Contender, page 3
A cold blast of silence fell between us.
“And thank you for that.”
“You’re quite welcome.”
It was quiet again, and I found myself smiling. Not brightly, or cheerfully. But almost without conscious thought. It was the same as the storm, same as the branch. What more could one do when such things were out of their control? He was smiling too, just a touch, but I saw it.
“Your uncle?” I asked.
He pulled in a breath, staring into the storm.
Whatever amusement had warmed him, vanished like a candle snuffed out in a flame. It was so quickly done, I immediately regretted mentioning it. Yet we couldn’t avoid the subject forever. Of all the people we’d left behind us, his frightening uncle was the last face we’d seen.
“I would imagine my uncle is searching as well,” he said slowly, as though he was choosing each word with great care. A strange expression came over him, gone before I could decipher it and settling into a slight frown. “There is much that happened last night, I have no account for. The company of guards that was training in the courtyard. My uncle, finding that bag of gold.”
He stopped there, like it was best to go no further. But he’d already cracked the lid off the thing, and I angled a little to better see him, studying the side of his face in the dim light.
It’s not the first time he’s spoken like this. He’s said things like it before.
I remembered the look of shock that had come over him the moment we burst through the tower door and into the courtyard. It would be empty, he’d assured me. The men drilling there had been sent beyond the southern wall. Yet, there they’d stood. Armed and marching. It was only by the grace of the gods, we’d managed to slip away out of sight.
The gods, and a convenient fire.
“Thank heavens for Trina,” I murmured, unsurprised by the sharp ache of longing that accompanied her name. “Otherwise we might have died right there.”
His face tightened again, clouding with an emotion I didn’t understand. It was so slight, at first, I thought that I’d imagined it. But sitting so close, there was no hiding the reflexive clenching of his fingers, the almost imperceptible hardening of his jaw.
“What is it?” I asked immediately, zeroing on his face.
He merely shook his head, dropping his eyes to his legs. The branches tangled above us, thrashing in the howling winds.
“What?” I insisted, twisting more to face him.
He hesitated a moment, long enough to draw in a single breath, before lifting his gaze evenly to mine. “It’s fortunate for us,” he replied tersely. “Not for the countless girls who died.”
I blanked in sheer confusion. “What girls?”
There was a further hardening of his expression, as his lips thinned to a line. His brows, far darker than the pale locks that surrounded them, arched in a caustic reply.
It took a second to understand.
The girls in the brothel.
“No one died, Erik,” I blurted without thinking, tripping over myself to reassure him, mildly horrified I hadn’t thought to do it before. “My aunt didn’t work at the brothel, she owned it. She would have made sure that no one was inside.”
He stared at me so long, I was half-afraid he didn’t believe me. But after a few seconds passed, a little of the tension eased from his face. “That is some happy news,” he said quietly.
Such news being in short supply.
That was the last of the talking. Without any better way to settle and keep out the weather, the pair of us merely closed our eyes; our legs drawn up in front of us, our backs to the steep grade of the tree. We had first settled on one side, but moved almost immediately so we were facing back the way we’d come. Perhaps we should have taken the tree as protection, the trunk was wide and might have momentarily blocked us from sight. But if the soldiers’ eyes could find us in the pitch of night and the wild of the storm, they deserved to catch us. At any rate, it felt a good deal safer to be keeping a weathered eye out for them ourselves. The moon hung like an orb somewhere above us, seen only in the fractured splinters of clouds, strewn about by the storm.
“You thought I would have taken it in stride?” I asked after a long silence, staring at him with a feeling close to dread. “More than a dozen women, killed so I could escape the same fate?”
He met my gaze in the darkness. Bright eyes, shining through the rain. “I didn’t know what to think.”
* * *
That was the first night I had the dream.
It came upon me slowly, like the budding of a sunrise, or the gradual fall of dusk. One moment I was in the forest, asleep beneath the same tree as before, and the next, I was flying on dark wings over the rain-drenched trees. My wings beat powerfully as the ground streaked beneath me, blurring into an endless canopy of silvering charcoals and greens. I could hear the river tucked beneath the branches, but had no need to follow it for direction. I knew the way by now.
The clouds parted before me. There was a light shining ahead.
Come to me...I am waiting.
It was the first night I had the dream.
There would be many others.
Chapter 3
The sun rose the next morning, like the storm had been nothing more than a dream. Its bright rays came warm and early, sparkling through a cloudless sky, to kiss a world in the flush of summer. The animals had returned from their hideaways, the forest swelled, and glittering drips of water clung to the branches of the trees. The woods had come alive with birdsong, rich with the scent of dew and green and wet earth. It was a land reborn, swept clean by the furious winds.
Everywhere I looked was brimming and new.
I drew in a deep breath, filling my lungs with the fresh air. It seemed better than a cool drink after a day’s work in the sun. My eyes fluttered shut and I took another, then another, relishing in the sensation. The sweet, simple joy that had nearly been lost to me the day before.
Slowly, my mind cleared and I came back to myself a little.
