rune stumbled into his garderobe and began to ready himself for the day.

A gift from the queen, who ruled the lands below the White Sea.

Austramonath was no excuse to skip lessons today, but Bergen's return from Râ-Kedet was. If he hurried, there was time enough to hunt a bear and slip a little something into Bergen's bed.

Chapter 3

At the end of a barren road, a dilapidated stable stood as private as one could hope. Moss and turf more than an arm's length in height buried the sagging roof. The sound of the city had long since vanished. Here, beside a fisher's daughter, Bergen lay, his broad shoulders made wide from hours spent wielding a sword. Thoughts of a pair of deep black eyes, an intoxicating laugh, and the glow of copper skin had followed him all the way back to Gunir from Râ-Kedet.

A pain pulled at his chest and he shifted his head to the maid asleep beside him. Her back glistened white beneath a ray of sunlight. Strands of yellow hair flowed down her bare shoulders to spill over onto the furs.

For a moment, he imagined her hair black, and he shook his head to forget.

Her Nordic skin had never seen the unforgiving sun of Râ-Kedet. Had she lived in the desert lands, she almost would have the same glow as Zab—

Bergen pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn't lay there much longer. Another time and he would have thought of little else. Another time, and he wouldn't have permitted the maid rest. Today, he was a fool for trying.

Taking great care to not disturb Helga, or Hilda, Bergen shifted himself from beneath the blankets and pulled on his trousers. His black, shoulder length hair fell forward, blocking the girl from view. For that, he was grateful.

Coming here, trying to forget—

For two years, he had done little else.

Bergen took up his tunic and pulled it over his head.

“Hey, Bergen.”

The girl groaned.

Taking up his bag, Bergen turned for the door before his brother could—

“Bergen!”

Bergen stumbled out of the stables, dropped his bag at his feet, and gazed at Rune, who stood as tall as he.

“Ssssssh!” Bergen hissed, buckling his belt. His menacing silver-blue eyes, so like his brother's, caught the sun's light, making him appear more threatening than usual.

Rune grinned. “Not back half a day and already you lure one of your mistresses-in-waiting to your shack.”

Rune slapped his hand down on his brother's back, hugged him briefly, and released him.

Bergen abandoned his feigned irritation for a wide grin and returned a slap to Rune's shoulder.

“She was there on the docks when my ship came in,” Bergen said. “Now, dear brother, what would move you to disturb my lovemaking?”

Rune rested his backside against the little that remained of a weathered fence. “Another maiden has beckoned us to call,” Rune said.

A twinge of relief pricked Bergen's chest, welcoming any delay from returning home where solitude waited to torment him.

“Swann,” Bergen said, doing his best to appear annoyed. He looked back to the stables. Without word or protest, he took up his bag and slung it over his shoulder.

“What about—?” Rune nodded at the stables as he pushed himself up from the fence.

Bergen glanced back at the doorway then shrugged. “She'll forgive me,” he said and joined Rune down the dirt path toward the stone bridge that would carry them from Gunir into the forest to the valley.

“What news?” Rune asked, once the stables were well out of sight.

Bergen stared off to the end of the road that twisted behind a grove of birch trees as he sank back into memories of the last five years. How to begin, he mused.

Words would barely begin to describe the beauty of Râ-Kedet with her white sands turned gold in the sun. The alabaster palaces surrounded by the sea of sand-brick buildings, bristling with bustling markets that thrived on the trade ships coming in to port on the White Sea. Statues carved from limestone and ebony alabaster and great white pillars adorned every hall. Papyrus and palm gardens burst with life along the shores of the city and within the gardens of the Serapeum.

Everything was there, anything could be found in those markets, from Sliders and pet desert spiders to Eastern silks and fine curved blades from the Mountains of Khwopring. The ports overflowed with the latest innovations and astounding theories from the Deserts.

'The city of gold,' Bergen had often called it. “Hm,” he grunted.

Rune creased his brow and shifted a suspicious eye to Bergen. “Gone five winters and all you have to show for it is a grunt.”

