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“You think if it hangs in a museum, it will automatically be appreciated?” he asks, mocking me.
“Yes,” I tell him. “People would come from all over to admire the craftsmanship. The care taken on the inscription along the blade. They’ll whisper in awe about how carefully the maker hammered and hewed the edges until they were sharp enough to cut down any opponent. Most people believe Northmen weren’t crafters. That they were boulders in a courtyard of pebbles or graphite amongst diamonds, but they were so much more.”
Weylen is quiet, and I sneak a peek at him in my periphery just to make sure he’s still there. He’s studying the blade in front of him like he’s seeing it for the first time again. There is a haunted look in his eyes as his gaze lingers on the sword.
“A museum won’t even know the worth of this piece,” he sneers, his face morphing darkly. “No one who goes to a place like that is interested in history. Or the work that was put into the items selected for their viewing. They don’t care about the story behind the blade. They only care about appearing to care. That’s the problem with humans.” He spits out the name in disgust. “It’s all about the dressage. How they all appear to care, but it’s nothing more than a shallow pretense. If they truly cared, then history wouldn’t constantly be on a path of repeating itself. Over and over again.”
Can’t deny anything there. He isn’t wrong, but his view is a bit morbid, cynical. Then again, his view of life is skewed by his immortality, no doubt. Humans live their lives knowing that at any moment, they can be snuffed out. Vampires, I would bet, never see an end. At some point, they stop living and just survive. Move forward.
“Who did the sword belong to?” I ask after a beat of silence. At first glance, the room appears to be a show of wealth. Items worth millions of dollars are displayed in glass cases, hung on the walls, or scattered about on tables and shelves. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason behind their placement. They’re not sorted by region or era. Some look as if they’re still being used. It makes me wonder if the items hold a different meaning. Something deeper than what I can see or understand.
“For most of history, the Northmen operated in secluded villages. No one knew what laid beyond the sea, and for a time, none of them cared. Not until winters became harsher and food became scarce. The villages of the Northmen had become overpopulated. Clans were at one another’s throats, looting and pillaging their neighbors.
“Until one day, a boy, destined by Odin, united them. A king. He designed boats to carry them across the great sea. United the clans into an army to raid and pillage those who believed in their one god. There, they found gold and silver. Crops, the likes of which they had never seen before, rose up in droves. They met men who spoke a tangled tongue and believed in their broken cross. He came home with these gifts, and his time as king began. He led men and women on merry hunts across the lands. Pillaged villages and cities. Great stone towers and streets. That”—Weylen motions to the sword—“was his sword. The one that was rumored to be blessed by the hands of Odin himself. He led the Northmen into a new era of prosperity and unity. All with that single blade.”
Silence falls over us, the air thick with tension as Weylen’s face grows darker with every word he utters.
“What happened to the king?” Curiosity has me asking. He doesn’t speak for a moment but simply stares at the sword before him.
“What happens to all kings,” he snaps brusquely, tearing his eyes away from the blade, focusing their icy coldness on me. “He disappeared from history. Now come. Dinner is ready, and you don’t want to keep Drystan waiting.”
Reluctantly, I follow him, glancing behind me one last time at the craftsmanship on the mantel. Kings don’t simply fall from history. Not unless they’re torn from the pages themselves. Is that what happened? Was the bearer of that sword pushed from the memories of the people he united? If so, why? Why would history suddenly forget a king who united the Northmen under one banner? The answer: they wouldn’t. Not unless there was something they were trying to keep secret.
Weylen leads me from the sitting room and into the opulent dining room beyond. My heart beats like a wild animal in my chest, trying to escape through my rib cage. The room, much like what I’ve seen of the rest of the house, is drawn in rich, dark woods and colors. The walls are painted a deep shade of sage, adorned with a mix of gold and bronze fixtures and paintings that are nothing short of jaw-dropping.
Is that a Rembrandt and an original Degas? In the same room?
Who the hell are these men to have such wealth at their fingertips? And in a dining room of all places. Another waste of beautiful artwork squandering away where no one can admire it but the lecherous men sitting around the large, overly full table.
