Fire and Lies Page 13

  Rune’s grip tightened around the key ring he had obtained from Ottar. For a moment, he paused at the idea of calling Ottar back and letting him take Kallan back to her chambers. Kallan was less likely to cook Ottar alive despite her loathing for the large brute.

  Rune inhaled, sighed, and reached for the door, ignoring the raging knot in his stomach that warned him to run away. The iron key slid into the hole and gently, he turned the key. He held his breath as the lock gave off a soft click that felt more like a war horn.

  Cold sweat from his palm smeared the metal knob.

  “Kallan?”

  A blast of fire assaulted the door, leaving Rune too little time to shift back behind the wood. His pant leg hissed, singed with flame as the door sizzled beneath the heat. Fire rolled from around the edges. The stream of fire abruptly ended, leaving the wood black and charred and allowing Rune a moment to plead.

  “My brother is uskit!” Rune said from behind the door. Another long stream of flame kept him cowering behind the wooden shield.

  “Your brother?” Kallan shrieked from within the dark, hollowed room, affording Rune the nerve to peak around the corner. “It’s not your bother whose head I want to roll, now is it?”

  “What did I do?” Rune shouted back to Kallan, suddenly too irate to hide from her temper.

  “So far? Not much,” she said and shoved her way past Rune, leaving him alone in the cell.

  His sigh became a growl as he closed the door and stopped short. In the corridor, Kallan waited, arms crossed, head cocked, mouth turned down with her brow. Refusing to placate her temper, Rune shoved past her and made his way around the corridor to a table and a chair where Ottar sat on duty. The spiraling steps carried him down to the landing where a side entrance granted passage to the second floor corridor and a second run of steps that led down to the Great Hall.

  Without a glance to see if she followed, Rune sauntered on past Kallan’s bower and made his way to his chambers at the end of the hall. There, he swung open the wide, double doors and stopped, stunned, as Kallan swept under his arm and meandered over his threshold. His palms suddenly moist, Rune blew a sharp, brief breath and closed the door behind him.

  “Lady Kallan,” he greeted casually as he moved across the poorly lit sitting room to the fruits, meats, and meads the servants had replenished.

  “Where are they?” Kallan asked, raising her head slightly higher as if to establish her regality in his room.

  Patiently, Rune poured himself a goblet of mead, taking much more time than reasonably necessary along with a sip before answering.

  “They who?” he finally asked, as if suddenly aware he had a guest.

  He watched her nostrils flare as Kallan inhaled furiously.

  “Daggon and Gudrun!” she said. “Where are they?”

  Rune treated himself to another sip as she brooded. It was good mead, made from a sweet batch of black currants and blackberries. He took another sip, uncertain if Cook had added a touch of cinnamon to the brew.

  “Safe,” he answered simply enough.

  “Release them,” she said, still standing in the center of the room.

  “Release?” Rune’s hand stopped mid-drink, affording her a look of bewilderment.

  “They are citizens of Lorlenalin,” Kallan said as if this weighed at all in his decision. “Release them.”

  Rune glanced at the ceiling, posing as one deep in thought, swished the mead about in his mouth and swallowed, then shifted his attention back to her as if deciding.

  “No.”

  Taking another long sip, Rune braced for impact. Slowly, he topped off his drink.

  “We are still in a declared state of war, and they are my prisoners.” He took another sip from the goblet, relieved to find his backside still intact. “Now if you want to discuss terms of peace…” His voice trailed off, leaving the conversation open for rebuttal.

  “Alright,” Kallan said. “Release them and we’ll talk.”

  Rune chuckled, took another sip of mead, and shook his head.

  “Not a chance,” he said, grinning. “How do I know you won’t take off the minute I release them?”

  “How do I know you have intent on settling for a peace?”

  Rune tipped his glass to her.

  “How do you have any choice?”

  Kallan wrinkled her face.

  “You have no intent to reconcile,” she said.

  “I don’t?” he asked innocently, peering over the edge of his goblet. “Why else would I bring you here?”

  “To uphold your end of a bargain! Why else indeed,” Kallan said sauntering to the platter beside Rune as she glanced over the fruits in front of them.

