Page 28 of Blood Beneath the Snow (Blood & Souls Duology #1)

28

My heart thudded at the thought of seeing Freja again. After the way we had left things, I wasn’t sure she would want my company, but knowing I might die without seeing her again left a ragged ache in my heart. Combined with the one Frode left, it was too much for me to stomach.

The hallways were dim and damp—the same as when I’d left for the front. They were lonelier without Frode or even Volkan keeping me company. I tossed my cloak over my shoulders, less for the warmth it provided than for something to dig my fingernails into and pull tight around my shoulders. Underneath, I’d concealed another cloak Halvar had given me. Though thinner, I had no doubt it would provide my friend some much-needed warmth.

Perhaps it would serve as a gift of reconciliation, too.

I heard Freja whistling as soon as I emerged from the stairwell. It might have put a smile on my face if a single thing about today were different. But instead I’d come to deliver the news my brother was dead, I’d been kidnapped by the Hellbringer, and Arne and I were no longer on speaking terms.

I wasn’t looking forward to telling her all of that.

She heard my footsteps when I was several feet away. “Revna?” she called. “Is that you?”

She grinned at me when I peered into her cell. This time I couldn’t keep the ghost of a smile from slipping across my face. Freja came over to the bars and reached out to brush her hand across my face.

“You look like death,” she said.

She wasn’t wrong—Halvar had said much the same when I stopped by before coming here. When I glanced in the mirror before leaving the Sharpened Axe, the circles under my eyes made me cringe.

I took in her appearance. The light was back in her eyes, and while her face was covered in dirt, she looked happier than when I had left for the front. There was a cloak around her shoulders already, but I noted goose bumps on her arms nonetheless. As much as I wanted to ask her how she was, I had to apologize first.

“Freja, I’m so sorry.” I laid my forehead against the freezing metal bars. “The last time I saw you, I—”

“Stop.” She squeezed my hand. “You don’t need to apologize. If anyone does, it’s me. What I said was cruel. I didn’t mean it.”

The wave of relief washed over me and made my knees weak. “I didn’t mean any of it either,” I said. “Oh, here. I brought you another cloak.”

She squeaked with excitement, and when I handed it to her, she pulled it around her shoulders immediately, covering the thinner one she already wore. When she sighed with relief, I felt the cold leave my own veins. There was a blanket in the back corner of her cell, carefully hidden from prying eyes, but it surely wasn’t enough on especially cold nights.

“You look better,” I said.

She chuckled a bit. “I’m not as lonely anymore—I made friends with my neighbor.” Freja gestured toward the cell to her left.

I leaned over enough to catch a glimpse of a wizened old person with pure white hair curled up in the corner. They didn’t acknowledge me.

“How was the front?” Freja asked.

Dread sank like a rock in my stomach. I recounted the events of my time away, from my kidnapping to my confrontation with Arne to Frode’s death. I left out significant amounts of my time with the Hellbringer, though, including how much I’d trusted him and cared for him, especially at the end. I already realized my own stupidity. I didn’t need someone else to point it out. By the time I finished talking, the color had drained from Freja’s face.

“You were kidnapped by the Hellbringer,” she whispered, her hand moving to her mouth. I couldn’t distinguish whether shock or amazement made her jaw drop. “What was he like? Is it all true? All of the legends?”

I shrugged. “He says they are, and I believe him. When I was with him in the prison, I started thinking there might be something more to him, something real hidden underneath the mask. But”—I shook my head—“he would have killed me. I don’t know why he decided to kill Frode instead.”

“That surprises me, especially since he offered you a truce from the queen.” Freja frowned, chewing on her bottom lip.

I nodded. “I thought so, too.” I also thought he might have loved me .

I ignored the disappointment welling in my stomach.

She pressed her face against the cell bars and lowered her voice to a whisper. “All the more reason for you to be queen, then. The godforsaken are ready to support you. Halvar says the rebellion is ready. All you have to do is win the Trials.”

I smothered the words threatening to escape: that Frode was gone and I wasn’t sure Jac was interested in our truce anymore. My odds of winning the Trials decreased with every passing minute.

“Good,” I said, moving to sit on the dusty floor and hoping she couldn’t read my hidden desperation. “It’s been too long. Too many years. The godforsaken deserve a turn at the helm.”

We lapsed into silence, and I rested my face in my hands. The space behind my eyelids throbbed. I couldn’t get him out of my head.

Frode Frode Frode. His name echoed like a song.

“I know you probably don’t want to answer this, but…” Freja chewed on her lip. “Arne is okay, right? He wasn’t dead last time you saw him?”

I chuckled at her tone. “Yes, I caught a glance of him after the battle I witnessed. He was fine. Maybe a bit scratched up, but nothing major.”

“I can’t believe you two actually ended things. And on such bad terms.”

I shrugged. “He’d rather I marry the prince than fight for the godforsaken. In the end, it was a simple choice to make.”

Simple for our relationship. But not for our friendship. I’d naively thought things could possibly stay light between us. But our argument in the war camp had proven otherwise.

I twisted my hands together, hoping the motion would distract me. I had to get Arne and Frode out of my head so I could concentrate.