None of the people here care about the pain and talent that went into each individual brushstroke. All they care about is naked women and money. And not in that order. They sit back and leech on the finer things in life with no real care for it. Not one of them appreciates the finely crafted hand that went into making the table which they’re about to eat off or the chairs they’re seated at.
I don’t have to ask, because I know exactly what it’s made of. Agarwood. A wood that’s found in the rainforest in Southeast Asia and goes for nearly one hundred thousand dollars per kilogram nowadays. Today, it’s mostly used for perfumes and incense and small wood carvings because of how expensive and rare it has become. However, looking at the age of the table, it was most likely made in the early eighteen hundreds. The gentle curve of the edges of the table and chairs tells me it’s Parisian.
The room falls silent as I step inside, the raucous chatter halting instantly as the men around the table turn their lecherous gazes on me. Weylen’s hand pushes at the small of my back when I stutter in the doorway, my feet frozen without guidance. He leads me to the head of the table, where two seats are left open on Drystan’s right.
“We don’t bite, Thalia,” Drystan purrs. The lilt of darkness beneath his tone does nothing for my nerves and fear. “Not right now, at least.”
Weylen takes his seat directly next to Drystan and motions to the chair beside him. My hesitation causes one of the men to wolf whistle and the others to softly call me pet names, urging me to join them. None of the Kings say anything as their men continue to goad me into a reaction.
“Maybe she wants to sit right here,” one of them coaxes, patting his thigh. “I’m sure I can make use of that ass on my lap.” My throat tightens at his words. Is this why they bought me from my brother? To have as their men’s whore? Maybe food is overrated. I glance at the doorway behind me. One of the servants has already closed the pocket doors, but that won’t dissuade me. I’ll be fine without eating for another day.
“Enough,” Drystan barks, his command silencing his men. My gaze slips to his. “Sit, Thalia.”
An invitation from the devil himself. I don’t want to sit. I want to run. Drystan must see it in my eyes, the urge to bolt, because he stands from his seat abruptly and stalks toward me. I retreat a few steps back from the table, but he’s quicker. His arm lashes out like a snake, hand wrapping around the back of my neck before he practically frog marches me to my seat. He forces me to sit, scooting my chair to the table so that I barely have any room between me and the edge.
“Remember this,” he warns the men at his table, his steely eyes burrowing into theirs. “Thalia is ours. That means she is not to be touched. Is that understood?” His hands come down on my shoulders, kneading the muscles that have tensed there. Will he use those hands to hurt me? To keep me in line if I disobey? These are the thoughts of a weak woman. Someone who fears pain. But when you grow up like I have, those questions aid in survival.
I resist the urge to pull free of his touch. His hands are large, and I can feel their coldness through my sweater. A coldness that sends unwanted heated tingles skating down my body.
“And now we will eat.” Drystan’s hands disappear from my shoulders, and he walks back to his chair as the doors to the kitchen slide open and a few women come walking in carrying trays of food. I can feel his eyes on me, even from two seats away, as one lady sets a porterhouse steak and what looks to be corn risotto and roasted mushrooms in front of me.
As if on cue, my stomach rumbles. Weylen chuckles beside me, no doubt hearing my traitorous stomach grumbling. The waitstaff pops in a few more times to fill drink orders before disappearing behind closed doors. Everyone digs into their food, conversation temporarily stalled by full mouths.
It’s a meal fit for a king.
With my fork, I pick at the roasted mushrooms and risotto, trying to keep them separated from the large porterhouse dominating the dinnerware. The scent of the beef is strong and churns my stomach. I squish down the nausea because of how hungry I am. If I was anywhere else, I would ask for a different plate, one without meat, but I’m not at a restaurant. I’m in the lions’ den, and the last thing I want is to capture their predatory attention more than I already have.
“I thought this was a meal worthy of royalty,” Drystan mocks from the head of the table. Silence follows as the men stop their eating to listen in. “Was I wrong? Is this not up to the tastes of a Sinclair?” His words are meant to be hurtful, but I grew up in a house full of pain and degradation. I don’t remark on my pescetarianism. Instead, I choose to glare at him for a moment before returning my eyes back to my barely eaten plate. With a shaky hand, I pick up my glass of water and take a large gulp before setting it back down.