  “Perhaps you want the conflict,” she said after deciding on not eating anything from the tray.

  “If I desired conflict,” Rune said, “I would return you to Lorlenalin. That would guarantee conflict. Or I would kiss you.”

  He stared into the black liquid in his goblet.

  “You think so little of me that you believe I wouldn’t reach out on my own for negotiations?” Kallan asked.

  “I don’t doubt that at all…” Rune lowered the drink. “I do doubt the messenger you have entrusted with said message.”

  Exhaling, Kallan turned about on her heel and came to stand, gazing out the window. The masts of the longships stretched to the skies in the delta that greeted the lake. There, only hours ago, the Beast inside him fought to suck the Seidr from Kallan’s core. He felt it and knew. If given the chance, it would drink every last drop of Seidr inside her, leaving Kallan an empty husk, dead and dried into sand.

  Rune exhaled and, gentler, tried again.

  “Your Majesty,” he said. “Kallan.”

  Kallan remained unresponsive, keeping her back to him.

  “There is only one way to resolve this,” he said, “and until he arrives, I have no intention of releasing your Seidkona, your captain, or you, for that matter.”

  Kallan whipped about, her head poised perfectly on her neck as she glared.

  “Once Borg arrives, you can pose any question you may have to him,” Rune said. “In the meantime, make yourself at home, get comfortable, and visit the sights, meet the locals. You’re not going anywhere.”

  “I can get out!” she said.

  Rune grinned and brought his cup to his mouth.

  “I would expect no less of you to try. I’ll alert Bergen and Ottar of the challenge and, make note that I can not be held responsible for the whereabouts of Bergen’s hands.”

  “You mock me.” In a torrent of gown and hair, Kallan turned for the door.

  “Why do you have to be so stubborn?” Rune said, his patience gone.

  “Stubborn?” Kallan whirled on him. “You’ve imprisoned me under false titles and yet you demand my trust. Why should I trust you, Your Majesty, when you’ve done nothing to have earned it? So long as I am a prisoner here, I will treat you only as you are: my warden.”

  Kallan turned toward the exit.

  “Your arguments have fallen apart, Your Highness,” Rune said, his drink still clutched in hand. “You have no need to return to your city to confirm she still stands, Daggon sits alive and well in the tower with the only family you have left…and Eilif and the children are well!”

  Her face white and mouth agape, Kallan spun about and stared wide-eyed at Rune.

  “I checked,” he said with the hint of a pleased smirk. “Whatever excuses you had for leaving are gone.”

  Kallan tightened her jaw and resisted the urge to ask more about the children.

  “I know you want to go home,” he said. “But please heed me. I ask only that you stay here and wait out the week until Borg returns.”

  “You ask nothing of me,” Kallan said. “If I refuse, you will force me.”

  “Yes!” Rune shouted back, his patience waning again. “Yes, I am! I am forcing a tyrannical, overbearing brat against her will for one week while I sort this out because—despite what you think about
me—I am tired of watching my comrades fall on the battlefield. I am tired of telling their wives that they are widows, and I am tired of constantly squabbling with a dry wench when I could be savoring a drink of mead with my pipe beside some well-endowed trollop who has the sense to not test me!”

  “That was cruel,” Kallan said.

  “Yes,” Rune said, twisting the knife deeper. “But why was it cruel, Kallan? If you have no resolve but to leave, why do you fret over what bedfellows I keep?”

  His words sliced into her and, laden with regret, she met his eyes.

  “I guess I don’t,” Kallan said, “any more than you would fret over my warming Bergen’s bed last night.”

  Rune flinched as he grappled with only a flash of words. Stables. Together. Alone. Very little else suddenly seemed to matter.

  “Fine by me!” Rune said, not caring that he was shouting. Kallan turned for the door, but Rune couldn’t stifle his rage. “I said I would get you to Alfheim, and to Alfheim I did. You’re on your own now, Princess! I am through! By all means, don’t let me stop you if you want to leave, but Gudrun and Daggon are my prisoners and they’re not leaving my city!”

