Page 12

A round the runes on the walls and ceiling of the grand hall, a thousand candles flicker.

Under them, the wedding guests sit at long, opulent tables laden with delicacies, or dance to the melody of bone flutes and harps.

All wear finely crafted masks: golden suns, carved antlers, feathers of rare birds.

It’s a colourful sight, but there’s a heaviness in the air, an unease.

Their masks all say they are here, they are happy for the couple, but behind the masks they are there , outside the castle, concerned what the next days will bring.

I too crave understanding. What has been done to Harmoria? Will Florentius and Akilah be safe?

What other things is Quin here to do?

He said he’d be here—he and his brother. But where?

My gaze searches the sea of masks and swirling silks, catching clips of laughter and the clinking of goblets. And then, it snags on a flicker of light over bare skin. Bared skin at this elaborate wedding feast?

In the middle of the thrumming hall, I freeze.

My stomach dives. There, on the raised podium where the king presides, flanked by eternal flame, Quin kneels—head bowed, shoulders naked, clad in traditional tribal garb.

Braided leather criss-crosses his torso, showing diamonds of smooth skin.

His arms are wrapped in leather with fur, from his belt hangs a dagger, and.

.. resting against his chest, my flutette.

Why is he so close to the king? With so little on? Surely King Yngvarr will recognise him!

Behind his table, King Yngvarr rises. His intricate beaded mask catches the light as he pulls it away, revealing his cold, calculating face.

My heart pounds against my ribs.

And then King Yngvarr gestures.

No.

You can’t obey this command! You can’t remove your mask!

A chill steals up my spine. If the king sees him, if he recognises him, it’ll all be over. Before I can shout, the king will have his sharp blade at Quin’s throat.

Panic punches me and I shove through the guests, trying to close this giant chasm between us. My shoulders slam into a perfumed heiress and wine spills from her goblet onto my white robe.

I hear her shriek but I don’t listen. Someone yanks me into a traditional lovers’ dance, but I yank free, burning to shout. Don’t. Get away, now. He almost killed you once, he won’t hesitate again.

On the podium, Quin reaches a hand to his mask .

My heart stutters, pounding so hard I can’t hear the flute or the harp.

Don’t do it. Quin, please. Don’t.

His fingers brush the edge of the leather at his face. I cry but my voice is stuck.

And then—

The mask slips off.

The hall tilts into a mass of swirling colour as I retch, waiting for the king’s expression to shift, waiting for his blade to scream out of its sheath, waiting for...

It doesn’t happen.

King Yngvarr’s expression doesn’t alter. He steps forward and gestures Quin to his feet.

I buckle as the king points to a seat at the lower end of the table and catch myself on a nearby guest.

Before Quin seats himself, he turns to a burly leather-clad man waiting behind him and nods; the burly man pivots and ploughs into the crowd.

I overhear a lady nearby exclaiming with a shudder, “Who is that with the king?”

Another answers, “I heard the jarls are offering their assistance against the Wyrds.”

“I hope a face as frightening as that will scare them back west.”

I spin to the young ladies and with a funny lurch in my chest ask them what is so frightening.

“It’s not just the paint on his face and his arms. These jarls are fierce. They never back down. One look at them has me glad they’re on our side. ”

They move on and I’m left staring towards the high table. Paint? There isn’t any paint in sight, not his arms, nor his face.

All I see is soulful eyes, and my favourite jaw.

The burly leathered man Quin spoke to halts before me. He has runes and symbols of the god of war painted on his cheeks and down his arms. “There you are,” he says, his voice meaty and unfamiliar.

When I stare, he grimaces and leans close. “Don’t you recognise me, Amuletos.”

I snap my eyes to the ink on that unrecognisable face. Nicostratus? I don’t detect any scent, let alone...

He speaks, but I’m stepping around him, gazing at the podium.

“I’ve seen better disguises on you. I see right through this.”

“As I saw right through yours.”

My chest swells and I ball my robe.

Casimira swishes to my side and murmurs to Nicostratus before whispering in my ear, “You’re giving yourself away.”

I whirl around to look at her and the frowning, brutish Nicostratus . I swallow. “It’s my aunt’s wedding. What King Yngvarr doing with... that jarl?”

Nicostratus’s frown vanishes.

I forge on, stomach plummeting, “Is he here to aid in this war? Is the situation very dangerous?”

Nicostratus plants a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you and Casimiria back to Lumin.”

That was not my question !