“Are you okay?” Freja asked softly.

“I’m fine.”

She reached through the bars to grasp my hand, and gratitude overwhelmed me.

I squeezed her hand in return. “I’m going to get you out of here,” I said. “No matter what it takes. No matter who has to die. You deserve better than this.”

A wiry voice floated over to us. “You’ll be queen soon enough. No need for such dramatics.”

Freja’s eyebrows flew up and she let go of my hand, scrambling over to the front corner of her cell bordering her neighbor. “Say that again,” she demanded. “Valen. You can’t say that and then go quiet.”

I peered over at the person in the next cell. They grumbled and pushed themselves to a sitting position, resting most of their weight on their elbows. There was no way they were younger than eighty.

“I said this one”—they pointed a finger at me—“is going to be queen. Listen harder next time.”

Freja’s eyes were wide. “Valen is a Seeing One,” she whispered.

I glanced over at Valen’s wizened features, twisted and gnarled like an oak tree. I had learned about the Seeing Ones growing up but I wasn’t sure if I believed they were real. The books I read about the wandering clan of seers who rejected ideas of society for a truly blank slate fascinated me. They were neither men nor women, simply people, and used non-gendered pronouns.

I knew my father hated the Seeing Ones. He spoke of them only with disdain and disbelief, once going so far as to say they were Nilurae who pretended to have the gift of sight.

Valen’s dark eyes bored into mine, an unspoken challenge. I knew how they expected me to treat them—with disgust and disdain, the only things my father had offered them.

I bowed my head in Valen’s direction. “If I might ask, how did you end up imprisoned in Bhorglid? I thought your people were peaceful wanderers.”

Valen cackled, an edge of derangement in their voice. “Are you also under the impression your father sentences people to this prison only when necessary?”

“No,” I said. “I can assure you the opposite is true. Freja is only here because of what I’ve done.”

“Not exactly true, but it doesn’t surprise me you would say so,” Valen said. When I opened my mouth to respond, the Seeing One held up a hand to stop me. “I know your destiny much more intimately than you do.”

“And her destiny is to become queen?” Freja asked.

“Yes.”

Freja’s eyes lit up and she turned to me. “You are going to win,” she breathed. “Revna, I knew it. You’re going to be Queen of Bhorglid! Queen of the godforsaken! Can you believe it?”

I didn’t have the heart to ask how long Valen had been locked in this prison; how long they’d had to sit with their thoughts and prophecies until the real world and dreams blended and became one.

“How?” I asked. I wanted to believe them, but without Frode, possibly without Jac…it seemed unwise to hope.

The Seeing One shrugged and turned to face the corner. “I cannot see the path, only the destination,” they said. “But it will come to pass.”

Freja was thrilled, and I managed to paste a smile on my face. “I hope it does,” I said. “I hope it does.”

When I finally returned to the castle, I found a hot bath waiting for me.

I didn’t know who had left it—maybe one of the servants—but I didn’t hesitate before pulling off my grimy clothes and sinking into the warm water. I sighed as the heat moved into my bones, defrosting my core. The war front had been traumatizing, yes, but more than that, it had been cold . I wasn’t sure I remembered warmth.

The water looked dirty instantly. I pulled the tie out of my braid and unwove it, sinking my hair beneath the surface. I used the vial of soap that had been placed on a stool with a towel next to the tub to scrub at my scalp, working out all the sweat and filth.

The scent of death.

I shivered despite the heat. The last time I had bathed was…

No. I pushed the thought away. I didn’t want to remember. Not right now—not when the Bloodshed Trials were tomorrow.

I toweled off and dressed in a comfy pair of clothes. Lying in bed, I surveyed my childhood bedroom. It looked the same as always, blankets draped everywhere and books in piles all over the floor. My dancing shoes from my youth were hung on the wall, from a time when Mother had actually praised my accomplishments and treated me like her daughter. That was before my lack of magic was confirmed.

I allowed reality to sink in. Tomorrow I would enter the arena and fight to kill my brothers. And if I couldn’t, then one of them would kill me.

I wondered how they’d do it. Would Bjorn use his Lurae to burn me to a crisp? Would Erik smash his war hammer through my skull?

What was it like to die?

I reached my thoughts out to Frode, or whatever remained of him, lost somewhere in the freezing wasteland of the north. Did he sink into darkness like falling asleep? Or was there excruciating pain like nothing he’d ever experienced before?

What would my death be like?

The image of Frode laughing brushed across the backs of my eyelids.

I tossed and turned in my bed for hours, wishing a fitful sleep would overtake me. Being exhausted for the Bloodshed Trials was a sure way to get myself killed. Every time unconsciousness beckoned, however, the image of Frode’s lifeless eyes appeared.

Was his body in the place we left it? The likelihood of a Kryllian battalion making camp there again was slim but not impossible. Kryllian bodies in their dark armor had been strewn across the bright snow, leaking blood from irreparable wounds. Had the Hellbringer been the only one to escape?

Would he return to bury the bodies of his fallen soldiers? Or would they be left there to freeze, like Frode?

If I hadn’t fallen down the hill, would he be alive right now?

