Land of Fury, page 29
“They wish to see the abbess burn, like the witch they think her to be.”
Zander’s footsteps slow, but instead of feeling nauseous, an unnerving ease fills me. There will finally be an end to the woman who has afflicted House Storrada for decades.
“Then tonight,” I tell him, “we will watch her burn.”
45
THORA
My thoughts stray to Siggy, still sick with fever in her bed, as I stand on the platform at the outskirts of the square, Zander and Fiske at my side. The courtyard is buzzing with anxious chatter as the townspeople crowd around the crudely constructed frame in the center, built for Abbess Blanca’s execution. The woman who stole from them. Whose actions and venomous words influenced their queen against them. A woman some of them rumor to be a heretic to their own religion. A devil and a witch.
Some villagers are dressed in mourning garb, I assume, out of respect for my mother. Others look as if they’ve only just left their tools and tasks aside to witness the first public burning in nearly one hundred years.
Overseeing my first execution, and without my mother or Siggy present, is not only sobering, but strangely heartbreaking. I would have wished my mother to know the truths uncovered in the days past. And I wish Siggy stood beside me to watch the woman who has infected so much of our lives burn, even if the thought of it churns my stomach the longer I stand here.
Zander’s knuckles brush the backs of mine as if he means to offer me comfort, so I lace my fingers with his for anyone who is looking to see. Zander looks at me, perhaps with astonishment, but I see pride in his gaze too. Relief, even.
As the crowd clamors, parting for the death procession, I know the time has come to mark the end of my mother’s tyrannical reign, once and for all. Four men make their way toward the executioner, waiting on the platform, with the abbess tied to the ladder they hold above their heads. Her hands are bound at her sides, her mouth gagged per my request.
I expect the crowd to boo and jeer, but a discomforting silence settles over them instead. The birds don’t chirp, the breeze doesn’t stir. And when the hair rises on the back of my neck, I meet the abbess’s gaze. It’s unflinching as she’s carried farther away.
Pursing my lips, I inhale a deep, steadying breath and watch as they lean the ladder against the post and chain it to the crossbeam. When he is ready to proceed, the executioner looks at me.
Inhaling a fortifying breath, I clear my throat. “Blanca, Abbess General and Ecclesiastical Advisor of the crown,” I begin, my voice loud and unwavering despite my trembling hands. Zander grips my fingers tighter, offering me his strength.
The crowd goes silent as the old woman’s eyes shift from them to me. Her expression is impassive, her defiance spine-tingling, even as she nears excruciating death.
“I charge you with murder, treason, crimes against your fellow northerners, and heresy against the kingdom’s creed of religious tolerance.” I glance at the rows of villagers who have spoken against her, so that she knows every person here comes bearing her ill will, eager to witness her end.
“Because you do not truly serve the Christian church,” I continue, “I deny you your last rites. You will not be granted confession, nor are you granted any last words.”
Two of the ladder bearers take a torch from a holder on each side of the platform and light the bed of tinder beneath it. In a collective silence, we all wait for it to catch flame. As the blaze builds, my heart thunders in my chest, knowing that once I see what comes next, it can never be undone.
I think the abbess means to taunt me one last time as she stares into my eyes, her gaze drilling through me as if to leave one final mark. But I don’t look away. The flames grow larger, building to an inferno, and when they are finally high enough to suit me, I dip my chin and the executioner pushes the ladder from the platform.
In silence, we watch the ladder swing and sway, until eventually it slows and the abbess’s robes catch flame. They lap at her feet, yet she is soundless as they climb and wrap around her body like slithering serpents constricting their prey.
Only when she can no longer stand it does the abbess wail around in her restraints, desperate for relief as the flames and smoke envelop her.
The crowd cheers, and I feel a sickening sense of satisfaction as my eyes glaze over, the world blurs, and I wait for it all to end.
