Page 5 of Blood Beneath the Snow (Blood & Souls Duology #1)

5

The dawn light woke me from a restless sleep and the night rushed back in one swift memory.

Freja’s hands, wrestled behind her back. Metal twisting around her wrists. Arne half dragging me up the mountainside and wrapping me in his arms to keep my body from shaking. He’d stayed until I fell asleep. I stretched a hand out next to me, but the bed was empty, my friend long gone.

I pulled my blanket back over my face and groaned. Not a dream. A real, living nightmare.

I needed to talk to my father and convince him he’d made a mistake.

All I could imagine was Freja, her cheerful demeanor dampened as she sat in the corner of a cold cell, chained to the wall. I shivered. I wouldn’t wish prison on anyone, especially not in the winter.

This was entirely my fault. I would do anything to make it right.

When I opened my eyes again, I caught sight of a piece of paper on my nightstand with my name on it. I frowned and pulled it open.

Revna,

I’m going to visit Freja tonight. Don’t bother your father about this; he’ll only continue to take it out on her. Our first priority must be keeping her safe.

Arne

I swallowed hard, the knot in my throat sinking to the bottom of my stomach. Arne was right—if I spoke out of turn to my father, he would take it out on Freja. He already had; he was using her to get back at me. My status was high enough that, despite the priests’ dislike of me, they wouldn’t imprison me without direct orders.

Freja was not so lucky.

I clenched my teeth. Father had found my weak spot.

The door opened and my mother entered, holding an elaborate gown. “Get up. The Fastians will be here in half an hour.”

I reached up to rub my forehead, where a pounding headache had made its home. The image of Freja, shivering and cold, danced through my mind again. I fought against a wave of nausea.

Meeting my fiancé was the last thing I wanted to do today.

My right hand twitched, and a throb of searing pain shot through my fingers and up to my wrist. I grimaced. Somehow, in all the chaos, I’d forgotten about my broken fingers.

“Could you send up the healer? I have a headache.”

My mother’s frown managed to deepen further as she kicked my dirty clothes into a corner. On any other day, she would have procured a chunk of ice with her godtouch and that would have been the only respite for my throbbing skull. Today, though, I knew she wouldn’t want to risk me being out of it when the entourage arrived. “Out drinking again. Why am I not surprised?”

I rolled my eyes. “I can hear you.”

“You were supposed to.”

“Are you going to send Waddell or not?” I was already in a bad enough mood; this was making it worse.

“Fine. You’d better be outside when the delegation arrives.”

She made sure to slam the door behind her.

Waddell arrived minutes later and did his job efficiently. Because my mother had sent him, he knew better than to demand a payment from me this time. I had to look away when he healed my broken knuckles; the loud crack of bones snapping into place was jarring. Watching the blood from the bruises flow back to my veins was fascinating, though. Ten minutes later my hand was good as new, my hangover was gone, and I was alone once more.

I glanced at the gown my mother had left on the chair. When I rose and picked it up, thick green fabric slid between my fingers. Intricate beadwork and endless jewels I couldn’t identify cascaded down the layers of skirts. How was I supposed to wear something so heavy? Was it meant to be worn all day? It differed widely from my own wardrobe of simple linen dresses, casual pants, and tight shirts.

I hoped it was ceremonial. Surely the royal women in Faste didn’t dress like this every day. If they did, no one would get any farming done.

Once dressed, I slipped my shoes on and headed out the door, holding back a groan when I realized the gown was longer than I had anticipated. The silky green fabric dragged on the ground behind me, and if I wasn’t careful, falling down the stairs would become my legacy.

Twisting my hands in the fabric, I gathered it up enough not to risk an untimely demise on my way to the courtyard. I imagined Freja trying to stifle her laugh behind her hand at the sight of me in such finery.

I rubbed a hand over my chest. It hurt to breathe when I thought about her. I ignored another wave of nausea—vomiting on the prince probably wasn’t the best way to start our relationship.

