Page 8 of Vow of the Undead (The Bloodrune Saga #1)

When my father turned and took a seat, I met his harsh gaze. I folded my arms, bracing for what he’d say next. What had he bargained for my life ?

“You are to serve in the royal court of Mara for the remainder of your life.”

“No,” I breathed. My mother had told me stories of the servants in Mara’s Keep, dazed men and women who were never heard from again. Though, of course, this servitude was safer and more palatable than living in exile or a beheading.

“I suspect it will be more than working as a cook or a maid,” he muttered.

I opened my mouth to protest again, but stopped myself. This was my invitation to the king—to follow the Gods’ guidance.

The castle I’d seen in my vision must have been Mara’s Keep. Odin and Freya had paved the way for me, perhaps bargaining with the Norns, goddesses who determined our fates, to weave this into my life’s thread.

“And what if I collapse and he deems me unworthy of this service?” I asked. I willed my heart to slow, but of course, it did not obey. Laying bare my illness in front of my father was as foolish as it was humiliating.

My heart failed me every day, and he denied the pain I suffered as my legs and feet swelled, my hands were always cold, and exhaustion bore down on me heavily even after a decent night of sleep.

The erratic pulse wasn’t like Dain’s severed foot after it’d turned black from frostbite.

I didn’t wear it on my skin like the burns on Bjorn’s hands and arms.

Because my father could not see this suffering, he refused its existence. I was simply a disappointment.

Of course, he didn’t acknowledge what he could see either, not when my eyes first turned black from magic, and not when my fingertips became blue with lack of blood. More proof of this came when he didn’t so much as glance at the scabbed wound cutting across my cheek.

To my father, I wasn’t a witch, and I wasn’t suffering.

To me, I wasn’t really Silver. I’d never truly identified with the name my parents had thrust on me. Maybe because I just wanted to deny something he’d given me the way he denied who I truly was.

“You will manage,” he said, irritation lacing his voice.

“Where is King Drakkar now?” I shifted the conversation away from my worries before I lashed out at him and earned another palm to the face.

He sighed and took a gulp from a tankard of ale. “South of us. Torsholt. We are to join them on their journey back to Mara now that you’ve been found.”

“You weren’t looking for me.”

He laughed. “Winter has arrived early. I knew you’d be back before the first snow hit the ground.”

That wasn’t entirely true. I’d lasted almost two nights, and I’d only returned because of the vision. But if I told my father that, he’d simply deny my nature as a witch. To him, I’d come crawling back because I was weak, pathetic, and scared.

“What’s in Torsholt?” A criminal to be executed? More witches to exile or force into servitude?

He laughed again. “Perhaps the king will tell you.”

I gritted my teeth. If I were a mere servant, would I even have the chance to speak with King Drakkar?

Come to me. The vision hinted he’d talk to me, that he’d invite me into his castle. This promise meant I could at least ask him about the historical records stored there.

“If they’re in Torsholt, we should leave tonight to catch up with them.” I spoke louder, my chin lifted. I was eager to leave.

My father coughed, spluttering with ale. He slapped his chest to clear the shock away and get his choking under control. The glint in his eye was one I’d never known. Curiosity?

No, wait. I’d seen this before, whenever he sat in that damn chair in front of the people he respected in Skaldir the most. Pride.

For a single second, he was proud of me .

Maybe I’m not so weak. But I couldn’t relish the thought or the look on his face because the memory of Astrid and Sten’s lifeless eyes clouded my mind. I was far worse than merely weak or foolish.

Evil.

Selfish.

Murderous.

No, stay the course. I repeated words my mother had said to me before the executioners dragged her away and into exile.

Stay the course. Don’t let your dwelling paralyze you.

Use it. Like she used her talent with weaving to keep the history alive, to communicate with other witches, and to protect them.

I had to reach her, and I was given a direct invitation to Mara’s Keep to find her, even if it cost me my life. Whether in servitude or worse.

I buried all other thoughts, locking them away like a prisoner. Memory of Astrid and Sten’s limp bodies thrashed against the prison walls.

Stay the course. I could hate myself for what I’d done once my mother was free.

I lifted my chin, holding my father’s gaze until he looked away. He sniffed and took a quick swig of the ale.

He kept his eyes down on his drink when I spoke again. “Since you knew I’d return, I expect you have provisions ready?”

He nodded, eyes still on his ale. “I will accompany you, and my wife will take over as Vyl here while I’m gone.”

I said nothing else as I strode out of the council hall, ready to gather my things and leave. Eager to run from Skaldir and leave every disturbing memory behind. Maybe in Mara, I’d forget what I’d done.

If I could keep the thoughts locked away.