“Not much to say,” Bergen said, batting at a low hanging branch still dripping wet with cool, morning dew. “Glad to be out of the desert heat.”

Bergen felt Rune scrutinize his cold demeanor before changing the subject as if deciding on a different approach.

“How was the Academia?” Rune asked, stepping over a root in his path.

“Burned,” Bergen said. “Three years ago.”

Rune tripped over his own feet.

“Burned three years ago and you're only getting home now?” Rune asked. “What kept you?”

Bergen thought for a while before answering. “Obligations.”

Bergen felt the hesitation as a knot formed in his throat. So much for keeping his secrets.

“Obligations,” Rune said. His tone confirmed he doubted Bergen's half-truths. “It wouldn't have anything to do with a 'queen from the lands below the White Sea,' would it?”

Bergen stopped dead on the trail. His lips tightened with the snarl he suppressed. At once, his thoughts drifted to a pair of black eyes and skin as gold as the sun. He was unaware that he had clenched his fists.

Zabbai.

A bird chirped, breaking the silence.

“Where did you get the egg, Bergen?” Rune asked.

The corner of Bergen's mouth curled and he resumed walking. “Didn't Swann tell you?” he asked with a hint of humor that told Rune he was in for a runaround that would delay the topic as long as a fortnight if he let it.

Rune shrugged. “No matter. I'm sure Mother would love to hear that you could have been back nearly three winters ago if a certain lady hadn't detained you.”

“You're a whelp.”

Rune grinned. “I am.”

Bergen inhaled the cold, sharp air of the Nordic winds that blew in off Lake Wanern. He released a long, quiet breath. “The Academia wasn't just an academia. It was a shrine. There were days it felt like it damn near made up the entire city of Râ-Kedet. It had its own community that answered to its own laws. There were streets filled with dorms, gardens, markets, lecture halls, theaters, a museum—”

Rune arched his brow. “Museum?”

“The Muse's Hall. It was the wing dedicated to the study of metric speech.”

“Music,” Rune said.

Bergen nodded. “Among other areas of interest. And a library, the largest this side of the Silk Roads.”

They followed their path toward the stone bridge that carried them over the river Klarelfr.

“The library is what kept me,” Bergen said.

Rune didn't answer.

“Since its construction, the Academia has grown as the center of education in Râ-Kedet,” Bergen continued. “With the Muses and the extended teachings of Pl—”

“You're losing your audience, dear brother,” Rune interjected. “I already skipped my lessons for the day.”

“The scholars collected everything that came into port,” Bergen said. “And everything that came into port was added to their growing Serapeum. Anything that could be used for study was taken. Every artifact was confiscated and housed in the museum, every written word taken and copied in the library. When my ship pulled into port five years ago, so were my manuscripts.”

Rune gave Bergen a solemn look.

“They took everything,” Bergen said. “Even letters. They gave us coin for our troubles, and the writings were eventually returned to us, but…” He shook his head. “…they would only return the copies the scriveners made. They kept the originals to be added to their library.”

“Your notes even?” Rune asked.

“Gone,” Bergen said, unable to meet Rune's eyes. “All of them.”

“Naturally, you wanted them back.”

“Well, yeah,” Bergen scoffed. “So, I did what I do.”

“You caused a commotion,” Rune said.

“—which drew the attention of the woman who ran the place.” Bergen beamed.

“You didn't,” Rune said with a feigned look of surprise.

“You're mocking me.”

“I'm sorry,” Rune said as Bergen watched a pair of male sparrows land in the road, locked at the beaks. Wings flailed, throwing up a small puff of dirt, and by the time they were airborne again, their mood had subsided.

“So what happened?” Rune asked.

Bergen shrugged. “I found the school, enrolled, and traced my manuscripts back to the library where I got a job as a scrivener.”

“And the woman who ran the place?”

Bergen pretended to be interested in the trees ahead while he collected the courage to speak. “Turned out to be the queen of Râ-Kedet.” The knot in his throat returned.