46
THORA
The late-night fire is low in the hearth, the flames whipping in the draft that sifts through Siggy’s room. I stare at them, but I’m not sure I’ll ever look at flames the same way again.
Pulling the furs over me, I watch my sister’s chest slowly rise, her lips slightly parted. Perspiration no longer gleams on her skin, and though her cheeks are rosy, she no longer burns with fever. With the abbess dead, it feels like a cloud of evil has lifted from the castle, and soon my sister will be herself again.
Of all that I’ve learned since returning home, the news of my sister has been the most terrifying. Though she is older and we have never been close, I find myself fiercely protective of her. I want the sacrifices she’s had to make as my mother’s replacement to be worth it. And with my mother gone, Siggy might consider ruling differently—because I know her, blood of my blood. She will see sense and goodness, if given the chance. All she has to do is wake.
So, I stay. I lie with her. I wait and watch, and I pray to whatever spirits might be listening—pagan or Christian, or Mother Nature herself—that she comes back to me so we can be the change this kingdom needs, together. Because what our forbearers set out to do is still possible. I’ve seen pagans and Christians in the village streets, living together—celebrating together—when the ire between them is not stoked to implosion and the water they drink isn’t poisoned with distrust and antipathy.
But my mind is too full, and as the wind howls outside and my heart swells with too much emotion, the longer Siggy sleeps and the heavier my lids become. Slowly, my eyes drift shut.
Time disappears, along with my worries. There’s weightlessness, long overdue, and a lightness of my heart. Then, the hair on my arms and neck stands on end, and a shiver runs through me.
Peeling my eyes open, I find my sister looking at me, confused, as she blinks the world into focus.
“You’re awake,” I rasp. All of my doubt and exhaustion fades as elation fills me to bursting.
Lifting onto my elbow, I reach over her, grab the cloth from the bowl, and squeeze the water out. “I am glad to see it,” I whisper, and I press the damp cloth against Siggy’s brow. She frowns, her eyes shifting over my face as if she’s baffled to see me.
“You have returned,” she says hoarsely, and my relief turns to guilt. She does not know where I have been, or if I was ever coming back.
“Yes,” I croak, flashing Siggy a weak smile. I don’t know what to tell her while her mind still wakes. “I should not have left. But I am home now. I will take care of you.”
Siggy’s eyes widen, and she sits up with a grimace. “Mother.”
“Yes, she is gone,” I confirm, coaxing her back down. “We will bury her as soon as you are well enough.”
Siggy frowns as her eyes search mine. “But surely you do not mourn her.”
I’m about to tell Siggy that’s true, but I stop myself. “Actually,” I say just above a whisper, “I do—in my own way, for my own reasons.” Knowing my mother lived a life of regret, guilt, and resentment, especially when not all of it was justified, makes it impossible to feel nothing in her death.
“Where did you go, Thora?” I hate the injury in Siggy’s eyes, and the lump in my throat returns.
I toss the damp cloth onto the side table and lie down beside my sister, my arm folded under my head. She holds my gaze, a dozen questions filling her eyes. “After what happened with Harald, I was going to run away,” I confess. “I wanted to leave this place behind. It was selfish.”
Siggy looks away. “You came back because of Mother?” The words are thick with pain, not for my mother, I think, but because I abandoned her.
“No, not because of Mother,” I admit, shaking my head. “Zander convinced me long before that. I came back for you—for the kingdom—”
“Mother’s huntsman?” Siggy blurts. “Did he tie you up and drag you back?”
I chuckle. “No, nothing like that. He may have wanted to a time or two, but—” I shake my head. “He showed me the kingdom—what it is truly like beyond these walls—and I knew I could not leave. Not when the people need us, Siggy.”
She averts her gaze again, and this time her neck and cheeks redden as she picks at her fur blanket. “I know what people say about me and Mother. Just as I know what they say about you.” She swallows and licks her dry lips. “They feared her—hated her, even—and they have never taken me seriously at all.” When Siggy’s eyes meet mine, they are full of reluctance, and she shakes her head. “I am not completely callous and misguided, you know. Fear has never bred loyalty, and despite what you might think, I am not cruel. Still, I thought—” Her voice trails off. “I thought when Mother was gone, you and I—we could do this together. But then you were gone.”