  Rune watched as Kallan threw open his door and slammed it closed behind her, leaving the King of Gunir alone with his anguish.

  Torunn had arrived too bright and too early to attend to Kallan’s laundering, saying no more than what was necessary as she bustled around the bower. With a mind-numbing pulse that drummed her head, Kallan placated the castle’s keeper, who laced Kallan’s bodice with a ruthlessness that left her ribs bruised.

  Standing in Gunir’s deep, vibrant reds, Kallan yielded to the numbness leftover from the night before as she gripped the table for balance.

  With a final jerk, Torunn tied off the end of the gown, tucked the laces from view within the folds of the bodice, and whisked herself from the bower, picking up a bundle of laundry on her way out.

  Biting back the need to cry, Kallan swallowed her anger and fastened her pouch to her hip. As she lowered her hands to her sides, Kallan stared blankly through the solar at the open sky that greeted her too happily that morning. Long after the cold click of the door faded, a single, empty tear fell down Kallan’s face and, at last, she found the will to move. Slowly, she wiped the tear from her cheek and collected her skirts. Her legs moved and Kallan clasped the cold, metal knob of her chambers.

  Blind to the bustle of servants, Kallan followed the corridor to the small, lone door at the end of the hall. Without hesitation, she climbed the steps back to the round tower room.

  * * *

  With her hair tightly woven to the back of her head, Torunn heaved the bundle of clothes down to the Great Hall, stomping every step like a smith’s hammer. She snapped a set of orders to a pair of girls, who had stopped to exchange giggles and gossip, and passed them her load with a reprimand and a scowl. After sending them on their way, Torunn headed down to the kitchens, where the scent of venison stew had attracted Geirolf and Bergen.

  “Bergen,” she asked, bracing her palms with exasperation on the table where both men sat, hunched over matching bowls of stew. “What’s going on with my boy?”

  “I dunno. Go ask him,” Bergen said, taking in a slurp.

  Torunn snarled.

  “You know as well as I that Rune is too tight-lipped to unload on a woman.”

  Bergen grinned into his bowl.

  “Couldn’t get him to talk again, huh?”

  “No,” Torunn said and stuck out her bottom lip, dropping her shoulders.

  “I tried for nearly an hour this morning.” She stared at Cook’s fire crackling beneath a kettle of stew. “He sent his tray back untouched again.”

  She paused, giving ample opportunity for either man to speak up voluntarily. Each kept their eyes on their bowl, ignoring her hints and nudges.

  “You know he went through five flagons of mead yesterday,” she stated as matter-of-factly, and eagerly awaited an explanation.

  Geirolf slurped louder than usual.

  “You know something’s up!” Torunn said, leaning closer from across the table.

  Glazed with disinterest, Geirolf and Bergen raised their eyes from their breakfast.

  “I know you know!” she said. “What’s wrong with him?”

  Geirolf and Bergen exchanged a look that confirmed they should start speaking before Torunn personally began removing body parts.

  Bergen took another mouthful of stew.

  “Kallan.”

  Torunn shrugged impatiently. “What about her?”

  “He fancies the girl,” Geirolf said, taking great care to stare into his bowl as he spoke.

  “Oh, is that all?” Torunn snapped, releasing the table as she straightened her back. “So why doesn’t he have her and be done with this? The man is driving me crazy!”

  “Not like that, woman,” Geirolf grumbled, looking up from his stew with a cautious eye.

  “He likes her,” Bergen belted through a mouthful of bread and ripped off another chunk with his fingers.

  Torunn’s eyes widened.

  “He…Sh…” Torunn sputtered. “She’s a Dokkalfr!”

  “We noticed,” Geirolf muttered, clasping his bowl closer.

  “But after all she’s done…the men she’s killed…” Torunn flailed her arms about like a grounded hawk. “After all the widows she’s made of our women! She’s a callous…a warmonger—”

  “Careful, Torunn.” Bergen looked her dead in the eye, and Torunn silenced her wagging tongue. “I just sailed for three days with that ‘warmonger.’ I watched her writhe with more worry for her people than a mother forced to watch her child bleed out.” Bergen filled his spoon with stew. “She was twisted into more knots than a fisherman’s net.”

