Page 4 of Blood Beneath the Snow (Blood & Souls Duology #1)

4

I didn’t move from my bed until the moon rose to take its place at the height of the sky. Once my anger had faded, leaving me an empty shell, I’d dozed on and off for several hours, only interrupted by my strange dream.

This late, the castle was silent outside my door. I stretched, waiting for the pain in my hand to wake me fully, but it never did. When I lifted it to my line of sight, my breath stopped in my throat.

Thick white bandages were wrapped tightly around the wounds, keeping the swelling down and my joints in place. It didn’t take an expert to know the wrapping was medically sound—the dramatic decrease in angry throbbing told me my injuries were significantly improved.

It hadn’t been a dream at all. The Hellbringer had been here, standing in my quarters. He’d managed to make his way into the castle without being detected and sneak into my room. He’d even treated my injuries.

The most miraculous part of it all was that I remained alive.

I took a shaky breath, flexing my hurt fingers, mind spinning. It made no sense. Why would the Hellbringer have any interest in me? And more importantly, why wasn’t he in the northern wastes, where he belonged?

If he was truly after something that would win Kryllian the war, he had no reason to be haunting my room in the dead of night.

Shoving the paranoia from my mind, I slid on a pair of warm pants and a simple blouse and tied the laces of my dancing shoes. It was dark, but I knew the pair better than my own reflection. When I finished, I began the familiar routine of quietly walking the halls to the front doors of the castle. Before the war, soldiers employed as guards had crawled through every nook and cranny of the castle, forcing me to take my late-night excursions by crawling out my bedroom window and scaling the walls down three stories. Now the building was empty and silent, but unfamiliar anxiety trailed my every step.

What if the Hellbringer hadn’t left? What if he was still here, lingering in the shadowed corners, waiting for me to take my next step?

I shook my head and walked faster, trying to dislodge the thought. Maybe it wasn’t the Hellbringer who’d bandaged my hand; maybe that part truly was a dream. Frode could have easily returned after I fell asleep. Maybe I was losing my lucidity. Maybe the realization that the Fastians were arriving in the morning had tipped me over an invisible edge. Either way, I would deal with it another time. Not on my last true night with my friends.

At the edge of the courtyard, I gazed at the descending path in front of me. The stone steps plunged for an eternity, and I took a deep breath as I began my trek to Halvar’s.

The city was quiet below me, only a few lights flickering through windows in the distance. It took a few minutes to make my way down, finally stepping onto the stone path winding through the city.

The priests prowled the godforsaken end of town, using their authority to punish anyone breaking the rules they’d imposed upon the neighborhoods. They wouldn’t dare cross me, not when the Fastians were arriving in the morning, but I avoided them all the same. It was easier to slip in and out of the shadows along the edges of buildings than have them all stare me down.

It would be a lie to say I wasn’t on high alert for the flicker of a black cloak or the carved snout of a dangerous mask peeking from behind a building. But my walk was short and uneventful. Still, I hurried, anxious to avoid trouble. Arriving at the Sharpened Axe, roof sagging and door hanging half open on its hinges, I breathed deeply to steel myself for the crowd. Drunken laughter echoed through the street, and I hugged my arms to try and keep myself warm. Through the window I caught a glimpse of Arne and Freja dancing. When they stopped to breathe before the next song started, Freja poked him in the face and he laughed, an expression of happiness he reserved only for Freja and me.

Go in. You can do it.

In the end, I didn’t have a choice. I opened the door slightly and a hand grabbed me by the wrist and tugged me into the fray, music twisting in my mind. The person who had dragged me inside pulled me into their grasp. I looked up to see Arne spinning me to the beat of the music.

I kept my footing only because I knew the steps by heart. I could do this jig in my sleep. Years of sneaking out after dark meant I had memorized all the dances, and as the tagelharpa player strummed, I lost myself in the music, shielding my injured hand from the throng.

The song ended and Arne offered me a mock bow and a raised eyebrow. I smirked at him, and he tugged on my unbandaged hand to draw me close for a kiss. Wolf whistles echoed around us, but he didn’t care.

“You’re late,” he remarked, pulling back slightly to press his lips to my cheek.

When his gaze caught on my wrapped wounds, his expression fell. He led me out of the dancing crowd to a table at the back of the tavern, where Freja sat waiting.

