Page 26 of Polestar (The Global Paranormal Security Agency #3)

TWENTY-ONE

“K eep it locked,” Elias Magnusson barked at the lockmaster, who accepted his order with a nod.

Elias jogged back up through the winding corridors of the dungeons, up the stone staircases and through the back halls to the family’s private living quarters. Where his father should stay, rather than in a dank cell, chained with meteor metal.

He didn’t stop until he was in the privacy of his bedroom, where he leaned back against the wall, chest heaving, both from the run and the shock of Magnus roaring full-bear in his face.

‘Ulla gave my Ana to those traffickers.’

Would Mother do that?

Elias thought they just ignored the human world. It was of no consequence to Barentia. Except for entertainment. Yvan entertained his mother. Elias had satellite television to keep him entertained.

Entertained or distracted?

He’d noticed how easy it was to lose hours watching nonsense.

Nonsense that his grandfather would never allow.

Grandfather.

Elias felt the sudden urge to visit the old man. Guilt panged in his chest, realizing he had not visited him much since he fell ill.

He immediately left his room, striding toward his grandfather’s. As he approached, Havard stepped away from the wall, blocking Elias’ access.

“Havard? Step aside, I’m here to visit with my grandfather.”

“He rests. You may come back later.” He said, toneless.

“I won’t disturb him. I just want to sit with him for a little while.”

“Come back later when he’s awake.”

“But I—.”

“No, your highness. He is not to be disturbed.”

Elias blinked at Havard’s denial of his order, refusing to move out of his path.

Havard had never refused him access to his grandfather before. Ever.

He stared at Elias as though he were just another servant. He didn’t lower his gaze to meet Elias’, as he used to do. Instead, he stood so that his body blocked the path, chin lifted.

Elias noted the black marking partially obscured by Havard’s beard. “What new tattoo is that, Havard?” He gestured toward his own throat.

Havard glanced down at Elias then. Uncertainty glimmered in his eyes. “All of my sigils are representations of my lineages, or for my position.”

“Huh, I’ve never seen that particular one. What is it for? It’s new since the shaman left us. Who did the ceremony for it?”

Havard frowned. “It is a mark of my unfailing duty to my king. The regent had her trusted servant perform the ritual.”

“I see.” Elias said, swallowing. His shoulders twitched against the sudden tightening in his muscles.

Sacrilegious. A human outsider performing shamanic rites?

“Havard, has my grandfather mentioned when a new shaman will be chosen from our priests?”

The older man jerked his head in the negative.

“Are you sure I can’t just slip in and sit with him? I promise not to disturb his rest.”

“No.” The scowl deepened.

If Havard won’t let me in, I’ll just go around him.

He turned on his heels, walking back the way he’d come, rounding the corner. He passed two other guards, neither of whom, as far as he could tell, bore the same tattoo that Havard had.

Another right turn and a quick glance up and down the corridor to ensure he was alone as he approached his destination. He tried the handle.

Locked.

No matter. Elias was deft with locks. Before his mother brought the outside world to his room with television, Elias had spent his life inside this stronghold. Locked doors meant something interesting.

He pulled his familiar long metal needles from his deep pocket, inserting them into the lock.

With a few deft twists, the lock released, and the latch gave way under his hand.

He dropped the lock picks back into his pocket as he pushed the door open, stepped inside and quickly closed it again before someone saw him, slipping the lock back into place.

Turning, he gasped.

The shaman’s normally pristine quarters appeared as though a wild animal had rampaged throughout the space.

His carefully cataloged library of books and scrolls was nearly empty except for the odd discarded, unrolled sheet lying haphazardly.

The shelves of neatly labeled ingredients were even more bare.

Furniture stood askew, pulled away from walls, drawers open, contents spilling out.

Ancient tapestries torn from the walls, strewn around and discarded in heaps.

Tears stung his eyes as he stared.

He swallowed the revulsion of the disrespectful violation of the shaman’s private rooms.

Who would do this? This domain should have been preserved for the use of the next shaman.

Elias sucked in a breath and approached the wall of solid oak shelves.

He ran his fingers over the carved scroll work of leafy vines.

Once he located the exact etched leaf he wanted, he pressed.

It gave under the pressure of his fingertip, sinking into the polished wood until it resisted with only a click.

One entire unit of shelves slid into the wall behind it far enough to allow a person to slip into the space between the front of the shelf and the back of the room’s wall, still supporting the other shelves.

Elias’ grandfather and the shaman had begun grooming him for kingship.

That all stopped when the shaman suddenly died in an accidental fall down the servants’ stairs.

Then his grandfather had become ill and retreated into his private rooms, which Elias was about to enter from the secret passage that not only connected these rooms, but many others in the stronghold.

He was mindful to close the secret door before opening the next. That was the rule.

“Don’t leave a gaping trail after you.” His grandfather had said, when the two elderly men were divulging their secrets to him, once the serious training had begun.