The thought tore me in two, and I curled in on myself, hoping to stay in one piece.

When sleep finally took me away, it was like being smothered.

I called for him.

Frode? Where are you? It’s too dark; I can’t see you.

My only answer was the haunting melody he’d been humming in recent weeks.

I sat straight up in my bed, covered in a cold sweat, tears streaming down my face. The cry caught in my chest and I covered my mouth as I let out a sob that wracked my whole body.

He was gone. He wasn’t coming back. There was no one with the power to reverse the Hellbringer’s deadly magic.

Nothing could stop the shaking echoing through me with every gasp. I shoved my fist into my mouth and bit down, trying to silence my own crying. Instead, blood seeped from my knuckles and into my mouth, coating my tongue with its bitter, metallic taste. The song from the dream played on a haunting loop in my mind.

This was my last chance to truly mourn him. I was alone now, but in the morning I’d stumble into the arena, a spectacle for the godtouched and a beacon of hope for the godforsaken.

For now, I would let the grief consume me. Let it eat me from the inside, let it crack my ribs and grow there. Tomorrow morning I would become the stoic competitor again.

When I forced myself to take a breath, the shaking faded, or at least lessened. I pushed aside the blankets covering me, except for one to wrap around my shoulders, and stumbled out of my room and into the hallway.

The torches were lit, reflecting off the stone floors. It was only a few steps to the door next to mine. I threw it open and stumbled into the room; it was identical to the one I’d left.

It looked the same as it always did: clothes strewn across the floor, the bed in the corner unmade, and the curtains drawn tight to block out the light. My tears continued to fall silently as I crept over to the bed and climbed in.

The pillow smelled like wine and childhood—like Frode. I curled up under the covers, knowing sleep was a fool’s dream at this point but hoping to at least stave off the memories of his death for a moment longer.

“Revna?” There was a dark silhouette in the doorway.

“Jac? What are you doing here?” I asked with a sniff. Blood from the bites on my knuckles crept between my fingers and dripped onto the sheets.

He moved toward me. “Couldn’t sleep.” There was a strange tremor in his voice.

When he reached the bed, he crawled under the covers with me. Only when I touched his face did I realize he was crying.

“I’m not ready to die, Rev,” he whispered. The anguish in his voice made me crack. “I’m only twenty-four. I wanted to get married. Have kids. Live a normal life. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Not for the first time, the brutality of Bhorglid, of our own people, of the priests who claimed to speak for our gods, knocked the breath from my lungs. Jac, barely an adult, wanted to live. Wanted to disappear. He didn’t want glory or bloodshed.

“You don’t deserve any of it either,” I said, staring into the pitch-blackness. But the thought of letting him go, doing it all alone, was almost unbearable. “You don’t think we can win together? You have a powerful Lurae. The Hellbringer trained me while I was his captive—I’m not half bad with a sword or throwing knives. The two of us can take them on and still have a chance.”

“I don’t want to kill anymore.” His voice was flat, lifeless. “I’m tired of being on a battlefield. Aloisa is the goddess of the soul, of death and life, and yet we’re called to destroy in her name. What happened to creating? Bringing new life from the ashes?”

We lay together in Frode’s bed in silence, darkness seeping through everything. I wondered when we’d become so close, my stoic, quiet brother and me. Perhaps Frode’s last act had been to bring us together. I resisted my next words but forced myself to utter them. “What if you didn’t have to compete?”

“That’s impossible,” he scoffed. But I could hear the flicker of hope in his voice. “And besides. I can’t leave you. If you died in the arena, it would be my fault.”

He sounded wistful, and that pushed me to continue. I sat up. “No one else is more equipped to escape this than you. Disguise yourself; flee to Faste. Volkan is here, in the castle for the Trials. Have him put together a map and a list of contacts for you and then go.” Despite the prince’s ties to the Hellbringer, I hoped he would be decent enough to do Jac this favor.

The last thing I needed was another heartbreaking betrayal.

I knew Volkan had arrived at the castle earlier that day to watch the Trials. But mustering the courage to go to him and ask whether he’d known of the Hellbringer’s deception was impossible. Still, Volkan had proven himself to be good more often than not.

Jac hesitated. Then he shook his head, relaxing back into the bed again. “No. You need me to help as much as I can with Erik and Bjorn tomorrow. Without Frode, I’m the only thing standing between you and them.”

His words stirred a gentle smile from me. “If I die tomorrow, it won’t be because of you,” I promised him. “It will be because of Father’s cruelty. And the priests. And whichever brother strikes me down. You can make more of a difference if you survive. Go live a normal life somewhere, Jac. You’ve more than earned it.”

I was surprised to see his eyes well with tears. “I can’t leave you.”

“And I can’t watch you die.” I squeezed his hand. “If I win the Trials, come back. If Bjorn wins, don’t. It’s simple. Now, pack a bag and get out of here.”

He jumped up to leave but then doubled back.

“What are you—”

He pulled me into a bone-crushing hug. “Good luck,” he whispered. “I’ll miss you.”

I wrapped my arms around him, trying not to let myself cry again. “I’ll see you again, Jac. In this life or the next.”

And then he was gone.