“And the egg?”

Bergen shrugged. “Didn't get to lay her.” His jaw tightened.

“The egg, Bergen,” Rune said.

“As common in Râ-Kedet as the Sliders for sale at market.”

“Bergen.”

Bergen sighed.

“The woman, who took my manuscripts—”

“—the queen—”

“—had found the egg on a Sklavinian ship.” Bergen shoved a branch out of his way.

“How did you get the egg?”

Bergen knew that flux in Rune's tone and was suddenly aware of how much he had missed it. Rune wasn't going to buy any story he manufactured, but he was going to try.

“She gave it to me.”

“Just like that?” Implausibility dripped from his tone.

“Right after the hunting and drinking,” Bergen said, smiling through his lie.

Rune raised a doubtful brow at Bergen.

“The Queen of Râ-Kedet went hunting and drinking,” Rune said, “with you.”

Bergen nodded. At least that part of it was true.

“She did,” he said, still grinning.

Rune threw Bergen a look that told him he knew better, but Bergen held his gaze on the path ahead.

“Sklavinian artifacts are notorious for curses,” Rune said.

An old memory surfaced and Bergen failed to suppress a grin.

“I've had my share of experiences with the Sklavinian,” Bergen said. “And the artifacts release the curse only on those who steal from them. Besides…” Bergen waved his hand. “I've carried that thing now for three years and nothing's happened to me.”

“How did you get the egg, Bergen?”

Bergen took a long moment, recalling the breeze that blew in from the sea that night. The desert moonlight had filled Zabbai's chambers. Her cheeks glowed with a red that poured down her bronze neck, flushed from too much wine. Her eyes, like black pools, pulled him in too easily, even for him. Her lips…There wasn't a day he didn't regret not kissing those lips.

Bergen fisted his hand and did his best to ignore the tightness in his chest. If he had known then that his two years with Zabbai were at an end—

“She gave it to me in exchange for a promise.”

“Before or after you bedded her?” Rune asked.

Bergen flashed Rune a somber look, drawing Rune's eye. “I didn't bed her. Not this one.” Bergen returned his attention to the road. “No one did.”

Rune took an extra-long step over a bare root.

“Râ-Kedet has always…attracted…a lot of attention ever since trade was established centuries ago,” Bergen continued. “War is always on the horizon there with the rising Western threat that the Gutar brought with them across Danu's River.”

“The Gutar?” Rune asked. “They were there?”

Bergen nodded. A shadow had fallen over his face.

“They destroyed the Great Temple not three winters before my arrival.”

Rune stopped and grabbed Bergen's arm, nearly pulling him to the ground. His face had fallen white. “The Great Temple?”

Bergen nodded. “Destroyed.”

There was a pause while Bergen waited for Rune to find his feet again.

“Tension on the trade routes was high,” Bergen said once they started again down the road. “Still is. Two years after my arrival, the Empire in the South invaded Râ-Kedet. It ransacked the city and set the Academia on fire. We managed to put out the flames, but the library was beyond repair.”

The sudden stench of camel flooded back to Bergen, bringing back every detail of that night. His stomach felt like it would fall out of him as he recalled the brush of Zabbai's breast on his arm when he hoisted his Lady—not my Lady, never my Lady—onto her camel. The high moon seemed to have filled her black eyes. She was still flushed red from the wine and tipsy when they started out across the endless dunes to the Ufratu River. It was there on the banks of the Ufratu that they departed. There, that she gave him the egg, and there he gave his promise.

It was there that he left her for dead.

Fire nipped the tip of Bergen's nose as he tightened his jaw and swallowed the bitter bite in the back of his throat. There was too much he wasn't saying, too much he couldn't say.

“When it was over, I gathered up the last of the surviving scriveners and we moved what was left to the new library,” Bergen forced out the end of his story.

“And your manuscripts?” Rune asked.

“Lost in the fire,” Bergen said.

There was a moment of silence as if grieving the loss of his works.

“What happened to your queen?” Rune asked.