The night itself had been bitingly cold, but Erik and I had been too numb to feel it. Instead of waking sprawled on the forest floor, we were still tense and hunched against the same tree where we’d lodged ourselves the night before. The rough grain of the bark made deep imprints where our skin pressed against it. My head had slipped in the night, coming to rest in the curve of his shoulder.
I lifted it gently, determined not to wake him.
The bright glow of the morning had fallen upon the young bannerman as well, illuminating the bright strands of his hair and handsome lines of his face. Yet, despite the light and warmth, he boasted none of his usual luster. It looked as though someone had sought out the most beautiful man in the kingdom, then scraped him without mercy along the bottom of a cliff. The bruise, which had begun to form the day before, was now violent in color—spanning almost the entire length of his forehead, a grisly stain against the fairness of his skin. There were scrapes, and tears, and everything one might expect after a frantic run through the forest. Even his skin was ice cold, as if that wind beat against it still, and it could no longer receive warmth from the rays of the sun.
I should get him something. To cheer him, when he wakes.
It was the first clear thought I remember having. So sudden and sure, that I set myself to the task without thinking, peeling myself away from the trunk and rising in a swift movement to my feet.
...only to drop immediately to my knees.
“By the gods,” I cursed, wincing in pain as the forest spun dizzily around me.
It had been quietly done, but Erik’s eyes opened immediately—needing only a moment to focus, before flying with sudden attention to mine. For a split second, he merely stared, long enough for me to wonder what kinds of damage I was carrying myself. Then he shifted himself forward, un-crunching his long limbs and letting out an involuntary groan.
“This was a bad idea,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Back to sleep, I think.”
I let out a breath of laughter, grateful for the levity, then watched as he pulled himself up anyway and hobbled to the place where I knelt. His hands came up of their own accord, as his eyes swept over me with the practiced efficiency of a wartime healer. In a flash, he clocked and prioritized a dozen different maladies, before coming to rest with an ironic smile on my face.
“You’re starving,” he said simply.
Oh...right.
Unable to think of anything better to say in reply, I went with a regrettable, you’re starving, pretending not to notice when he chuckled to himself and lifted me delicately into his arms.
It was a strange paradox.
There were times I would swear he looked at me and saw nothing but roasting children and crackling covens, when his eyes drifted without permission to my hands, expecting wicked spells and lightning to leap forth. Yet there were other times when he reached to me without thinking—to protect, to embrace. In the forest, our fingers had laced together. Smooth skin upon smooth skin.
It must be his decision, I realized, stringing the pieces together. He must be the one to reach.
“I will find you something,” he continued softly, leaning me back against the same tree where we’d been lying with the most delicate of hands. I flushed at being handled like a doll, but he seemed to think nothing of it. “Wait here and stay quiet, I’ll return in a short while.”
I nodded without really listening, having been taught from an early age to submit to the orders of men, no matter how kindly given. It wasn’t until he pushed stiffly to his feet, I realized he was actually leaving. At that point, I scrambled up beside him, swaying precariously where I stood.
“No, you shouldn’t go alone. We’re only a day’s travel from the settlement, and these woods are no doubt rife with the king’s men. We should stick together. There’s no telling what—”
I stopped at the look on his face, unable to decipher it. It wasn’t until I felt the pressure of his hands against my ribs, I realized my legs had buckled once again and he was holding me easily above the ground. A flush spread across my cheeks, but his eyes were soft and tender.
“Brave girl,” he murmured, helping me gently down. “And a brave spirit. Indeed, I will be glad for the help, once you’ve regained your strength. But first, you must rest. And eat something.”
I stared up at him in shock. Almost seventeen years, I’d lived outside the settlement. Not once in all that time, had anyone had ever called me brave.
“And what if they...?” I trailed away, not able to say anymore.
What if they find you?
That was the question I was going to ask.
What would happen if Erik was discovered by himself in the forest, wandering alone, looking like someone had beaten him with a club? Would they finish the job? Bring him back to the settlement? Would they remember he was a man, and one of their own, and much loved by a dying king, and show him mercy? It didn’t seem likely, but one could hope.
That was the question I was going to ask again. He was asking himself another.
What if they find me?
He cast a swift look around the forest, as if the answer might be written somewhere in the trees. When his eyes came up blank, he hesitated a moment longer, before sinking to his knees and fishing a blade from the belt around his waist. He flipped it around, pressing the grip into my hand.
“Do not hesitate to use it,” he commanded, almost stern. “Promise me?”
My lips parted in surprise, as my fingers curled instinctively around the handle. A part of me couldn’t believe he would part with it—let alone place it in the hands of a witch.
“I promise,” I said faintly.
He stared a moment longer, as if measuring my reply, before nodding curtly and rising to his feet in a single, graceful motion. A broken grace, perhaps, but there was elegance all the same. In that moment, I had a sudden flash of the boy who’d fought in the arena, flying about as though he’d been given wings, and lifting his arms to the adoring cheers of the crowd.
They would have given him everything. They would have given him a crown.
