Land of Fury, page 25
I shake my head as we turn down another road, my mind trying to catch up to all the hints and niggling questions that have been floating around in my mind. “So, if I am following you correctly—” I sigh, squeezing my eyes shut. “The Reaper is not taking slaves and raiding villages and hurting innocent people. Only the Blood Riders are—who we have learned are the abbess’s zealots. So, my mother is fighting off rebellions she thinks are her own people rising against her, but they are Blood Riders, creating strife and discord in everyone else’s name.”
“There are also rebels,” Zander explains, “but yes, in many cases, it seems the abbess has been strategizing far more than your mother has been. The worse the situation grows in Norseland, and the more that is taken from these people, the more desperate innocent people have become, and the more rebellion spreads.”
I nod, understanding more than I ever wanted to, and now that I know, I can’t imagine how I have missed it all for so long. “And I bet it is Abbess Blanca who whispers tales of dissension and unrest among the pagans into my mother’s ear, which is why she sends you to villages like Karra’s.”
“And mine,” Zander says grimly. “And Rom’s, Fiske’s, and Alik’s,” he adds. “It is why they willingly ride with me. To change what we can, whatever the cost.”
I cringe at the unbearable reality of all these people’s lives. “And the Blood Riders are like oxygen to an ever-burning flame,” I muse. “Are we here to speak with Olaf about the Reaper?”
Zander glances down a street where a woman stops with firewood clamped against her chest, staring at us. He dips his chin in greeting, and we continue on.
“Alik and Gunhild were to meet with Olaf and the Reaper to discuss what happens now that people are arriving in droves. For there is only one ship, one crew. And it is a matter of time before the queen learns about all of it and good intentions turn ugly.”
“Based on Sul’s reaction, I take it most people are unaware it is the Reaper’s ship they flee to.”
“No,” Rom says with a snort. “Most are not. Or at least, they do not believe it. Otherwise, they would not come. The coastal cities are all too familiar with the Reaper’s reputation, since that is where he frequents. His reputation has protected his venture for decades—making him powerful and terrifying and untouchable. With the abbess’s unsolicited help, however, it has gotten out of hand.”
Zander’s focus remains ahead, but I know that silent thoughtfulness. He’s worried.
“What is it?” I whisper.
“So many people with only one ship complicates things greatly,” he explains, sounding exhausted. “We have come too far for things to unravel now.”
“Can the Reaper not make more trips, then—or bring in more ships?” I know it’s a naive question. It takes time to sail the ocean, especially uncharted waters like the North Sea, that only the Reaper seems to navigate with any ease. But surely it can be done. He can get more men. He can build more ships.
“Imagine what your mother will do if she finds not one freedom ship, but a fleet of them,” Rom says. “Refugees would be hunted. The ships would be attacked. What few people the Reaper can help now would be in even more danger.”
“There will be plenty talk of this in the days to come,” Zander says, shaking his head. As he pulls Baldr to a stop, I glance up at a bright blue painted tavern with lanterns lighting the windows, four stories high. “I simply wanted you to be aware of our purpose here.”
Zander turns in his saddle and looks back at me. A silent offering, which I appreciate, since I asked him to treat me like the queen he wants me to be, not the wilting flower.
“Thank you. It makes sense now why you allowed me to think you would bring me here. It is an important journey your men would have had to make either way.”
“Better to have us all together than split us apart,” Zander agrees. He helps me off Baldr’s back.
The moment my feet touch the ground, I stretch my legs, my backside numb from so much riding. As Zander and Rom tie their horses to the post, I eye the people sitting inside at rickety tables, eating and drinking and laughing. Some of them spot us, peering curiously out the windows, but mostly we go unnoticed.
Rom opens the door with his good arm.
“Come,” Zander says, leading me into the Midwinter Inn and Tavern. The instant we step inside, warmth and the aroma of sweaty bodies hit me like soiled linen. Despite the pungent scent, I eye the steaming bowls of stew and bread in people’s hands, the empty plates and mugs of ale scattered on the tables, and my stomach rumbles.