A disquieted look blanketed Bergen's face. “The last time I saw her, the emperor had her walk the streets of the Imperial City.”

Wearing nothing but chains of gold, Bergen couldn't bring himself to say and instead fell silent as he recalled the shimmering gold in the desert sun and her dark, bronze skin. Her hair had fallen down her back like black rain that barely covered her rounded backside.

She held her head high even then, he recalled.

“And so you stayed,” Rune finished for Bergen, pulling him out of the withdrawn daze he had drifted into.

Bergen nodded. “To care for what little was left.”

There was another prolonged silence as they made their way deeper into the wood.

“What aren't you telling me, Brother?” Rune asked.

Indifference blanketed Bergen's eyes, but Rune didn't seem to notice.

“There was another fire.”

Rune kicked his own foot and stumbled, then regained his balanced.

“It's why I came home,” Bergen said coldly. “The emperor got to it. There's nothing left.”

A breeze swept their path, giving Bergen a chance to breathe in the fresh Nordic winds he had spent five years missing.

“I got to see the Lighthouse of Râ-Kedet,” Bergen said.

“How was it?”

Bergen shrugged. “Big.”

Rune dropped his shoulders. “Oh, is that all?”

“Almost as big as the pyramid I saw in the Black Land across the River.”

Rune made a sound that combined a loathsome grunt and an impressed scoff.

Bergen fell silent again.

“What does it look like?” Rune asked.

Bergen scratched the unshaven, black bristles on his face.

“Wet.”

“Not the river,” Rune said. “The lighthouse.”

Bergen shrugged as if it was every day he saw a behemoth rise from the sea. “A tower extends from a white octagon that stands on a square base. There's a room at the top where they use a kind of metal plate to catch the sun. At night, they light a fire.”

“Your description exceeds your skills,” Rune drummed sarcastically.

“Four statues adorn the octagon,” Bergen said, “and Odinn stands at the top, welcoming the ships to port.”

“Your words move me,” Rune said as they entered the edge of the valley.

A cold, empty smirk pulled at Bergen's mouth. “Also saw the Statue of the High Mountain and the Mausoleum at Halikarnas.”

“I hate you.”

“You missed me.”

In the valley, Swann made her way up a lively little brook, stepping lightly upon the stones poking out from beneath the water. With her precious egg clutched in one hand and a bundle of pussywillows bunched in the other, Swann swayed as she balanced barefoot on each moss-covered stone. As she hopped from stone to stone, she sang her sweet song, skipping to the next stone on the downbeat of each new phrase:

“Sing and skip o'er Faerie mounds,

O'er the hill and through the dalr,

Where the Fae King's halls are gold,

Where they sing their songs of old.”

On the final downbeat, Swann slipped and fell, ankle deep, into the water. Hopping back to the stones, she continued with the chorus, undeterred by her wet feet.

“Through the wind the spriggans play,

O'er the sea where they stay.

The queen of Fae, she sits there still,

Tending the earth beneath her hill.”

On the last three words of the verse, Swann leapt from the stone into the cold water, and giggled, delighted at her own game. With branches fisted in hand, Swann hiked her skirts to her knees and sloshed her way to the bank of the brook, then stepped onto dry land. Skipping ahead through the birch trees, with her golden hair streaking the forest, she sang:

“Sing and skip o'er Faerie mounds,

O'er the hill and through the dalr,

Where the mystical Fae King's throng,

Fills the earth with ancient song.”

Swann timed her song so that, at its end, she fell to her knees on the ground before a mound of dried leaves and dead branches. Setting aside the willows and gently placing the egg's chest into the grass beside her, Swann hummed as she cleared the leaves away until, bit by bit, a golden light seeped then threaded itself up and out of the earth like a spring of gold water.

“Through the wind the spriggans play,

O'er the sea where they stay…”

With a wide grin, Swann fixed her silver eyes upon the golden light and sang quiet and low beneath the wind:

“The Faerie queen, she sits there still,

Tending the earth beneath her hill.