Elias recalled how excited he’d been to stand in the narrow, darkened path, itching to explore anew. He’d thought he knew every nook and cranny of the stronghold. He’d been wrong. Happily so.

Does father know of these secret passages too?

He faced the second secret door in the blackness, surrounded by the sounds of his own breathing, which he willed to slow so that he could hear if anyone waited on the other side. He didn’t want to run into anyone by accident.

Elias remained still, listening. Scenting. The tang of stone and ancient wood mingled with a millennium of dust tickled his nose and coated his tongue. There were only the lingering scents of his grandfather and the shaman’s presence.

As far as he could tell, no one else had accessed this passage.

He waited another moment in silence to ensure no one moved inside his grandfather’s room before his fingers found the switch in the dark and pressed.

He stepped away as the shelf-laden wall slid back as its opposite had done, and Elias slipped into the gap.

The pungent scent of illness was a thick cloud in his grandfather’s room. There were no electric lights here, and only the fireplace cast some light from its neglected embers.

Elias pressed the switch to close the secret door.

He approached the bed on silent feet. His Grandfather’s diminished figure slept under the layers of quilts.

Elias swallowed a gasp, blinking away the sudden onslaught of tears blurring his vision as he stared at the sallow face. He had looked unwell in the great hall. He looked even worse now.

His chest barely moved under the covers.

True to what he’d told Havard, Elias had no desire to disturb his grandfather’s rest. He didn’t bother moving a chair closer to the bedside. Instead, he knelt, resisting the urge to reach out to touch the elderly man.

Bjorn Thornsson was not a warm man by nature, but Elias had never doubted his grandfather’s fondness for him.

He’d felt it in the way he’d looked at him, the change in his voice when he instructed him, and the pride in his expression when Elias succeeded at a task.

Occasionally, Bjorn would lay a hand on Elias’ shoulder and often, that was enough.

He wanted nothing more than to feel that solid presence. That reassurance of his grandfather’s strength.

Bjorn’s eyes cracked open, and he tilted his head toward Elias.

“Elias,” the older man said on an exhale.

“Grandfather,” Elias whispered, trying to control the emotions choking him. “I didn’t know you were so ill.”

Bjorn’s throat worked as though he struggled to work words up to his mouth.

Elias shot to his feet, rushing toward a small table bearing a pitcher and cup, where he poured water for Bjorn.

“Here,” he eased his arm under Bjorn’s shoulders to raise him enough to drink.

He took several tentative sips and closed his eyes with a sigh.

Elias helped him lie back, then returned the cup to the table.

“Grandfather, what has happened? The shaman is gone, you’re ill, and Havard is behaving oddly. He’s so determined to keep me out, I had to use the secret way in.”

Anger flared in the old man’s eyes as he reached toward his throat. His fingers shook as he pulled at the collar of his sleep shirt. “Can’t…” he puffed, panting as he struggled to find words.

Elias gasped.

“… speak,” he finally managed.

“The sigil. Is it magic?”

Bjorn gave a weak nod.

“What does it do? Havard said mother gave it to him for his dedication.”

“Heh,” Bjorn laughed, his head rolled from side to side. “No.”

“But who? Why?” Elias asked, voice rising.

“Hshhh,” Bjorn cautioned, hand wavering out toward Elias with his eyes closed.

He’s so exhausted.

“Ulla.”

Elias’ entire body turned more frigid than any arctic swimming he’d ever engaged in.

No.

His mind raced.

It’s not true. There’s no proof. None .

Except for the strange tattoos that the shaman had not etched, by Barentian tradition.

No.

“Magnus?”

“Chained in the dungeon, waiting for his execution.” Elias couldn’t hide the bitterness from his voice.

Pain clouded Bjorn’s eyes before he closed them. “Let him go. When your mother is distracted. Use the tunnels.” He drew a deep breath. “Tell him… I’m sorry.”

“I can bring him here to see you, Grandfather.”

Bjorn shook his head. “No time. Let him go and…and you hide until he comes back for you.”

Elias stared in confusion, heart pounding. “I don’t understand.”

“Promise,” Bjorn panted. “I don’t have long, Elias. Promise!”

“Sire?” Havard queried through the door. The latch turned, and Elias threw himself under Bjorn’s bed. Havard’s boots appeared, inches from Elias’ nose. “Rest, sire. Mistress Ulla will return tomorrow with more medicine to give you strength to oversee the execution.”

The edge of the covers shifted as Havard adjusted them over his king before returning to his post outside.

As soon as the door closed, Elias slid out from under the bed.

“Go,” Bjorn said with some of his usual steel returning to his voice, though he kept it low.

“I can’t leave you like this, Grandfather.”

“I command it.”

There was no more room for argument as Elias held Bjorn’s clear gaze.

Deep down, Elias feared he wouldn’t see his grandfather alive again. Shoving his dark thoughts aside, he said, “I love you, Grandfather.”

Bjorn’s expression softened as he brought his hand to Elias’ cheek. “And I, you, my boy. Now save your father, since I can’t.”