As always, curious eyes seem to find me. I’m convinced I stand out more with my hood covering my head than without it, but I don’t want to upset Zander, so I leave it in place. I stay close, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.
Rom—big-bodied, bloodied, and eyes narrowed as he assesses the room—is enough to take the attention off of a twig like me. He walks past a staircase that leads to a second level, and over to the barkeep.
The barkeep’s eyes are not wide so much as wary, but Zander and I follow Rom and stop at the bar next to him. I don’t reckon he gets many warriors in here, but the barkeep doesn’t seem entirely surprised to see us either.
“Will you tell Sasha there are a couple of strapping young men here to see her?” Rom says, leaning onto the dented bar top.
The barkeep lifts a bushy eyebrow, his mustache twitching as he turns. His eyes linger on us a second longer before he disappears behind a wall of giant casks.
I look at Rom. “What am I, chopped liver?”
A small curve of a smile forms on Zander’s lips, and as the back of his hand brushes mine, my fingers tingle with warmth. I want to take his hand in mine, but I’m not sure it’s safe, or if he wants me to, so I sigh instead.
“Who is Sasha, exactly?” I ask, clearing my throat. I glance around the old tavern, at the exposed beams overhead and the scuff marks marring the ground. “Other than the owner of this fine establishment.” The tavern is old, but it’s comfortable, and I would welcome a rest here for the night.
“She is many things. The owner, yes,” Zander says under his breath. “She is also Gunhild’s aunt and Olaf’s mother. And she has her hands in just about every part of this town.”
“Fran, I thought you said they were strapping and young?” My eyes snap to a buxom woman who walks up behind the bar. “These two blokes are nothing but trouble.” Her shrewd, deep green eyes study me the longest, though. “This one, however—”
“Apologies for keeping you waiting,” Zander says, cutting her off.
Begrudgingly, Sasha’s eyes move away from me, and she looks at Zander. Her eyebrow raises at his none too subtle attempt to divert her focus, but Sasha relents.
“Where is my niece?” she inquires. “Ah!” Sasha smiles as the door opens and cold air breezes through the tavern. “Gunhild.” Sasha hurries out from behind the bar and wraps her niece—twice as tall as she is—immediately in her arms. “Look at you—a bloody mess,” she chides, though I hear a pique of concern in her voice.
“Greetings, Aunt,” Gunhild murmurs. She squeezes her eyes shut and holds onto the woman like she’s a lifeline—a piece of home. A comfort.
“Your mother would kill me if she was not already dead, knowing I let you get into so much trouble all the time.” Gunhild nestles deeper into her aunt’s long dark hair, decorated with beads and tied with a headscarf. She smiles as if she could not be more relieved to be home.
When Sasha pulls away, she looks Gunhild up and down, sighing. “Do I even want to know, child?”
Gunhild glances at Zander, then at me, before meeting her aunt’s waiting gaze. “There is much to tell, Aunt, but we need to know how many rooms you have available at the moment.”
There must be a tone Sasha detects in Gunhild’s voice because Sasha’s eyebrow lifts again. “Why?”
“There are twenty-five refugees and all of our horsemen.”
Sasha adjusts her headscarf and shakes her head. “Not here, no. I can take your brothers, but I can’t house that many refugees tonight. I’m sorry, child. You can try the boathouse.” Sasha looks at Zander. “The boathouse is nothing fancy, but it is warm and safe, and large enough for all of them.” There’s a softness to her voice now, and I wonder how many refugees Sasha sees come through this town.
“Elof will see to them,” Rom says. “He is at the boathouse now.”
“You two,” Sasha says, looking at Rom and her niece. “You need some tending to. I will not have you walking around a bloody mess for my patrons to gawk at.” She nods for all of us to follow her upstairs. “Come on, then. Better get you cleaned up before he returns.”
“Who returns?” I ask, staring at the pitted plaster walls as we make our way upstairs.
