Page 11 of Soul of Fire

“What is it?” Edvard asked impatiently as he tucked his helm under his arm.

I locked my face into stillness—the same mask I had worn for my father for years, and then for Einar—and shrugged. “You look ill, brother.”

Edvard rolled his eyes. “Father is waiting.”

Eisa frowned at me as we turned to follow, but she didn’t press me on my comment. I had a feeling she was adding it to her mental list of questions, and the thought made my heart give a happy thump.

The guards dismounted. The horses nickered irritably, hunting for treats as several stable boys ran forward to catch their reins.

I do not understand horses,Baldur huffed.I would not tolerate carrying a human around for my entire life.

You carry me,I pointed out as we entered the inner courtyard that led to the main keep.

That is different. At least the horses get treats.

I was grateful for Baldur’s commentary. I knew he was trying to distract me as I took in the childhood home that had felt more like a prison. Built from dark stone, its walls were thick and uneven.Wooden beams supported the upper levels, and the roofs climbed in steep layers, each one thatched and edged with wooden gables to break the wind.

Wolves snarled down from the carvings on the huge double doors that opened into the Great Hall of the castle. Heat and smoke billowed out as the doors opened, and I heard Eisa suck in a pained breath as the guards herded us through.

Iron doors,I explained.Iron binds the dragons to us, but too much also binds our magic.

Like when I couldn’t reach you during the last battle at the Rift?

I nodded as we crossed the threshold, and the sucking sensation dissipated.Feels like your strength is being drained, doesn’t it?

It’s not pleasant,she agreed. Not as bad as Chaos, though. I’m surprised the whole keep isn’t made from iron.

I squeezed her hand, appreciating the joke even though I was too tense to laugh.I’m sure my father would welcome the suggestion.

The vast hall stretched out before us, cold stone punctuated only by the thin windows of smoky glass that hardly let in any light. I had been right—the majority of my father’s jarls were present, most drinking and laughing as the servants around the room slaved away to serve them. Many were indentures.

My hand tightened around Eisa’s again, the vision of another girl rising like a ghost. Her lifeless body as she bled out. Edvard’s uncaring sneer. My father’s silence.

Baldur’s growl vibrated through me.We could burn them both. End them.It would be easy.

So your grand plan is to murder them, then? Consequences be damned?

Baldur huffed.It would be worth it.

As we were paraded up the center of the room, my eyes sought the one jarl I actually wished to see in vain. There were too many jarls for this to be coincidence, and if my father had summoned them, he was duty-bound to come, no matter how much he hated it. But my letter informing him of our arrival on the continent definitely wouldn’t have reached him yet, and knowing my luck, he was still several days away.

The jarls fell silent as Edvard led us before the dais. “The drage, Father, as requested.”

We stopped at the feet of the throne, carved from a trunk of ash by the Wolf King Ulver, who had united the human kingdoms centuries ago. The snarling head of a wolf, slain by the same king, was mounted on the wall behind it. As a boy, I’d been sure the beast would leap from the wall and devour me whole.

And then I saw him.

King Arkyn wore his customary richly appointed attire, his fur-lined cloak sweeping over shoulders that once bore a warrior’s strength. He’d gone to seed somewhat in the last few years, his belly spilling over his leather belt and warping the gold brocade wolfembroidered across his tabard. His eyes—the same as mine and my brother’s—pinned me where I stood.

My stomach clenched as I took in the buxom blonde woman straddling him, her skirts hiked up almost to her thighs. She blushed as she noticed Edvard, more embarrassed to be seen by the dark-haired prince, I thought, than by the queen who sat like a stone statue in the smaller throne beside my father’s.

The queen’s eyes were carefully fixed on the door behind us. Her hair, once black, was now half gray, braided with careful precision into an elegant bun. She looked effortlessly regal, though her face carried an expressionless mask we had both adopted to survive my father’s tyranny.

I felt Eisa’s confusion as the blonde woman extricated herself from my father’s lap and summoned the nerve to curtsy. She rushed from the dais, her face pink.

My mother is used to it, unfortunately.

Eisa’s eyes met mine, softened with sympathy.I’m sorry.