Land of Fury, page 15
Reider glances between us. “I will—uh—take some of this to Alik and get it on the spit.” He rises to his feet, heaving the meat into his arms.
Clearing his throat, Reider bows his head at the princess and trudges past her as she steps out of his way.
The moment he’s out of earshot, Thora marches closer until she’s looming over me. “What is this game you are playing, huntsman?”
I inwardly grimace at the moniker, but I’m not surprised she’s gotten straight to the point. I would expect nothing less, having been the brunt of her accusing glare for the past five years.
“You are clearly biding your time, or we would have left for the castle already. So, tell me. What is it? Are more men coming? Is there a lesson to learn in this? Some reason you gave into my demands so easily when you have never heeded them before? I know my mother is waiting for you to return with me. And now she’ll be waiting for Harald too, who will never return.”
“Your mother does not have much time left, princess. The apothecary arrived at the castle as we were leaving, and the queen was keeping to her room.” I meet Thora’s gaze, wondering if that will sway her decision at all. “She has little time to dwell on much at all.”
I cut the hind quarter off the elk and rest it in the snow.
“You say that as if you are unbothered by it.”
“I state the facts, that is all.”
Thora crosses her arms over her chest. “You think you can guilt me into returning, then?”
“No.”
She glares at me. “You are lying.”
Clenching my jaw, I rise to my feet, blood dripping from my fingers. “Do I think you should return to the castle? Yes. But I will not force you. You said you would not go back, and my duty is to keep you safe. So, if remaining out here is what you want, that is what we will do. Though, at some point, you will have to tell me of your plans, so I know where I am to take you.”
She glares incredulously. “I don’t believe you.” White puffs float in the air between us, both of us waiting for the other to give something away. But I have had years of this battle of wills. It will not be me.
“This is not like you,” Thora finally says. “You do not take orders from me. You never have—you only do as my mother wishes.”
“And your mother is dying,” I say bluntly. “If I had any say in it, I would take you back so you could take her place when she is gone. Not Sigrid.”
“I—” Thora’s mouth gapes. Her eyes shift frantically over my face, and her pink lips twitch like she’s going to say something.
Another heartbeat passes, and I wonder if she’s terrified by the idea of ruling the kingdom or simply shocked I would say such a thing.
“What you say is treachery,” she finally rasps.
I shrug. “It is the truth.”
“My mother is not gone yet,” I remind him. “Even with Harald dead, she would trade me off to one warlord or another—especially now. I know her far too well to think otherwise. She is panicking. She would burn the kingdom down from her bed if she thought she had to.” Thora’s brow furrows, and she shakes her head. “Siggy is with her, and she is the one who will be the next queen, not me.”
“You seem to know so much, princess. And yet, you know nothing at all.”
“I do not want to be queen,” she grits out. “And I would not steal the throne from my sister.”
I raise an eyebrow. “It is not stealing if she does not want it.”
That leaves Thora quiet for another moment as I flip the elk over. Fiske and Rom return to collect more of the meat to rack, and when they leave again, I glance at the princess. She’s watching Karra and the others prepare the fires for a feast in the center of the village.
“What is your relationship with my lady’s maid?” she asks, and I freeze at that question.
“Of all the things we are speaking of, you wonder about Karra?” I meet Thora’s emerald gaze. It is strangely accusing.
“Yes. I want to know. What is between you?” I glance at Karra again. She smiles at something Fiske says as he piles more wood onto the burgeoning flames.
“What has she already told you?” I ask.
Thora’s gaze sharpens with impatience. “I have not asked her. I am asking you.”
“Then you must ask her, if you wish to know.”
Thora’s nostrils flare. “Excuse me?”
My jaw clenches and I pivot to face her. “It is up to Karra what she wishes to divulge, so ask her if you must.”
Thora takes a step closer. “Are you together?” she prompts, but it sounds more like a command.
I hold her gaze, my heart racing a little. “Would that bother you, princess?” I can’t help my smirk.
“Not in the slightest,” she says easily. “But it is curious that I never knew about your relationship.”
“Is it?” I say, acid dripping from my tone. “Have you ever asked her anything about herself? Have you thought to get to know your servants at all, princess?”
She blanches at that. “I—”
“You what?”
Thora’s wounded expression vanishes, and she straightens with the haughty, arrogant air I loathe about the Storrada women. “Yes, I have asked her about her life before, and she always evades me or gives some vague answer. So, I am asking you, huntsman.”
Thora is all bluster. She forgets I’ve watched her grow up. I know what disappointment looks like on her pretty face, and I’ve seen injury in her eyes more times than I can count. Thora is ashamed of herself for not knowing more about her lady’s maid.
As much as I hate to see the hurt in Thora’s eyes, I hate that she thinks she knows anything about me even more. “You think me a mindless brute who does your mother’s bidding without question. And that Karra, because she is a servant—one who has served you for years—is not worth knowing more about.” My anger is self-righteous and unfair, truly. I’ve done my best to push Thora away, knowing any friendship would ruin everything.
“I—” Her eyes glisten with shame. She is not like the others. Everyone knows it—her mother knew it, which is why she would never have made Thora queen. Siggy is pliable. She was molded as the queen saw fit. Thora would have fought her mother the entire way because she isn’t like them. Because she is special.