Sasha glances back at me, stopping in her tracks as she eyes me up and down again. She makes an intrigued, somewhat derisive noise and continues up the stairs. “Olaf,” she says. “He and his friends have been impatiently waiting for you.”
38
ZANDER
At dawn, Reider and I wait against the collapsed church nestled in the mountains above the village. The bell tower has long since fallen, and the brick walls barely stand. Odin sniffs around the ruins, just as he’s done all morning, and Baldr nibbles idly on the red clover poking through the snow.
From here, surrounded by toppled stone blanketed in winter, I can see the freedom ship in the harbor, a silhouette against the rising sun.
And here, Thora and I will meet the Reaper without the prying eyes and ears of the town. Far too many people already know our secrets, and I’m not about to shed light on any others.
Thora and Gunhild chatter as they make their way out of the ruins, and the instant I see Thora, I frown. She has removed her cloak, now draped over her arm, to reveal she’s dressed, not like a rider, but like a proper woman. In a gown. A woolen purple one that’s as simple as it is striking on her.
“What happened to the clothes Kaldr gave you?” I grumble, though I’m not sure why I bother at this point. I eye Gunhild chidingly because she must’ve been in on this decision.
“No glaring at me,” Gunhild says, limping closer. “It is not one of my dresses.” She snorts a laugh. Since Olaf arranged this meeting with the Reaper, Gunhild wanted to be present, even if she should rest her injured leg.
“It is only a dress, Zander,” Thora says, rolling her eyes as she stops beside me. Her fire-red hair gleams in long waves that fall over her shoulders and down her back, and her green eyes glisten against the snow. Even if I would feel more comfortable if she kept the cloak on, I can’t deny how queenlike she looks as she stands before me. Her shoulders poised, her hands clasped in front of her. Born and bred to be exactly what she should be, even if she does not fully believe it yet.
“If I am going to speak to the Reaper as the princess,” she continues, “there is no sense in dressing like a drowned rat in poorly fitted clothes.” Thora strokes Baldr’s velvety black neck. “I will not have the first time the Reaper meets me—a royal they probably despise—looking like I am in hiding and insignificant. Besides—” She smiles impishly, looking me up and down. “You can wear your armor, huntsman, and I will wear mine.” But despite her pert tone, her hands tremble slightly as she runs them down the front of the dress—just as she always does when she’s nervous.
Thora has never had to stand for something before, I realize. Nor has she had to broker words on behalf of a kingdom, and behind the queen’s back, no less. I smile, proud of her, even if it is not my place to be. “As you wish, princess.”
Our eyes linger a moment longer, and I watch the way her mouth parts ever so slightly and her pink tongue just barely dampens her bottom lip.
I kissed her. Unabashedly and in front of everyone. As much as I should regret taking such liberties yesterday, I feel a sense of peace. We haven’t kissed since, we haven’t touched—not like that. But the air is alive and humming around us every time she looks at me, and every time she is near.
“He is coming!” Fiske calls from down the road.
I blink, inhaling deeply, and force myself to focus on the task at hand.
Thora’s fingers thread with mine, giving me pause, but I’m not sure she even realizes she’s done it. Gaze fixed on the horizon ahead, she exhales a steadying breath.
My trained instinct is to pull my hand away from her, but my thumb brushes the back of her glove instead, and I bask in the warmth and fresh scent of her standing beside me.
Fiske strides over to the three of us, and with him and Gunhild flanking us, we wait for our visitors to crest the hill.
I notice Thora biting her lip again from the corner of my eye, and I imagine how strange this is for her. The horsemen and I have had a year to navigate the truth about the Reaper’s visits to our shores, but Thora has only just now learned the horror stories are not true. It seems fitting. After all that has happened between Thora and me—and all the truths she’s learned—it ends with meeting the infamous Reaper of the North Sea. And to negotiate a deal for a better future for Norseland.
As clinking bridles become louder and our visitors draw closer, Olaf’s shaggy blonde curls, hanging in his eyes, crest the hill first. His eyes meet mine with a relieved gleam, and he dips his chin in greeting. Then, the Reaper comes into view.