Arne nudged me toward a chair, and I sat, grabbing the frothing mug Freja shoved toward me. I took a long swig and winced at the taste of watered-down beer. Better than nothing; I was surprised there was beer of any kind left these days.

Arne grabbed my bandaged hand and held it up for Freja to examine. She gasped when she caught sight of the bruises blossoming around the edges of the wrapping. “You need to see a healer. Again.”

“I don’t want a healer,” I said, voice monotone. I didn’t look either of them in the eyes. A slow throb echoed through my hand. This injury wasn’t one I’d earned through insurrection. It was a self-inflicted expression of my pain.

The pain I couldn’t truly show anyone, even my friends. Not when they all had it far worse than I ever would.

Arne frowned. “Don’t be an idiot. You need a healer. Get one yourself or I’ll make you.”

I lifted the mug to my lips and took another drink instead of answering. Arguing was pointless with Arne, the only person I knew who rivaled me for stubbornness. No matter how much I fought him, my hand would be healed whether I wanted it or not.

Before I came up with a way to effectively protest Arne’s insistence that I see a healer, Halvar approached our table. His establishment was the center of life on the working side of town. A safe place for the godforsaken. The godtouched had no interest in a shabby tavern where the best drink offered was watered-down beer.

Us godforsaken, though? We cared far less about the drinks and far more about the camaraderie of our traditional dances and the lack of priests here.

Halvar grinned, offering us a gap-toothed smile. “Glad you made it,” he said, clapping me on the back with a giant hand.

I returned the expression. “Thanks for letting me come by.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re one of us. I’d never try to stop you.”

Some godforsaken disagreed. They didn’t realize I suffered too, albeit in a different way than they did because of my royal blood. It was hard to feel like I had anywhere I belonged.

But at Halvar’s those feelings of loneliness and sense of loss disappeared. Halvar’s was home.

Freja held up her mug. “To Halvar.”

We echoed her sentiment and took a swig of the beer, letting it slide down our throats. I shook my head and ran my tongue across my teeth, casting a glance over the crowd. Familiar faces mixed with those I’d never seen before: I nodded to the cobbler whose shop was only a few buildings down, smiled at a middle-aged woman radiating nervousness, and watched a dark-haired man only a few years older than me run a finger through the condensation pooling on the wooden table in front of him.

Halvar glanced at Freja. “How was your morning?” he asked, focusing on the towel in his hands.

She shrugged. “I had work.” Today had been her day off, but no one said anything in response to our usual code; she was letting us know the baby had been safely delivered to its parents, who were now on their way out of the country. I took a deep breath and relaxed slightly.

The codes were necessary for a reason. The last thing we needed was a gossip letting slip who was involved in my schemes. I was always more than happy to take the brunt of responsibility, especially knowing what would happen if my friends were caught. Freja leaned forward to rest her elbows on the table. “How’s your storeroom looking?”

Halvar scanned the crowd around us for eavesdroppers before answering. “Storeroom’s looking great.”

Anyone in town could tell you where the storeroom was in the Sharpened Axe. But the trapdoor underneath was a secret we guarded with our lives. The place Freja, Halvar, and I had sat and talked this morning was where Halvar taught us how to fight.

Halvar fancied the idea of a revolution against the priests. Overthrowing my father and brothers would be his dream come true. Over the years, he’d worked in secret to set up his underground operation, gathering weapons and teaching non-magical people in the city how to fight. As the anomaly of a godforsaken with two godtouched parents, Halvar’s mothers taught him everything he would have learned at the military academies. Determined to spread his knowledge and empower more of us, he took it upon himself to train those he trusted. By this point there were about fifty novice godforsaken swordfighters scattered throughout the city. In half an hour or so, Halvar would disappear for the night to help them keep learning, leaving his other manager in charge of the pub.

We knew it was risky to hide in plain sight, but Halvar’s place was as close as we godforsaken got to having our own temple. Enough people gathered here daily to keep suspicion away from anyone in particular, and we worked together to keep the priests out. I’d caused a ruckus on the other side of the neighborhood a time or two to turn the suspicious red eyes away from the pub.

The biggest problem with preparing to revolt was how long it took Halvar to trust a person enough to invite them. It was understandable, considering the necessity of secrecy, but it also meant I had turned my friend down several times when he’d asked me to lead a rebellion against the throne. Against the might of the Bhorglid army, fifty godforsaken soldiers were nothing. They’d slaughter us in less than a minute.