“No,” the princess grinds out. “You are not a brute.” I see every horrible thing I’ve done glistening back at me in her eyes as she remembers all the reasons she should hate me—Remembrance Day, my telling her mother about the festival the other night, and all the slights and betrayals in between. I know that look, and this time I have pushed the princess too far. “What you are, huntsman, is a scared little boy who has allowed himself to be broken like a wild horse.” Her eyes narrow to slits of green fire. “And that makes you as bad as the rest of them, and everything I despise about this kingdom.” Her words and venom aren’t surprising, but they do score through me, sharper than I expect them to.
Body coiled with fury, Thora takes a step back, looks me up and down as if she can’t stand the sight of me, and walks away.
As she approaches camp, I curse myself. I’ve gotten so used to pushing her away over the years, it’s become second nature—find the chink in her armor and poke at it.
The princess stalks past Karra at the fire, past Fiske and Rom and Alik, who all look in my direction as Thora disappears into the barn with the horses.
Karra frowns at me, but I look away.
23
THORA
We feast on elk and wolfberries, two dozen of us full to near bursting around the fire; all of Zander’s men, except for the huntsman himself. I don’t know where he’s gone, but I haven’t seen him since I came out of the barn to eat. I hadn’t been sulking so much as thinking.
I don’t understand Zander, and therefore, I don’t trust him. He would wish me to be queen when I am the exact opposite of my mother. It’s enough to question his loyalty to her, and yet, everything she’s ever wanted him to do, he has done without question. No matter the cost.
It hurts my head to think about it, so I try not to. Instead, I bask in the warmth of the blazing bonfire. Karra and I would never have built one so boldly or been so warm, fearing these very men would find us. Now, here we all are, and tomorrow we head wherever I want. So Zander says.
Karra sits on the log beside me, sipping her tea. Though I can feel her eyes on me, she hasn’t asked me about my conversation with Zander, which I appreciate. I am not ready to speak to her about it yet. Not because I blame her for anything, but because Zander was right. If Karra and I were truly friends, I would know far more about her. And all I can think is she’s never truly trusted me despite what I’ve always thought, because I’ve failed her.
“Fiske!” Reider barks over the fire. He leans back against a tree trunk, whistling to get his friend’s attention.
Fiske, stretched out with his back against the side of an old well and his arms crossed over his chest, gazes up from the flames to his fellow horsemen.
“Let us hear those pretty pipes of yours.” Reider nods in my direction. “Serenade the princess with one of your hymns from home.”
My eyes widen. “You sing?” I look at the blue-eyed, shaggy-haired man who has always had a boyish face, compared to the others. I’ve never asked him how old he is—I’ve never asked any of them about themselves. And that flush of shame warms my cheeks again, hotter than the fire. I think I’m so different from my family, yet I’ve been far more concerned about the trapping of my life to worry about anyone else.
“Come on now,” Reider urges.
Fiske rolls his eyes. “Do not listen to them, Your Highness,” he says sheepishly. “It is all for fun when we are—”
“Please,” I beg. “I love a good song, and I think we can all use something pleasant after this morning.” I blink at him, giving him my best, pleading princess face.
Fiske’s shoulders sag with defeat. “If you insist,” he says, and licking his lips, Fiske clears his throat. Darting a final glare in Reider’s direction, Fiske begins a melodic hum.
Self-satisfied, Reider takes a hearty gulp from the cask in his hand and settles in, joining the rest of the men and Gunhild as they hum a soothing, low cadence. They’ve all done this before, probably dozens of times, and I wait with anticipation.
Reider notices me watching them, and whatever he sees in my expression gives him pause. “Wine?” he whispers, offering his cask to me. A strand of his wild blonde mane falls into his eyes.
“I will not say no to that,” I murmur, and smiling with gratitude, I take a sip.
Fiske opens his mouth and sings. It’s a soul-stirring sound, a chord that resonates deeply, and I lose myself in his angelic tenor as he croons an ode to a faraway land where loved ones are waiting. Where life is peaceful and farmland is plentiful. A paradise with no more suffering and no more sorrow.
I can imagine it perfectly, with cottages and people running out to greet the warriors returning home. Where children have dirt on their faces—not from unending labor, but because they are allowed to be children. To play and laugh and run through the hills. And I long to be there. In his world of green hills and peace.
As all conversation dies away, I scan the faces of Ferguson’s guards and the warriors clustered around the fire—all of them listening with rapt attention. I take in the scars and tattoos on their faces and furrows around their tired eyes. So many of them have only ever known this life of war, blood, and violence. And yet, their harsh edges and deep lines soften as they listen to Fiske’s song.
When the hymn is over, the entire camp is quiet, save for the owls hooting in the treetops and the crackle of the fire.
While I hate to break the silence, I can’t help it either. “That was beautiful,” I say, wiping a stray tear from my cheek. “Thank you for singing it for me.”
Fiske bows his head slightly, and the somberness that consumes the camp makes me want to weep, knowing a life like that no longer exists. I don’t know if it ever will again.