As I descended the stairs, I mulled over Arne’s letter. To him, it wasn’t worth the risk of talking to my father and trying to make a plea for Freja’s freedom. But what if it was? My father wouldn’t be cruel enough to keep her imprisoned, not after I’d been sent off to Faste…would he?

Panic settled over me and the pain in my chest sharpened. Would he keep her there after I was gone? Was Freja destined to live the rest of her life as a prisoner?

Her curls would flatten. Dark circles would find permanent homes beneath her eyes. Her dark skin would wither and the muscles she’d strengthened through the years with hours of training and swordfighting would atrophy. Her once cheerful voice would be hoarse and ragged from disuse.

I stopped walking and gulped in a breath. No. No. I wouldn’t let that happen. I would find time to talk to my father. I had to.

To my left, voices echoed from behind a heavy wooden door, distracting me from my thoughts. The council was in session, which meant leaders from the six provinces of Bhorglid were gathered with the king to discuss the newest developments in the war and the impact it was having on their people. I frowned. The last council had been only a few months ago, and they typically only occurred twice a year. Why were they gathered now, especially with the Fastian royals arriving today?

A quick glance in either direction told me I was alone in the corridor. I kept my steps quiet as I leaned forward to press my ear against the closed door. The voices were easy to hear, something my brothers and I had discovered long ago when we were just children eager to be involved in our father’s responsibilities.

The murmured words coalesced into a war report: “—finding the Hellbringer,” my father was saying. I tensed, leaning closer. I still wasn’t sure if the general in my room last night had been a dream, but I hadn’t been able to shake the feeling of hands gently combing through my hair.

Noises of approval echoed through the room. Another voice asked, “What about these reports of the Hellbringer searching for something? And the suggestion that he’s looking for it in our own cities?”

I sucked in a breath. They’d mentioned yesterday that the terrifying general was on the hunt for something, but to be looking for it here ? This was new information entirely.

The king continued smoothly, “He may be searching for something, but if he is in our cities, he will be caught. Our priests are hallowed men, ordained by the pantheon themselves. They have the foresight needed to know where the Hellbringer will strike next.”

I chewed my lip. This all but confirmed it: the man I’d seen yesterday was most certainly the Hellbringer. Was he following me? Why had he observed me as I slept instead of killing me outright? Was I connected to whatever he was looking for?

“And the alliance with Faste? Are those heathens still committed to helping us?” This voice was new, tinged with bitterness.

Father attempted to soothe them. “The alliance solidifies our next move. When the war is won, we will be Faste’s trusted companions. It will provide the best chance for us to proceed with our conquest. Once we have Kryllian under our belt, we can move on to other pursuits.”

A firm hand wrapped around my upper arm and hauled me to my feet. I started, turning, and was met with my mother’s scowl. I winced when her nails dug into my soft flesh, her fingers cold as the ice she commanded with her magic.

“Eavesdropping?” she demanded. “I thought you knew better. Your father will have a word with you later. The delegation will be here any minute. Go wait outside with your brothers.” She shoved me in their direction before opening the council room doors and walking in.

Huffing with indignance, I stomped to the front of the castle and stepped outside to take my place in line next to Bjorn. The sky was filled with gray clouds and my brothers stood stoically, waiting for the Fastians to arrive.

“You’re late,” Bjorn observed. “Run into priests on your way home from Halvar’s?”

So he knew. I dug my fingernails into my palms, hoping the pain would distract me. It didn’t work.

“You’re such an ass,” I muttered.

He laughed. “That’s the best you’ve got? You’re off your game today.”

I scowled and forced my hands to my sides. For all I knew, he had been the one to suggest Freja’s arrest. Where was a brutal godtouch when I needed one?

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Soon enough the prince will take you away to Faste and you’ll never have to see any of us again.” His smile was wicked.

I bared my teeth. “Good riddance.”

Bjorn was suddenly yanked back by a firm hand. Erik. “If you two can’t behave yourselves, then I suppose you need to be separated like children,” he said, his voice dry and unamused. He dragged Bjorn to the other side of the line and shoved him into place.