I’m not sure what I expected, but he has the stately air of an Englishman, the tattoos of a Northman, and the sun-kissed skin and dark, windblown hair of a sea captain. The Reaper and Olaf notice the princess and their expressions seem as intrigued as they are stunned.
“Huntsman,” Olaf says as their horses clomp closer. “Your Highness—meet the Reaper.”
The Reaper glances at Olaf with a smirk. “Killian will do just fine,” he says.
“Killian,” I say, bowing my head. “As you wish. It is good to put a face with the infamous name.” They bring their horses to a stop a few paces away.
“Yes, well, the Reaper has many faces.” Killian dismounts his horse. “And you, huntsman. I have heard plenty about you as well.” His heavy boots hit the snowy ground with a crunch. “Apologies for making you wait, princess.” He offers Thora a slight bow. He juts his chin toward the road. “My riding companion and I were seeing to a wounded crewmember, and I lost track of the time.”
Thora clasps her gloved hands in front of her, her shoulders square and her smile welcoming. “It is no trouble. I hope your friend will be well enough.” She gestures toward the ruins. “I was exploring and distracted myself.” Her voice is all ease and confidence, and I reproach myself for the part I played in holding this side of the princess back all these years, sheltering her the same way her mother always has, when she only needed room to breathe.
“I appreciate you meeting us up here,” Thora continues. “Just as you do not wish to reveal your identity, I am not quite ready to reveal mine either. Public knowledge of my arrival in Talon Bay would risk more than my life, but that of everyone accompanying me.”
“You refer to the Blood Riders,” Killian guesses, glancing at Olaf, who has apparently filled him in on what we discussed last night, per our agreement.
Thora nods. “My journey here was eye-opening,” she says, offering another confession. “To say the least.”
“Why are you here, princess?” Killian takes a step closer, crossing his arms over his chest and settling in as he weighs each of her words.
Thora’s cheeks lift with a barely-there smile. “I had an interest in your ship,” she says wryly.
“And now,” Killian adds, “both you and the huntsman want to help us in our efforts.”
I’m about to tell Killian he can call me by my name, when his riding companion finally crests the hill.
The entire world lurches to a stop.
A woman stares back at me with long brown hair braided in sections away from her face, her eyes the color of a blue dawn. Eyes I would know anywhere.
I open my mouth to speak but no words come. I can’t find my tongue or hear my own thoughts. All I can think is it cannot be. Lightheaded, I take a faltering step forward.
She is dead. She no longer breathes in this world.
As the woman dismounts her horse, eyes never straying from me, I see the same disbelief in her tearful gaze.
“Brynn,” I breathe, my head so light, I think I might collapse. Tears burn my eyes, but I don’t dare blink, convinced she will be gone if I do.
Her chin trembles as she draws closer.
“You are dead,” and though I speak the words, they sound so far away, I think it all might be a dream.
The woman nods, a sob bursting from her throat. “So are you, brother.” Her lips purse as if she dares not hope, but as another sob bursts free, Brynn flings herself into my arms. I hold on as tightly as I dare, squeezing and looking at her, unable to believe she is real. I cry tears I haven’t shed in the fourteen years since I thought she and the others were taken from me.
“It can’t be,” Brynn sobs into my shoulder, and I inhale the scent of the sea in her hair. Squeezing my eyes shut, I kiss the top of her head and huff with a strangled disbelief. “I missed you so much, little sister.”
39
ZANDER
The sun sets over the ocean as Brynn and I walk the snowy streets of Talon Bay. I’m not sure if we’re filled with shock or full of grief as we apprise each other of the past fourteen years.
“A reunion, much like this, happened to one of Killian’s crew a year ago,” Brynn says, still in utter astonishment. “I never dreamed that I would see you again—that you could possibly be alive.”
My sister. Living flesh and bone—a part of my heart I thought was buried with the rest of my past. “I would not have dared hope,” I agree. “But—” I kick at a chunk of snow. “If it happened to us and to someone in your crew, think of how many others might be reunited as the tides continue to change.”