“Who taught you to sing like that?” I ask.
“My entire family used to sing,” he says with a faraway smile. “My mother, while she was baking, and my father always whistled or hummed when he chopped firewood. I have never known my life without music of some sort.”
“Those are lovely memories,” I whisper, and I can tell by the sadness in his eyes that is all they are now—memories.
“All ladies love his pipes,” Rom teases, and he tosses a sprig of pine at Fiske. “Do not let those innocent blue eyes of his fool you, princess.”
My mouth curves in a smile. I appreciate Rom lightening the mood, and as Fiske grins as well, tossing a pebble back at him, the somberness eases a little.
Some warriors and guards I’ve never met before lie back in their fur cloaks, savoring the temporary reprieve from the harsh cold beside the fire. Others converse among themselves, chuckling and murmuring in conversations unheard.
Reider and Karra are closest to me, both of them lost in their own thoughts, and in my silence, Zander’s words echo. I know next to nothing about any of these people, all of whom have given their lives for me and my family.
“Fiske,” I say over the fire. “How long have you been one of Zander’s horsemen?” I try to recall when I first saw him on the castle grounds, but I can’t. He and Reider, I feel as if they have always been around, even if I know that’s not true. Zander is the only one I remember arriving, and he was no warrior then, just a boy. A burned boy. An angry boy.
“Since I was fourteen,” Fiske says, surprising me.
“So young?”
He nods. “Many of us have been, Your Highness.”
“Why would my mother enlist children—” I shake my head, holding up my palm. “Never mind,” I whisper. “I already know the answer.” I recall the day she demanded children were plucked from their beds to serve her. Shamefaced, I glance around at all of them, regretting my family all over again.
“It was not the queen, exactly, Your Highness.”
Fiske scratches the dark stubble on his face. “Zander picked most of us.”
My stomach becomes leaden. “Zander?”
“It is not what you think, my lady,” Karra says softly, glaring at Fiske and then at Reider as if they’ve said something they shouldn’t have. “These men—boys at the time—would have died had they not joined the queen’s army. Zander saved them.”
As Karra says the huntsman’s name so warmly, I finally ask her what’s been bothering me all day, even if I don’t understand why. “And you?”
She blinks at me.
“What is your relationship with him?”
Reider seems to distance himself from us, leaning into a conversation with a few of the others, giving us privacy. That means he knows far more than I do. Everyone does, and I feel more like a princess now than I ever have—like an outsider who doesn’t share a bond with these people, who does not belong, and it’s wholly unnerving.
Karra looks away from me, prodding at the fire. “Like Fiske and many of the others,” she says, “Zander brought me to the castle when I had no place else to go.”
“Will you please tell me?” I glance around the burned village that was once her home. I recall her words from yesterday, about this being what was left in the queen’s wake. “Did Zander burn your village down?” I know Zander has been fighting longer than the seven years Karra has been with me—he was fighting with Gorm and Zaine before they died. “He was here, wasn’t he? Explain it to me, Karra, because I feel like I am losing my mind trying to put all the pieces together, of which none of them fit.”
She looks at me with sympathy I don’t understand or appreciate.
“Tell me,” I command this time, and I immediately feel horrible for it. “Please.”
Karra takes a sip of her tea and licks her lips. “When the village elders refused to give tribute to Colder, our chieftain, the queen’s men descended because she saw us as a resistance. We knew it would come, of course. We were as prepared as we could be without fleeing the village entirely. But it didn’t matter how hard we fought or how much we prepared. The queen has many men, and we were nothing more than mud beneath their boots.” She meets my gaze. “I was fifteen when they came and burned my village down. I can still feel the tear of a blade against my collarbone and the throbbing in the back of my head.” The solemnity in her voice from last night fills the space between us once more. Though it’s all as I’d assumed, I see hesitation in Karra’s eyes, and hear reluctance in her voice, and knowing there is more to come, I brace myself.
“But something unexpected happened that day, my lady. Some of the queen’s own men turned against them.” She closes her eyes. “I didn’t think it was real, what I was seeing from the hilltop. It made little sense.”
I wait with bated breath, willing her to continue.
“The young warriors turned on the brutes that fought beside them. They killed them in battle—boys that were babies compared to such violent men.” Her eyes open, the gold and green flecks in them flickering like firelight. “I watched them all fall.”
My chest heaves, my own memories resurfacing . . . The raid Zander and Reider returned from during the long winter, injured and stained in blood.
My mother beside herself with shock, uncertain if she was angry that Zander had survived when her greatest warrior had been slain, or if she was relieved Zander was one of the few who had lived. She’d been in a foul mood for a month after that. Angry at the world. Flummoxed that the villagers—the rebels—bested her fiercest warriors.
Karra huffs a breath of awe and shakes her head. “I will never forget the look on the warriors’ faces as they were slain, the shock that their own pupils would turn against them.”
“Zander killed his own brothers,” I whisper, glancing at Reider, who is watching me. I try to imagine it and am oddly saddened by the thought. “I had spent hours at the window,” I recall aloud, “watching the men training in the courtyard—Gorm taking Zander under his wing and teaching him everything he knew.”