I scooted over to make up for the space he’d left behind. Now I stood next to Frode.

He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “How’s your hand?”

My lips tightened into a straight line. “Fine.”

“Are you looking forward to meeting the prince?”

I rolled my eyes. “Drop the pleasantries, Frode. I’m not in the mood.”

“I heard about Freja,” he said. He kept his voice low so Bjorn wouldn’t overhear. “When are you going to talk to Father?”

“I don’t know,” I said. Without warning, my eyes began to fill with tears. What if I didn’t get the opportunity to talk to him before he rushed me away to be a bride?

Frode put a hand on my back. “Keep the tears in,” he said softly. “Don’t let him break you.”

I took a shaky breath and steadied myself while Frode chatted on, trying to distract me. “I for one am not excited to see the delegation. Fastians don’t know how to keep their thoughts to themselves. They’re so loud . You’ll fit right in.” He rubbed his temple as if he could already hear them.

I chuckled through my shallow breaths. Frode always knew how to make me smile. “If you manage to get away from the fun, take me with you,” I said.

He gave me a sidelong glance. “Not likely, but I’ll do my best.”

We fell silent. I wondered when I would see Arne again. He could tell me how Freja was doing.

Frode leaned toward me, evidently listening in on my thoughts. “Father told me they were conscripting him,” he muttered, careful to keep his voice low. “I tried to talk them out of it, but…well, you know what happens to me when we get to the front lines. They don’t exactly respect my opinion.”

A chill that had nothing to do with the wind ran through me as I thought back to when we were younger. I was only eight when Frode came home from his first stint in the war, utterly broken. I found him in his room seconds before he slid a dull knife over his wrists. The voices were too loud in his mind at the battle sites, the unspoken pain of the dying and fearful soldiers wreaking havoc on my gentle brother. I’d begged Father to let him stay home, but to no avail. So, whether he wanted to or not, Frode had gotten used to it.

As used to it as a person could be, at least.

He shook his head. “Things were…worse this time around.” He paused for a moment, and I resisted the urge to put a hand on his arm, wishing I could take the thoughts from him. “We are losing. Badly. The troops are growing weak. We lose soldiers in battles and we lose them from starvation. This alliance is the only thing that will save us.”

I would have answered if I hadn’t heard the sound of horses riding up the northern trail leading to the castle. Sure enough, the Fastian delegation appeared over the crest of the hill. Two carriages, both black, were pulled by majestic white horses. Soldiers in uniform were perched on the sides of each, keeping careful watch for enemies.

The carriage rolled to a halt in front of us and five people exited. I recognized two of them—the king and queen—from their former diplomatic visits to the castle. The younger man who stepped out behind them must have been the prince. He was dressed in finery and his ebony skin matched the king and queen’s.

They dismounted and approached. The other two members of their party were guards—they wore Fastian green, the same shade as my dress. Weapons were sheathed discreetly at their hips.

I glanced at the prince, standing behind his parents. He nodded at me, and I returned the gesture. Might as well keep things friendly.

“Welcome,” my father said, taking the queen’s hand and pressing his lips to it. He’d stepped into the courtyard right as the carriages appeared. It was strange to see my father in his royal finery. Since the war started, he rarely put it on. The red coat made his shoulders look broader. A white sash with red leaves embroidered along it ran from his shoulder to his hip. “Thank you for coming.”

The King of Faste wore a haughty expression. His long blue cloak was lined with fur and grazed the ground. He had a beard cropped close to his face, matching his dark, curly hair. “We are anxious to see our end of the deal come to fruition,” he said, casting a look in my direction.

What an ass. I wanted to punch him in the face.

The prince chewed his lip. His face was nearly identical to his father’s: same nose, same downward curve of the mouth. He was handsome, but I knew nothing about his personality. Did he wish this wasn’t happening? Were his parents using him as a pawn the way mine were using me?

After enough pleasantries were exchanged, the royalty and their guards were invited into the sitting room to discuss politics. I was grateful—goose bumps ran up my arms and my teeth chattered in the morning air.