My heart aches as I realize Siggy has had plans for her rule far different from my mother’s vision. And one, that for the first time since I was born, included me. Just as Zander had wanted.
With an exhausted sigh, Siggy runs her hands over her face. “I do not want to do this alone, Thora. But I will if I must.”
“You don’t have to,” I assure her. “I will stay and help you.” I take Siggy’s hand in mine.
Her eyes blur with unshed tears. “I know Mother expected me to be strong and formidable—that she had been preparing me for this day, but I do not want to do it on my own.” Vehemently, Siggy shakes her head. “I don’t want to be lonely and angry like her.”
I hold my sister against me, hugging her close. “You will not be lonely,” I promise. “I will be here.”
Siggy’s arms wrap around my middle. “A joint rule, then? The two of us, united?”
I nod, my chin atop her head. “We will rule the kingdom together—we will make things right. You and me, and Zander will help us—”
“The huntsman,” she says again, pulling away from me. Her blonde, matted hair hangs around her face and shoulders, and she looks at me suspiciously. “Why the huntsman?”
My palms sweat, knowing my sister might not take kindly to what I am about to tell her. “Zander and his horsemen know this land far better than we do, Siggy. Far more intimately than what mother has shown you and taught you from her maps. He knows the people—he has helped them, and they trust him. He will be our ally.”
Her eyes narrow, as shrewd as ever. “You have an affection for him,” she says, wholly confused.
“There is much to tell you, sister,” I say, unable to help my smile. “And I will—I promise. But first, you should know that Abbess Blanca poisoned Mother—”
Siggy stiffens, and the color drains from her face. “What?”
“Mother was ailing,” I amend. “But the abbess was aiding it along. And you, Siggy—she was poisoning you as well.”
As my sister peers around her bedchamber, I imagine that all I’ve missed the past few weeks replays before her. “It was her?”
“Yes, it was.” I pull an empty vial from my dress pocket.
Siggy’s hand flies to her mouth as she looks at it. “She told me it was for my nerves, after Mother . . .”
“I can imagine she told you many falsehoods while I was away—all of your life, actually—but she has been dealt with.”
“What does that mean, Thora?” she says with the authority of an older sister. “Dealt with?”
“She is dead,” I amend. “But I will explain it—all of it—when you have had a moment to fully settle.”
Slow and uncertain, my sister leans back against her pillow. Even after days of sleeping, she looks exhausted.
“I have some cheerful news to share with you too,” I say, allowing myself a small smile.
Siggy blinks at me, her blonde eyelashes damp with tears, and her stormy eyes gleaming.
“Reider discovered we have family. That we might have a brother who lives in one of the glassblowing villages in the Onyx Mountains.”
“A brother? But I thought . . .” She shakes her head. “I thought Mother killed—”
“It was Grandmother and the abbess,” I supply. “I guess, technically, he is your half-brother.” Siggy stares at me unflinching, confirmation that, like me, she always assumed we had different fathers, even if my mother never said as much. It is not uncommon for a queen to secure another heir, whatever means possible, but we’d never actually spoken about it.
“According to Abbess Blanca’s journal, my father was a man Mother loved very much. When he died, the boy was the last piece Mother had of him, save for me. So—” I shrug. “Instead of simply sending him away, knowing Mother would search for him, Grandmother told her the boy was dead.”
“And Mother believed it?”
“I suppose she had no reason not to, since Grandmother, with Abbess Blanca’s urging, murdered the man she loved.”
Siggy stares at the wall, her brow furrowing deeper. “I vaguely remember Mother being pregnant, but I always assumed they were memories of her pregnancy with you.”
“That is only some of what we have learned while you have been sleeping.”
