Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“I hope a face as frightening as that will scare them back west.”
I spin to the young ladies and with a funny lurch in my chest ask them what is so frightening.
“It’s not just the paint on his face and his arms. These jarls are fierce. They never back down. One look at them has me glad they’re on our side.”
They move on and I’m left staring towards the high table. Paint? There isn’t any paint in sight, not his arms, nor his face.
All I see is soulful eyes, and my favourite jaw.
The burly leathered man Quin spoke to halts before me. He has runes and symbols of the god of war painted on his cheeks and down his arms. “There you are,” he says, his voice meaty and unfamiliar.
When I stare, he grimaces and leans close. “Don’t you recognise me, Amuletos.”
I snap my eyes to the ink on that unrecognisable face. Nicostratus? I don’t detect any scent, let alone . . .
He speaks, but I’m stepping around him, gazing at the podium.
“I’ve seen better disguises on you. I see right through this.”
“As I saw right through yours.”
My chest swells and I ball my robe.
Casimira swishes to my side and murmurs to Nicostratus before whispering in my ear, “You’re giving yourself away.”
I whirl around to look at her and the frowning, brutish Nicostratus. I swallow. “It’s my aunt’s wedding. What King Yngvarr doing with . . . that jarl?”
Nicostratus’s frown vanishes.
I forge on, stomach plummeting, “Is he here to aid in this war? Is the situation very dangerous?”
Nicostratus plants a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you and Casimiria back to Lumin.”
That was not my question!
Casimiria lays a hand on my rigid arm and pats. “King Yngvarr will reward those who help him against the Wyrds.”
I suck in a breath. Quin is going into battle—his men alongside the Skeldars, under the guise of rural jarls.
“Why jarls?”
“It’s the only way,” Casimiria says. “Yngvarr won’t accept Lumin aid.”
I know the answer, but I dare to speak the question anyway. I must. I look at Nicostratus. “What about your brother? Is he safe?”
Nicostratus narrows his eyes. “Once you’re safe, I’ll lead our men to meet him.” He steps closer with a pointed glance to Quin, as if to tell me that tribesman is him. As if he believes I don’t know—or hopes as much. “I’ll live or die by his side.”
Aware he’s being watched, Quin looks over the hall in our direction. His gaze strolls impassively over me like I’m nothing more than background noise, and hesitates on Nicostratus. To whom he nods quietly before blankly looking past me again and returning his gaze to the king.
I know he told me to act like I don’t know him; I know he’s refusing to look at me for my safety and his own; I know he needs to be indifferent.
I also know . . . I do not like it.
My attention is jerked to Nicostratus, who is hauling me close and whispering against my ear. “We escape during the dropping of the runes. During the frenzy.”
I quickly step back. His eyes sharpen on the sudden space between us, and he casts his frown towards the podium.
“What about our things?” My books? My soldad? My clasp?
My dromveske.
“Things can always be replaced,” he grinds out.
I shake my head and bypass the quietly observing Casimira. “I can be quick.”
Nicostratus snags my arm, halting me. “You can’t.”
My head pounds and I snap, “Why do you always get to decide? What about what I want? What about what I need?”
Nicostratus shuts his eyes briefly. “We can’t risk it. If I don’t mobilise our men in time . . .” He grimaces in Quin’s direction, and at this I deflate and sink back on my heels.
Neither of us looks at the other.
“Haldr!”
I turn to my aunt, a stunning sight, her smile radiant as she glides towards me in cascading white silks. Her mask is simple, delicate pearl and while it shimmers, it’s nothing to the shimmering in her eyes. She holds her hand out, delicate fingers just like my mother’s, and it feels like for a moment, she’s here too, she sees my pain and is offering me a way out. “You promised me a dance?”
I glance at Casimiria, who nods, her expression unreadable. I force myself to smile, pushing aside the weight of this evening’s spoken and unspoken truths.
My feet move awkwardly; I can’t find the rhythm of the first dance, nor the second. How can I when I can’t hear past the panic in my head?
During the third dance, my aunt pinches my arm gently. “At least try to look happy for me,” she teases. But there’s an edge to her voice. She knows this is not just her night, but everyone’s eve before war.
It’s a weight she doesn’t deserve.