When we took our seats on the plush couches, I made sure to sit next to Frode. My mother scowled at me, obviously wishing I had chosen to sit next to the prince, but I ignored her look and settled in for the political talk.

Is the prince feeling as awkward about this as I am? I thought, hoping Frode was listening.

He was. Frode offered me a strained smile and nodded. The Fastians must be thinking louder than he expected—Frode looked like he was in physical pain.

“Headache,” he whispered.

Across from us, the two kings discussed the war. “If you aren’t careful to keep your army in control of the situation, you could end up with two fronts for this war,” the King of Faste said. “We do not want Kryllian attacking our territory. This is your conquest, not ours.”

My father leaned back in his chair before replying. “Kryllian will not risk splitting their troops, especially not when we have them cornered in the wastes. Their tactical choice to try and surprise us by coming from the north was only the first of many mistakes they’ve made. Rest assured, we have the advantage.”

A servant arrived with cups of tea and Frode grabbed him by the arm, whispering something in his ear. The young man glanced at my father uncertainly, but Frode touched his chin lightly until the boy looked straight at him again. The boy nodded and left the room on whatever errand he’d been sent on.

“ Do you have them cornered?” the Fastian King asked. “Last I heard, the Hellbringer was wreaking havoc on your armies. Will it be long before you’re forced to enlist your non-magical people?”

The room fell silent. I wondered what silent conversations were happening between my father and my brothers. Surely they wouldn’t admit to conscripting the first godforsaken in the ranks mere hours before the Fastians’ arrival. I risked a glance at the prince. He was listening intently to the conversation, a clear frown on his face, chin propped up by his hand.

“We feel it is important for every citizen to have a chance to fight for their country,” Erik said, his voice a deeper timbre than the Fastian King’s. Something twisted uncomfortably in my stomach at the lie. “Godtouched or not, Bhorglid’s citizens are united in the fight against our enemies.”

It took every ounce of self-control to hold in my scoff. I was only successful because Frode reached over and put a hand on my knee, obviously aware of the fury building inside me. How dare they pretend we were a united people? How dare they pretend we were all equals?

To claim the godtouched and godforsaken were united in anything was as blasphemous as rejecting the pantheon itself.

“This war is one of magical proportions,” the Fastian King countered. “Kryllian has the Hellbringer on their side. They will not hold back if Faste is left undefended. We have negotiated much of our alliance already, but in case it was not made clear”—he turned to stare directly at my father—“we expect any troops you send to protect our lands to be Lurae.”

I glanced at Frode when the unfamiliar term was spoken. He leaned over and muttered, “That’s what the rest of the world calls the godtouched. Lurae. ”

Father’s knuckles whitened almost imperceptibly, but I swallowed and sat up straighter. The King of Faste was no pushover. I wouldn’t be surprised if an all-out brawl were to begin in front of us all.

But Father’s cruel smile told another story. “Of course not. We are fully aware of how much we benefit from this alliance. My daughter could never be enough to make up for that on her own.”

All eyes turned to me at the jab. I squared my shoulders and kept my face neutral. Father knew I was about to snap. The moment I did, he’d use it against me. Against Arne, against Freja. He had me right where he wanted me.

The prince frowned. I waited for the pity to appear, but it never did. His parents remained silent on either side of him, studying my expression.

The servant returned then with an empty glass and a tall bottle of wine, offering them to Frode. I glanced at my brother, my eyes widening. Alcohol was as rare and precious as food these days. Had my brother really sent this young servant to the cellars to retrieve a full bottle?

Frode smirked, answer enough to my unspoken question. “There won’t be any need for the glass,” he told the servant. The young boy nodded respectfully and took the cork from Frode once it was out of the bottle.

My father’s mouth curled in disgust and Mother looked absolutely furious. Frode only offered them a charismatic grin.

What would I do without you around to keep things interesting? I asked Frode.

“Probably behave yourself,” he muttered as he placed the bottle to his lips and began to chug, a small trickle of red spilling out the corner of his mouth.

