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8

Aeres

As a frigid, silver dawn broke across the grounds, Náli stood in the center of the training yard with Oliver and Tessa, all of them bundled up in furs, all groomed and braided, their tired faces pinched with low-level anxiety. The cousins were nervous because neither of them had ever consciously channeled any sort of magic aside from communicating with their drakes.

For Náli’s part, the anxiety was tied up in the knowledge that, after this, if they even succeeded, he was going to swoon like a maiden and have to be carried from the yard. His belongings were already packed in their sleigh, reindeer even now being harnessed and hitched in the stable. Mattias stood over by the wall, arms folded, expression harsh with unhappiness. They’d argued – at length – but Náli wouldn’t be budged, and Mattias was going to play the loyal captain regardless. It might mean the end of stolen kisses, even.

All three drakes sat in attendance, watching. Náli knew that he didn’t have Tessa and Oliver’s gift with the beasts, but he swore he could feel their worry and protectiveness. Oddly, they were a comfort. If something went wrong, and Ragnar broke free…well, suffice to say there would be no running away from Percy and his family.

Náli bit back a sigh and produced the torq from beneath his cloak. Gleaming silver, a broken circle with knobbed prongs that would sit against Ragnar’s throat, the latch in front was designed to resemble two wolf heads, one biting the other’s throat. If the spell worked, once the latch was clicked into place, it wouldn’t be able to be opened again by the wearer or any outsider; no blacksmith’s hammer could strike off a magicked torq such as this would be. There was to be a failsafe, however; a weaving of magic that Náli himself had researched at length all of yesterday, and which he felt confident he’d be able to achieve. He’d never performed anything quite like it, but if he could raise entire skeletal armies, he didn’t think this would be all that difficult.

“Oh,” Tessa said, when she saw it. “It seems wrong to say that it’s lovely, but it is, really.”

“Somehow, I doubt Ragnar would agree with you,” Oliver said, tone dry. “But the detail is incredible, I’ll give the smith that.”

“Yes, yes, it’s very nice. Here.” With his other hand, Náli fished the two small, diamond pendants he’d promised from his pocket and handed them over. His much larger diamond hung against his chest, outside his leather doublet. Its weight tugged at the back of his neck, rested heavy over his heart.

His mother had picked it up, once, from his dressing table – the sight of it in her hand had left his stomach rolling – and she’d said, “It doesn’t feel as heavy as you say.”

Oh, Mother. If only you knew.

“Put them on,” he told the cousins, and they complied. “Now. Do you remember the failsafe?”

Oliver and Tessa traded a look that he couldn’t interpret: something secret and familiar, the sort of look they’d likely been trading since they were much younger, which could have been reassurance, confirmation, or a shared doubt in Náli and his plan.

“Do you remember?” he pressed, and knew by Oliver’s raised-brow look that he’d been snippy. Oh well.

“We remember,” Oliver said.

Tessa said, a little awed and breathless, “This torq can only be removed for love.” Then she frowned. “Does that mean only by someone who loves him? Or for any reason driven by love?”

“The spell’s not that specific,” Náli said, with a faint inward twinge of doubt, because the spell wasn’t that specific. Love was the release, according to very old, very dead magic scholars. Other emotions could have been used, but given Ragnar’s lack of popularity among his relatives, he’d thought love the best bet. Who could love Ragnar? No chance of an escape from his servitude that way. “Safe to say,” he continued, “no one loves him. It doesn’t matter what type of love the spell requires when you’re a lying, two-faced, sheep-headed wolf-fucker.”

Tessa blushed.

Oliver said, “Eloquent.”

Náli tugged at his cloak. “I like to think so, yes.”

That made both of them laugh.

A door creaked and shut forcefully a few yards away at the palace’s rear façade. A glance proved that the king himself, followed by Bjorn, was stalking their way.

Náli wiped the haughtiness from his face and spoke in a hushed, urgent voice. “Listen to me, both of you. Do not share this with your men. Not with Erik, not with Rune.” Both looked scandalized. “I’m quite serious. Don’t tell them the trigger. Tell no one. If you want to keep Leif safe, then you’ll guard this secret with all you have.” He wouldn’t say with your lives. As someone with one foot in the grave, he couldn’t ask for a friend’s life.

Their eyes widened, and the next look they exchanged was unmistakeable: one of united worry and resolve.

“We promise,” Tessa said.

Oliver added, “We won’t breathe a word.”

Something about his expression gave Náli misgivings – something like I’ll tell someone if it’s necessary. But, well, that was neither Náli’s worry, nor the most pressing issue of the moment.

“Your majesty,” he greeted, as Erik arrived.

As expected, Erik frowned. “Stop that.”

“Whatever your majesty requires.”