  Torunn dropped her brow, laden with more questions than she had answers.

  Geirolf hunched closer to his bowl, leaving Bergen to the wolves of petty gossip.

  Bergen said between spoonfuls of stew, “We passed Lorlenalin at sea. Kallan went mad trying to get to it.”

  Torunn opened her mouth to speak, but words failed her.

  “Rune had to hold her back,” Geirolf said, standing armed with an empty bowl.

  Torunn wobbled her head until she resembled a bird pecking away at tittle-tattle.

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  Bergen looked up from his bowl. “The Dvergar took her, Torunn.”

  Torunn’s mouth fell open.

  “She’s been usurped,” Geirolf said with his back to the kitchens as he ladled a fresh helping into his bowl.

  Bergen held Torunn’s eye long after he finished, watching her own bewilderment sort itself out.

  Regaining her composure, Torunn seemed to retract into her shoulders, suddenly disinterested with any news they may harbor.

  “Still…a healthy Ljosalfar would do Rune some good,” Torunn mumbled with a twinge of guilt hanging in her voice.

  Torunn watched Bergen slurp in some stew as Geirolf pulled the chair back under him.

  “Well, Rune will have a time of it finding one that Bergen hasn’t wetted himself,” Geirolf said into his stew and chuckled.

  Bergen flashed a smile to Geirolf and tore off another chunk from his bread.

  Torunn shoved out her thin lip and scowled at their snickering.

  “I’ve seen the fight in Kallan first hand,” Bergen said. “He deserves someone like her.”

  Still smiling, Bergen shoved a mouthful of broth-soaked bread into his mouth.

  “Bergen!”

  A man’s voice carried from the Great Hall, forcing an end to their conversation as Geirolf turned to the door behind them.

  “In here!” Bergen called back, picking off a crumb from the bread.

  The kitchen door struck the wall as a set of heavy stomps clambered down the kitchen steps.

  “What is it, Ragnar?” Bergen asked, keeping his interest on his food.

  “It’s the Dokkalfr!” Ragnar said between breaths. “She’s in t
he tower raising all kinds of Hel.”

  In an instant, Bergen and Geirolf were on their feet and out the door, their breakfast forgotten on the table with Torunn bringing up the rear.

  They rushed to the Great Hall, up the steps, two at a time ahead of Ragnar, and slammed open the single oak door on the second floor. As they followed the spiraling stairwell up to the tower room, Kallan’s voice carried down from overhead.

  “Let me in!” she shouted.

  At the top of the steps, Bergen and Geirolf entered the small room where the table, the chair, and Ottar barricaded Kallan, who stood poised for battle. Ringlets of hair spilled down her front. The red gown she wore made her look as though Seidr flame encased the whole of her body, doubled by the orange flames she held in her hands.

  With his own sword out in response, Ottar glowered with an equal amount of loathing as his frame, twice as wide as Kallan’s, dwarfed her. His stature did little to deter her.

  “Let me in!” she shouted, sending a surge of Seidr to her palms and doubling the flames in size.

  “Not a chance, Seidkona!” Ottar tightened his grip on the sword he held over his shoulder.

  “Ottar, stand down,” Bergen said, keeping his attention on Kallan’s hands. Gently, he dared a step toward her. “Kallan.”

  “Finally!” Kallan sighed and extinguished her Seidr flames as she stood down from her offensive. “I want to see Gudrun!”

  Ottar bellowed from behind his scowl. “You come barging in here as if you’ve the orders—”

  “Ottar!” Bergen interjected, keeping his captain in order.

  “Your king has given me vassalage!” Kallan said.

  Bergen softened his voice, disguising his tension. “He can’t, Kallan.”

  “What?” she asked as if they were old friends.

  Her change in disposition astounded him and he struggled to maintain his order.

  “Rune passed the word out this morning,” Bergen said. “No one is to let you in.”

  “But I have sovereignty. His order—”

  “Still stands on all else,” Bergen assured her. “But this…” Bergen shook his head.