The King of Faste snorted. I restrained the growl in my throat, leaping to defend Frode. A dizzy mind was the only way he could keep the voices at bay. “Apologies for my children,” Father said, trying to draw the attention away from Frode and back to himself. “Let’s save the war talk for later.” Was it nervousness hiding at the edge of his words? The Fastians were discerning, and he was weak in the face of it.

I leaned back, my mind wandering as the conversation turned to purely political gossip. If I were in charge, there would be no war; instead, we’d have diplomatic relationships with all our neighbors. An alliance with Faste would be only for our countries’ mutual benefit, not for survival. Arne wouldn’t be risking his life as a godforsaken on the front lines. Freja wouldn’t be in jail. Frode would stay home and do what he liked here instead of going to the front lines to be tortured by the screams and thoughts of the dying. Jac would be the general of the armies—he was good at what he did. And he would keep the peace much better than Bjorn could.

I almost snorted thinking of Bjorn in charge of the armies. In charge of the kingdom. I had no doubt the war would escalate as soon as he became king. Father had all but confirmed it to the council only an hour before—“Continue moving our conquest forward” had been his exact words.

When the conversation slipped into talk of the upcoming engagement party, it became clear the alcohol had gone straight to Frode’s head. “Shut up,” he groaned. The empty bottle of wine sat discarded at his feet and he pressed a shaking hand to his temple. “If you’re going to think I’m a drunkard, you might as well say it.” A wide, lopsided grin filled his face and he turned to look at Father. “After all, it’s true.”

I sighed. If Frode didn’t ramble so much with alcohol in his system, it wouldn’t matter, but…

“Bjorn, take your brother to his room,” Father snarled. His fingernails dug into the fabric adorning the arms of the chair he sat in.

Bjorn stood, but I held out my hand. “I’ll take him,” I offered. “He says my thoughts are the easiest to deal with.” Besides, I had asked Frode to take me with him if he found a way to get out of here.

Bjorn rolled his eyes and sat as I got to my feet and pulled one of Frode’s arms over my shoulders. He was incredibly underweight, and lifting him didn’t feel like even the slightest of burdens. The prince stood, too. “I’ll help.” Before I could give him permission, he stepped to Frode’s other side.

I wanted to snap at him, tell him I could do it myself, but he had already started moving us toward the door. Frode hung limp in our arms, humming a tune I hadn’t heard in years—a lullaby Mother used to sing me when she’d considered it worth pretending she loved us all equally. Pretending she wasn’t disgusted by me, wasn’t preparing my brothers to be part of the ritual sacrifice of heirs the moment they were grown.

I swallowed the lump forming in my throat.

“Third floor,” I told the prince as we approached the staircase. He nodded and I sighed. “Look, I can carry him on my own. You should go back to the sitting room. Talk politics. I’m fine.”

“You think I have any interest in being in there?” he said. “I would do anything to leave. Seems like you would, too.”

I chuckled. “Was it that obvious?”

He grinned. “You’re pretty easy to read.”

“So I’ve been told,” I said, shifting Frode’s weight on my shoulder. My brother giggled and I rolled my eyes.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” the prince continued. “In advance. I know it’s not love, but our marriage will be good for both of our countries. I think we can manage to make it work and both be happy.”

I digested his words for a moment. It was a straightforward way to begin our relationship; I couldn’t fault him for that. “I hope you’re right. What’s your name?”

“Volkan.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Revna.”

“Are you looking forward to our engagement party?”

I glanced at him, and his eyes were so sincere, I decided to be honest. “No. I’m nothing more than a pawn here.”

He sighed. “That’s a familiar sentiment.” Volkan hesitated, dark eyes lingering on my face before he set his jaw. “Has anyone told you why my parents were so desperate to arrange a marriage for me?”

“No.” Embarrassment gathered in my chest. I knew so little about my fiancé. “I assumed it was to ensure your people weren’t targeted after Kryllian falls.”