“Beneath her hill,” Swann whispered as she pulled away the last of the branches.

Too entranced by the shimmering spring, too enthralled by the glittering gold, Swann failed to see the shadows lurking as darkness moved in.

The clouds overhead had filled the sky, blocking the sun's warm light and casting a dismal gray over the earth. A cold, lifeless wind swept through the valley and Swann shivered as she hummed her song.

From the corner of her eye, she saw, too late, the glimpse of a shadow. Startled, she turned, opened her mouth, and screamed as the darkness filled her lungs, plunging itself down her throat to her belly. Engulfing her, it left her screams to fill the valley.

Chapter 4

Lorlenalin

Kallan breathed in the fresh morning air from her balcony. The clear skies permitted an unobstructed view of the jagged precipice that plunged into the waters below where the ocean's waves slammed into the mountainside. Unyielding, Lorlenalin's foundation stood strong against the sea.

Kallan grinned. The scent of sea and spring and holiday clung to the winds that tossed her hair about. She was certain she could smell Cook's cloudberry glaze dripped over holiday breads and custards.

The feasts of Austramonath.

Her smile widened and in a sudden bout of energy, she sprinted into her bower. Taking up her boots, she dropped to the elaborate chest that ran flush with the foot of her bed and pulled them on. Still grinning, Kallan grabbed the sword from her bed and fled from the room, leaving the main doors of her chamber wide open.

Down the hallway, Kallan ran down the steps to the main corridor that encircled the Great Hall. Inside, the servants and Cook were preparing the last of the delights for travel. Nearly three hundred wives had already left with their children and a small guard. Today, she and her father would be leaving to join them in Gunir, located on the other side of the Alfheim Wood where the northernmost tip of Lake Wanern met the forest. There, on the eve of Austramonath, they would break bread with King Tryggve and his kin. Still, she had time to get in a morning's worth of swordplay.

Too eager to find Eilif in the city's hall of records, and too impatient to stop when one of the kitchen servants offered her a handful of cloudberries, Kallan dashed down the hall to the courtyard, which buzzed with a liveliness only an approaching holiday could bring. The first warm spring day had lured everyone into the streets where Dokkalfar women were busy decorating Lorlenalin in the festival colors of Austramonath.

Piles of branches bursting with pussywillows lay beside children who had followed their mothers into the sun-filled courtyard. Strips of fabrics dyed with bright reds, yellows, blues, and greens hung balls of evergreen sprigs. Wreaths of flowers and wild branches covered one side of the battlement. It would take the next day to hang the rest, just in time for the holiday.

Kallan ran past the piles of branches and skirted around the children running about, before cutting across the vast center square that brimmed with village life. Everywhere, Alfar bustled, doubling up their chores to complete them in time for the celebrations.

Decorations trimmed the streets, feeding the excitement that flowed through the city. At the town's center beside the vast fountain, Freyr's Pole stood. Like a beacon, it fed the people's enthusiasm as it waited, erected for the feasts of Austramonath.

All week, Kallan had stopped to gaze at the ribbons and colors that decorated Freyr's Pole. Today, Kallan paid no mind as she hurried toward the barracks on the farthest end of the square. The stone streets, the distant 'plink' of the smith's hammer, and the stables did nothing to deter her from her goal.

With ease, she fastened the sword to her waist as she came to a stop at the barracks' door.

Breathe.

Kallan eased her excitement and slowed the beating of her heart until her hands were steady and her nerves unyielding. She unsheathed her sword, enjoying the pure ring of the metal, and she placed her hand to the door. Kallan pushed on the wood, and the door swung wide. Kallan raised her sword above her head, angled the tip to shield her face, and entered.

The room appeared empty. Swords hung on the stone walls. Barrels of training swords remained undisturbed in a corner where a line of dummies, beaten to all sorts of conditions, spanned the farthest wall. The occasional round shield rested in waiting propped against the wall. Streaks of sunlight poured through the windows onto the floor. She watched the sun dust settle.

Empty.