Casimiria lays a hand on my rigid arm and pats. “King Yngvarr will reward those who help him against the Wyrds.”

I suck in a breath. Quin is going into battle—his men alongside the Skeldars, under the guise of rural jarls.

“Why jarls?”

“It’s the only way,” Casimiria says. “Yngvarr won’t accept Lumin aid.”

I know the answer, but I dare to speak the question anyway. I must . I look at Nicostratus. “What about your brother? Is he safe?”

Nicostratus narrows his eyes. “Once you’re safe, I’ll lead our men to meet him.” He steps closer with a pointed glance to Quin, as if to tell me that tribesman is him. As if he believes I don’t know—or hopes as much. “I’ll live or die by his side.”

Aware he’s being watched, Quin looks over the hall in our direction. His gaze strolls impassively over me like I’m nothing more than background noise, and hesitates on Nicostratus. To whom he nods quietly before blankly looking past me again and returning his gaze to the king.

I know he told me to act like I don’t know him; I know he’s refusing to look at me for my safety and his own; I know he needs to be indifferent.

I also know... I do not like it.

My attention is jerked to Nicostratus, who is hauling me close and whispering against my ear. “We escape during the dropping of the runes. During the frenzy.”

I quickly step back. His eyes sharpen on the sudden space between us, and he casts his frown towards the podium.

“What about our things?” My books? My soldad? My clasp?

My dromveske.

“Things can always be replaced,” he grinds out.

I shake my head and bypass the quietly observing Casimira. “I can be quick.”

Nicostratus snags my arm, halting me. “You can’t.”

My head pounds and I snap, “Why do you always get to decide? What about what I want? What about what I need?”

Nicostratus shuts his eyes briefly. “We can’t risk it. If I don’t mobilise our men in time...” He grimaces in Quin’s direction, and at this I deflate and sink back on my heels.

Neither of us looks at the other.

“Haldr!”

I turn to my aunt, a stunning sight, her smile radiant as she glides towards me in cascading white silks.

Her mask is simple, delicate pearl and while it shimmers, it’s nothing to the shimmering in her eyes.

She holds her hand out, delicate fingers just like my mother’s, and it feels like for a moment, she’s here too, she sees my pain and is offering me a way out. “You promised me a dance?”

I glance at Casimiria, who nods, her expression unreadable. I force myself to smile, pushing aside the weight of this evening’s spoken and unspoken truths.

My feet move awkwardly; I can’t find the rhythm of the first dance, nor the second. How can I when I can’t hear past the panic in my head?

During the third dance, my aunt pinches my arm gently. “At least try to look happy for me,” she teases. But there’s an edge to her voice. She knows this is not just her night, but everyone’s eve before war.

It’s a weight she doesn’t deserve.

I haul her into an embrace, the soft scent of her perfume comforting, like home.

“Forgive me,” I murmur. “You’re beautiful, Auntie.

Truly. You and Prins Lief...” My throat tightens.

“You have something tender, something special. Something that’s grown deep over so many years.

You’ve found a way to get past your hurdles and now.

.. now you can finally be together. You have a chance at a beautiful future. ”

She strokes my hair softly, and I close my eyes before I glance his way again.

“In the end, it was a simple.” She starts to whisper in my ear, but a horn blows, and Prins Lief is carted around the hall on a bejewelled chair, his presence commanding all attention.

The sound of green stone runes clattering as they’re tossed into the air has me pulling away from my aunt.

Has me turning, not to the prins, but to the frenzy.

To Casimiria, and to Nicostratus gliding through the banquet hall doors like he’d briefly left. Perhaps to clear a path for our escape?

They catch my eye. It’s time.

After a hasty pecked kiss to my aunt’s cheek, I slip away into the rush for the blessed runes and out the other side towards the door.

Nicostratus meets me there with Casimiria close beside him, and a bag slung over his shoulder.

He doesn’t speak, simply takes hold of my wrist and pulls me swiftly along.

We’re passing through the first set of doors, Nicostratus commanding us to act drunk, when eager shrieks for blessed runes turn into horrified shrieks and Prins Lief’s wretched cry.

Casimiria looks over her shoulder and halts, and I follow her gaze over a hundred masks towards the podium where the king is bent over, hacking out a cough.

I hear the frightened whispers and grow cold. “Blood. He’s coughing up blood.”

Casimiria sucks in a sharp breath.

Between violent coughs, King Yngvarr desperately demands his healer.

Me.