The logic didn’t disappoint or discourage him, though. He continued to train people, the hope of a revolution shining in his eyes. Arne, Freja, and I had been some of his first students.

The rebellion was why he pushed for me to try and join the Trials. “Just think,” he’d told me again and again. “If we could win the throne fairly, the priests would be forced to uphold their own teachings and let you rule. They wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.”

Every time, I shook my head. “Even if I could hold my own against four of the most powerful godtouched in the country, they’d never let a godforsaken be queen. They’d cut me down in an instant, teachings be damned.”

My mother’s words from the morning had never felt more pointed. You’re many horrible things already, daughter mine. Queen will never be one of them.

Halvar left to return to serving the rest of the godforsaken customers. Arne sipped his beer silently and adjusted his chair a few inches closer to me. He didn’t necessarily approve of the things we did to disrupt the priests, but he didn’t disapprove either. The only comment he’d ever made to me was regarding the time Freja and I had gathered buckets of dung straight from the fields of livestock and dumped them on the temple steps. Apparently he thought it was “childish and petty.” After, we never asked him to participate, and in exchange he never bothered us about it.

He did worry, though.

Arne traced his finger through the ring of condensation his mug left on the table. “I did want to tell you,” he began, voice strained, “I think your stunt this morning had more fallout than you two were expecting.”

Freja and I exchanged glances. “What do you mean?” she asked.

Arne took a deep breath and his eyes flickered up to us. “I got a conscription letter this evening.”

My heart dropped into my stomach.

Freja choked on her beer and Arne pounded her on the back while she coughed. When she could breathe again, she wiped the back of her hand over her mouth. “What the hell. You’re not godtouched. They can’t.”

“She’s right,” I whispered. The rhetoric about why godforsaken were never conscripted changed every few months—the priests couldn’t seem to decide if they kept us from the front lines due to our lack of magical abilities or because our very presence would taint the battlefield and summon the wrath of the gods. Whatever the reason, the godforsaken never fought, even if it was only to keep the economy moving while the rest of the population did the fighting.

In some ways it was a blessing. I had no doubt that, when the time came, Father would throw extra bodies in front of the enemy. The thought of my people being used as shields against the Hellbringer and an army of ruthless soldiers made my stomach turn.

If Arne was being conscripted, what would stop my father and the priests from pulling the rest of the godforsaken out to the front lines?

“How is this happening? Are all the godforsaken being conscripted?” Freja demanded.

He shook his head. “No. I’ve asked around. Only me.”

I shook my head, unable to tear the image of Arne’s lifeless body from my mind, my friend bleeding red into the snow as his eyes went glassy. This is the other half of the punishment, I realized. They are using him against me.

Freja pounded her fist on the table. “This is your father’s doing,” she spat. “Oh, I want to—”

I put a hand on her shoulder and she stopped talking. Looking around, I noticed a person or two gazing at our small group. Probably newcomers wondering what business the princess had here, but…it was always possible someone would overhear one of us get too zealous and take their news back to the king.

Freja’s voice cracked when she spoke next. “Revna, can’t you do anything?” The grief in her voice was palpable—as if she already mourned Arne, though he sat beside her. “Can’t you talk to your father?”

I clenched my teeth. “I can’t. He found out I was involved with this morning’s events and…well, I knew they were going to marry me off, but I was supposed to have another month. The entourage from Faste arrives tomorrow. Kryllian has begun encroaching on their borders and they want the alliance to go through as soon as possible. I’ll be gone by the end of the week.”

Silence fell and Arne leaned his head back. It didn’t fit—the music and the tapping of hard-soled shoes against the wood, the happy cries of the dancers stabbing sharply through the dull pain of knowing the three of us were about to part ways forever.

Freja, always upbeat, stared straight ahead at nothing.

“You can’t both leave me,” she muttered. Time snapped back to normal. She sniffed and rubbed a tear away, chugging the rest of her beer in one fell swoop. “It’s rude.”

She hid her pain behind a smile. Arne smiled back at her, albeit sadly.

“There’s no guarantee it will end badly,” he said. “I’m one of the few godforsaken lucky enough to have training with a sword.”

“You’ve always wanted to be a fighter,” Freja murmured, putting her hand on Arne’s. “I’ll see you again. If anyone can kill the Hellbringer, it’s you.”

I tried not to grimace at the thought of the Hellbringer. I didn’t dare tell them of my strange dream, not so soon after I thought I’d seen him wandering our city streets. Especially when I wasn’t sure if it was real or not.