“Half right,” Volkan informed me. “But there’s another half to the story as well. My parents do their best to keep it a secret, so I don’t blame you for not knowing.” He glanced away, and I had the distinct impression he was nervous about meeting my gaze. “Romantic intentions between partners of the same sex have been outlawed in Faste for generations.”

My brows flew up. We’d stopped walking, Frode hanging limply between us. Of all the scenarios I’d pictured, my fiancé being gay was not one of them. Especially when, despite all of Bhorglid’s flaws, queer people were commonplace. Halvar liked men, Freja was asexual, and even I often eyed women with more than simple appreciation. One of Arne’s fathers was transgender. “But…why would they force you to marry me?”

The prince’s smile was sad. “When I was old enough to realize what it meant to like boys, I thought I could do the country a favor by speaking with my parents about it. Encouraging them to change their ways. You can see how my plan turned out.”

“They forced you into an arranged marriage.” Hiding the horror in my voice was impossible.

My fiancé shrugged. “I’ve come to terms with it. None of this is your fault. I only tell you this much because, first, I want to be upfront and honest about the nature of our future marriage, and second, because you’re not the only pawn here. We’re both being used.”

I let out a shuddering breath. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Volkan’s laugh was surprisingly bright. “I certainly hope not.”

We walked in silence until I pushed open Frode’s bedroom door. The room itself was a mess, with clothes strewn everywhere. The bed was unmade, and the stench of vomit drifted from the bathroom. I pulled the neckline of my dress around my nose and Volkan took Frode from me.

As Volkan laid him down on the bed, Frode called out for me, his words slurred together.

I came to his bedside and squeezed his hand. “If you were trying to get out of all your responsibilities, you did a phenomenal job,” I told him with a laugh. “Father will definitely leave you alone today.”

Frode laughed, sounding like a child. “Hey,” he said, tugging on my sleeve. I leaned in to hear what he mumbled. “You’d be a good queen. Way better than Bjorn.”

Instantly, my brother fell into a deep sleep, and his snores reverberated around the closed room. I put my finger over my lips and Volkan followed me out. The door was silent as I latched it behind us.

You’d be a good queen.

“Your brother clearly cares deeply for you,” Volkan mused as we began a slow return to the sitting room. Neither of us was anxious to get there quickly. “I hope one day you will be a good queen, when we rule Faste together.”

I flicked my gaze at him briefly. His face was open and sincere, dark eyes warm—but disappointment pooled in my stomach at his words all the same. “No offense, Your Highness, but being queen of a country I don’t belong to doesn’t sound very enticing.”

His throat bobbed with a swallow. “No,” he murmured. “It doesn’t, does it? Apologies.”

I shrugged, rubbing the heavy fabric of my skirts between my fingers. “Seems we were both raised for higher purposes we don’t agree with.”

We reached the sitting room doors once more. Volkan’s smile was sad now, emotions I couldn’t interpret flickering over his expression. “It does seem that way.”

We were quiet for a moment before he continued. “I know things won’t ever be perfect between us,” he said. “I won’t lie to you and say I could love you—not in the way a marriage should entail. But you seem like a good person. I’m not going to keep you on a leash after we’re married.”

I turned to look at him, tilting my head. Of all the qualities I’d considered my fiancé having, kindness had never crossed my mind. The political world was ruthless, and I expected him to be the same. But maybe he was different.

“The same applies to you,” I said, trying to act nonchalant about the matter. “If you have someone else you care for, I won’t stand in the way.”

I wanted him to tell me if there was someone else, but he sidestepped my unspoken question. “We’d better get back,” he said, holding open the door to the sitting room.

I entered, and all eyes turned to me. As Volkan and I took our seats and the political chatter resumed, I couldn’t help but feel a twist of guilt in my chest.

My marriage wouldn’t be bad. I’d go on to live a life of near freedom. But in exchange I would have to leave Freja behind as a prisoner and Arne on the front lines as a sacrifice to the holy war.

I took a deep breath. There was no way to win; my father had ensured it when he planned out my use.