Still holding her sword in position, Kallan returned her hand to the door, drew in a long deep breath, and threw her body into the door, slamming it hard into Daggon on the other side.

Daggon howled and Kallan swung the sword down toward Daggon's red head. He raised his sword and blocked her strike, forcing Kallan to take several steps back. She poised her blade, blocking her torso as Daggon stepped from behind the door and matched her position.

“Princess,” Daggon said with a grin buried beneath the wild red mass of beard and hair. He lunged, thrusting the blade for her shoulder.

“Kallan!” she corrected, swinging her blade for the exposed artery in Daggon's leg.

Her sword crashed into his and Daggon bore his blade up, forcing Kallan to leap back. She swung her blade up for his neck then down for his head as Daggon moved with her.

He deflected her sword and mirrored her attack, swinging his blade down as Kallan raised her palm flush with the end of her blade. She blocked his attack, then shoved it aside and smashed her pommel up into his face.

As Daggon stumbled back, blood gushed from his broken nose. Knowing his skills with the blade, Kallan gave him no time to recover. She swung for his shoulder as he dabbed at his nose.

Daggon blocked her attack then hooked her hilt with his cross-guard. He reached across her arms and grabbed her hilt, which held her in place as he spun and slammed his back into her front.

“Thank you!” he said, giving a yank and relinquishing the sword from her hands. He shifted his weight and Kallan fell to the ground in a heap.

Daggon threw back his head and laughed long and loud as Kallan sat grinning from the floor.

“You think you have time to smile, Princess?” he jeered.

“Kallan,” she corrected again. “And fools are meant for smiling at.”

“Fool?” Daggon wiped the moisture from his amber eyes and dabbed at the blood on his nose. “You're the one sitting on your arse.”

Kallan widened her grin. “You're the one with your guard down.” She flicked her wrist and Seidr flame burst to life in her hand.

“By Baldr,” Daggon cursed and leapt, taking up a round shield from the wall as Kallan sent her Seidr streaming for Daggon's torso.

Neither saw King Eyolf standing in the door.

Fire rolled off the edges of the wood while Daggon cowered behind the shield. Kallan's flames grew hotter.

“Kallan!” Daggon shouted.

“Kallan! Stand down!” Eyolf ordered and Kallan extinguished her flame doing her best to already hide her waning strength.

“Do you yield?” she asked, staring at the shield charred black.

“No!” Daggon said and threw the wood at Kallan.

Kallan raised her arm and caught the shield with her elbow. Blocks of blackened charcoal fell to the floor and Daggon charged, his sword positioned to impale Kallan as she mustered the last of her strength, readied her Seidr, and braced for the impact.

Sweeping her feet out from under her, Eyolf dropped Kallan to the ground in a pile.

“First rule of battle, Kallan,” Eyolf said, putting his full weight onto her. “Don't turn your back to your opponent!”

“Get off!” Kallan shouted, squirming between the floor and her father.

“Say it!” Eyolf said, indifferent to his daughter's wheezing.

“No—Ow!” Kallan bellowed.

“Quit squirming and say it!”

Kallan raised her head to Daggon who threw back his head and laughed, then sheathed his sword.

“You're next, Daggon,” she said. “Now help me up so I can kick your a—”

Daggon threw his hands in the air. “I can't help you, Princess. My orders come from the king.”

“And why is that, Kallan?” Eyolf said as if they were seated in the war room. “Why do Daggon's orders come from the king?”

Kallan slapped the floor, doing her best to pull herself out from under her father. But the Seidr left her too weak to fight him.

“Because,” Kallan gasped. “Daggon is your captain.”

“That's right,” Eyolf said, patting her head like a dog. Kallan growled.

“And what am I?” Eyolf said.

“I won't say it!”

“Say it, Kallan.”

“No!”

Eyolf picked his foot off the floor, adding more of his weight to her.

“Argh,” Kallan dropped her head and answered into the floor. “You are my king!”

“Good girl,” Eyolf said with a victorious grin. “And…?”