He was gone a moment later, pacing with an inexplicable confidence into the forest, as if he’d spent all his life wandering those sunlit hollows and knew for certain the way. This was another quality shared by men, though the direction they chose was often questionable. I watched until I could see him no longer, then hoisted myself onto a pair of trembling arms.
Whatever damage I had seen on Erik, I knew in that moment, my own was much worse. It wasn’t just the injuries I’d sustained since leaving the tower. The bruises from the soldiers, the raw burn of the manacle around my ankle, the throbbing pain inside my hairline for which I couldn’t account at all. It was the time they’d left me there. Those listless days without food or water that was clean enough to drink. Erik had been right in his assessment. I was starving, first and foremost. The rest would be dealt with in due time.
No reason I can’t get started now.
With a restlessness I was unable to control, I pulled loose the leather cords that bound my hair, and began raking my fingers through the tangles—finding it slightly easier than I’d expected, though my efforts had been impeded slightly by the rain. There was a stain of blood I didn’t recall receiving, glob of tree sap that would most likely have to be cut. But I managed to work through the worst of it, and braided it once more into even patterns. My clothes were a different story, one for which I had no immediate solution. They were relatively clean—vigorously rinsed by the same storm that had attempted to drown us—but fraying rapidly around the edges, and in some parts, the fabric had been ripped clean through. They had been simple fare to begin with, and hadn’t withstood the numerous onslaughts against them. My scramble up the village fence had proven the final straw.
“Streð mik,” I cursed under my breath, looking at the fair patches of skin beneath the holes in the cloth. There was no way to mend them, no way to attempt modesty. I suddenly wondered if this was the reason Erik had given me his cloak.
Instead of attempting to fix them, I made little adjustments instead. The bottom of my tunic was ripped nearly clean through, so I made the tear complete—bunching the remaining fabric into a tight knot in the back, to keep it from riding up in the middle. It was a tight fit, to be sure, showing a wide swath of skin across my stomach, but it was no longer covered in gaping holes that would fall open when I tried to walk. My skirt was a different story, flayed open with a long slit up the side. I stared at it a lengthy moment, wondering vaguely how I’d been able to claw my way up the fence in such a thing, then pulled one of the bands from my hair and wove it through the top of the slit, lacing the pieces together, until it was closed at least past my thigh. There was little more to be done past that—it would simply need to last until I could find needle and thread, or something else to replace it. By the time I had finished, Erik was already pacing back through the trees.
My heart leapt at the mere sight of him; either from relief he’d returned unharmed, or a fleeting pang of something more. I ignored the latter, and forced myself to believe it was the first.
Whatever might have started between us, is long over now.
“I hope it’s honeycakes,” I called quietly in greeting, feeling all the warmer when he returned my distant smile. “Or if not—some of that lavender cream we had at the festival. And ale,” I added abruptly, though this was strange. Never in my life had I enjoyed the taste of that vile drink.
He smiled again, walking smoothly towards me. “You have guessed it.”
Wherever the young man had gone, he’d clearly taken some time to perform the same personal assessment as I’d made myself. His face was clean, though still bruised, his long braids had been rewoven, and the bottom of his trousers were damp, yet free of their layer of mud. I had heard once, from a spice merchant passing through the settlement, that we Vikings were considered by the rest of the world to be a fastidious sort—overly concerned with things like hygiene and appearance.
I had nearly laughed when he told me, having worked all my life between the drunks in the brothel and the pigs in the sty. In my mind, they were not so different. But perhaps there was some truth in it after all. Or perhaps the gods had merely smiled over our cradles.
Erik could certainly claim as much.
“There wasn’t much,” he said without preamble, settling on the grass in front of me, “only a few late apples and some thistle root. I can hunt once we’ve cleared this part of the forest, or perhaps we’ll be lucky and catch some fish from the river. But I didn’t want to risk starting a fire.”
I nodded quickly, having concluded the same thing. Tempting as the flames might have been, even in the biting cold the night before, neither of us had mentioned it.
Probably too soon to be starting fires anyway.
“It is a feast,” I said with false cheer, my stomach turning at the very sight. It was strange, only a few hours before, I would have traded my leg for a bite of something edible. Now, I couldn’t imagine eating it. “Shall we take it with us? There’s probably a few different paths we could—”
“How about we eat something now?” he suggested lightly, pressing an apple into my hands with a slight smile. It was his eyes that gave it away, resting knowingly on mine. “Just a few bites, and a sip of water,” he added, showing me the hollow stone he’d filled in a nearby stream.
My stomach lurched again, and I smiled weakly. “That sounds...really great.”
There was a beat of silence. Then he snorted with laughter.
I was laughing myself before I could help it, quiet but unceasing, powerless to resist the infectious pull of the sound. Perhaps it was the mere toil of the night before, or those silent hours of confinement, listening in the darkness for the slightest sound, but the laughter broke free from us both—breaking forth in little waves, like the cracking of ice after spring’s first thaw.
“It’s the hunger that makes you feel sick,” he assured me once we’d quieted, taking the second knife from his belt and carving off a slice of apple. “Once there’s something in your stomach, it will start to go away. Start slowly,” he added in warning, “just a few bites at a time.”