Siggy sighs. “The abbess is dead. Mother didn’t kill the boy, and he is alive—our brother.” She peers up at the wood beams of the ceiling.
“I supposed he may have died recently, but as far as the abbess knew, he was very much alive.” Even with the possibility he might be dead, I’m unable to quell the hope in my voice that he’s still out there.
“Let us hope we are not too late,” she says, perhaps to herself. “I will admit I’m anxious to know what other news you have for me, but perhaps you can tell me the rest tomorrow.” A strained laugh bubbles out of her.
“Yes,” I promise. “We will talk more tomorrow.”
With a huff of exhaustion, Siggy looks at me, but it’s not with confusion or disbelief this time, it’s with fondness. “I am glad you have come home, Thora.” She clasps my hand with hers.
Tears fill my eyes as I snuggle against her. “As am I.”
We lie there as the fire crackles and the wind continues to thrash outside the window. “A brother,” Siggy whispers. “A Storrada man in the castle. I can barely fathom it.” I can hear the smile in her voice, and I nod against her.
“We are going to find him,” I tell her. “And you and I will rule Norseland together.”
47
ZANDER
The hour is late. The firelight plays across the room as I shift my glance from the window in the queen’s study to Thora. Her red hair falls in thick curls over her shoulders, wild and unruly from running her fingers through it.
“I forgot we would have to do things like this,” she mutters. “Not that I mind, but—” Thora huffs, talking to herself. “It is Siggy who knows these chieftains and what their relationships are with the crown—their backstories and how long they have held power. Not me.”
“I have all the knowledge you need while Siggy recovers,” I promise her.
Thora is thoughtful a moment. “Do you find it strange that my mother has been giving the abbess her coin, and yet, all of her most powerful loyalists are pagans?” She peers up at me. “Why do you think the abbess allowed that? Would she not have pressed my mother to choose men and women who are more controllable? And not give those the Blood Riders are targeting such powerful roles?”
“Perhaps your mother knew more about the abbess than we realize,” I offer. “She may have wanted to maintain whatever iota of power she could among the pagans, so the balance did not crumble completely.” Whatever the queen’s reasons were, Thora and I might never know, and I lift my shoulder. Now that I’ve ensured the abbess has met her end, I don’t much care either way.
“Or maybe my mother did it just to spite the abbess,” she continues with amusement. “Knowing the abbess played a part in killing my father and—as far as my mother knew—killing her son, I imagine my mother would find pleasure in making the abbess’s life difficult once she ascended the throne.” The princess pauses a moment, then she turns in her chair to look at me. “It is never as easy as removing one man or woman and simply replacing them with another. It is something my mother told me once.” She lifts her eyebrow. “It is all speculation, I guess.” Thora sighs and rests her elbow on the writing table, her forehead falling into her hand as her hair tumbles around her. “Will you not help me write some of these letters?”
Grinning, I walk over to the table, peering down at her slanted script filling three pages of parchment.
“I am not prideful, you know,” she says with an innocent lilt. “I do not have to write them all myself. I am happy to sign them instead.” She looks up at me with a playful glint in her eyes, and unable to resist touching her, I brush the crook of my finger along her chin, then slowly over her bottom lip. Perfect, I think to myself. Beautiful in every single way.
“Keep looking at me like that, huntsman,” she says with a purr, “and none of the writing will get done tonight. Then what will the messengers be sent with tomorrow?”
I smirk. “As tempting as you make your letters sound, princess, I cannot read, nor can I write. At least, not well. I would be no help to you in this.”
Thora’s playfulness dims, her brow crumpling a little. “You were my mother’s closest confidant, and you cannot read or write?”
I take a curly strand of her hair in my fingers and tug on it before walking back to the window. “I am a poor farm boy, remember? None of us knew how to read and write, at least, not with any conviction.” I scratch the side of my scruffy face. “I think your mother wanted to keep it that way, too.”