We all had far more pressing matters to worry about.

I pushed the Hellbringer from my mind, turning my attention back to Arne. “You’ll miss the Bloodshed Trials.” I smirked. “Disappointed you won’t get to see which of my brothers is alive at the end?”

Freja snorted. “Your brothers are assholes. Well, Bjorn and Erik are. And they’ll be the last in the ring, so it’ll be interesting to see who wins. I’ll send you letters with a play-by-play of the action.”

I would miss it too, I realized with a jolt. By then, I would be married to the Fastian Prince, whisked away from my home to become nothing but a symbol of unity between countries.

I tightened my hold on my mug, but I didn’t say anything, keeping my mouth in a carefully preserved smile. How could I complain about my fate when Arne was going to war and Freja would be left alone? I’d be selfish to act as though marriage was nearly as bad.

“We should dance,” I suggested. Maybe it would help us forget about our woes.

Neither friend responded. I sighed. The weight in my stomach had returned and I dreaded the thought of going home and closing my eyes. Tomorrow I would stop being Revna and start becoming the Princess of Faste.

To distract from my morbid train of thought, I stood from the table and threw myself into the music, spinning around and around to the tempo, letting my momentum take the weight off my shoulders. Nothing freed me the way dancing did.

I spotted Arne and Freja back at the table, their heads touching as they talked, worry lines between their brows. Did Arne’s fathers mourn when they learned of his conscription? Was Freja planning to help care for his younger brother?

No, I told myself, don’t think about what happens if he doesn’t come back from the front.

Before my line of thinking could continue, the crash of the door being slammed open reverberated through the space. Many startled, hands flying to cover hearts. The music jolted to a discordant halt and those closest to the door gasped.

Catching sight of the newcomers, I scowled. Three priests stood in the doorway, filling the space so we could barely see the night behind them. They stepped in one at a time and the crowd fell silent. Their red eyes glared. A faint noise came from behind the priests. Finally, the last of them pushed through, dragging a cowering woman with him. She sobbed, trying desperately to shrink into the background.

My heart sank. The woman had a face I recognized too well. It was Freja’s mother.

Freja pushed her way through the crowd until she stood face-to-face with the priests. They held their scythes loosely in their hands.

“Let go of her,” she growled.

I moved forward to stand behind her, my head held high. I tried never to pull rank in front of my godforsaken friends, but now was worth the exception. “I command you to let go of her,” I said. My voice shook.

The priests laughed and let go of Freja’s mother, who immediately fell to the floor, shaking. Freja ran up to her and held her close, murmuring in her ear, but her mother would not allow it. “No,” she whispered, trying to push her daughter away. “No, Freja get out of here, get out—”

But before things connected, before they made sense, one of the priests grabbed Freja’s arms and wrists and placed a flat piece of metal along them. I watched as in one swift motion the metal bent, folding into perfect handcuffs.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I asked, stepping forward. I pulled my dagger from the sheath at my waist.

The crowd behind me was silent. One of the priests spoke. “I don’t think you want to fight us, Your Highness,” he said. He raised his hand, and the blade of my dagger bent in on itself, curving toward my exposed fingers. I dropped it, swearing. “We have the authority to arrest lawbreakers.”

Arne stood next to me. I’d never been more thankful for his height—he towered over the priests, looking down on them like they were children.

“She hasn’t broken the law,” I snarled. My face flushed, only Arne’s hand on my shoulder keeping me from lunging at them.

Another priest tilted his head. “Then who disrupted the new year ritual this morning?”

“I did,” I said, but my voice shook. “You caught me this morning.” I held my hands out, wrists exposed. “Take me instead.”

They couldn’t take Freja to prison. Not when her brother was on the front lines and her mother needed her. Not when prison was hell on earth. Not when she was everything, my best friend in the world.

The priest shook his head. “Your father only wants her,” the priest said. “Besides, I wouldn’t like to be the one to tell the king I arrested his daughter, would I?” As his voice turned sarcastic, I realized this was the priest who’d caught me this morning.

My throat burned. I stepped forward. “Freja—”

She shook her head wordlessly.

“Let her go,” I protested, following them into the dark street. “Please. Don’t do this.”

Cruel laughter pierced the night sky as they mounted their horses, pulling Freja up to share a saddle with her captor, and galloped away. Freja didn’t look back.