Dawn of the North

Dawn of the North

Chapter 1

Kopa, Íseldur

One week after Kingdom of Claw

A bead of sweat trickled down Silla’s brow as she stood before the largest pair of doors she’d ever seen—as tall as three warriors stacked up. Knotwork was carved into thick oak planks that were secured on enormous iron hinges. If the doors were this massive, she wondered how big the council room beyond them would be.

Silla blotted her forehead with the sleeve of her dress, then paused. Would Eisa Volsik wipe sweat on her sleeve? She could not recall discussing how a queen was to deal with such things during her daily etiquette lessons. More likely, a queen did not sweat at all. But bother that, Silla was melting. The secret council room used for Uppreisna gatherings was deep beneath Ashfall Fortress. And given that the fortress was built into a slumbering fire mountain, it was sweltering.

She glanced over her shoulder at Rey. Half a head taller than Runný and her other queensguard, Rey was rather hard to miss. Torchlight caught on his tight black curls and gave his brown cheekbones a bronzed glow. But as her gaze slid to his tunic—a shade so red, the word violent came to mind—laughter escaped through Silla’s nose in a decidedly unqueenly sound.

“Quiet, woman,” grumbled Rey, folding his arms and looking away.

Jarl Hakon had insisted that, in his second son Eyvind’s absence, Rey must wear House Hakon’s colors and take a seat of honor with his family. Though Rey had protested valiantly, the jarl had won out in the end.

“You look so . . . festive,” Silla teased, glad for a distraction from her frayed nerves.

“I look like a rowan berry.” Those gold-flecked eyes landed on her, sliding down her body like the softest silk. “And you,” he said in a low voice, “look like a goddess.”

Silla was certain she flushed right down to her toes. “I feel . . . strange. Unlike myself.” She looked at her gown. Beautiful it was—sumptuous emerald silks contrasted with stunning embroidery and elegantly draped cuffs that reached to the floor. This was the kind of garment Eisa Volsik wore. But Silla couldn’t shake her disappointment—there were no pockets!—nor could she keep herself from wondering how many mouths the sales proceeds would feed.

Silla tried to focus. In a moment, she would stride through those mountainous doors and present Eisa Volsik to the most powerful households in Kopa. It was the first step of many they’d concocted—unite the jarls of the north under a common banner; gather allies in the south and abroad; amass enough might to keep the Urkans at bay and prevent the god of chaos from bringing fire and death to the realm.

That last item knocked her off kilter. “It’s only the twilight of days,” she muttered to herself, a statement that did nothing to ease her discomfort. Though if she were being honest, Silla had not felt comfort since the moment she’d woken in Kopa unable to sense the source of her magic.

Daily doses of hindrium smothered her Ashbringer galdur—an unfortunate necessity to keep the god of chaos from accessing it as He had in Svangormr Pass. A life for a life, Myrkur had vowed. But without access to Silla’s magic, He seemed to have lost interest in her. Though she could sense Him slumbering low inside her, the god had remained quiet since that horrid day. She remained vigilant all the same, searching relentlessly for a way to escape this ill-worded bargain of her mother’s.

Silla stared at the doors, trying to ease her nerves. Despite her desire to rip the dangling sleeves from this dress and run off to the stables to take Dawn for a ride, she could not give in.

That, she decided, would definitely be unqueenly.

“If you run, I run,” warned Rey.

“Don’t tempt me,” she teased back, unable to keep from imagining the pair of them tearing away from the fortress on horseback, the ridiculous garments flapping behind them in the wind. Sadness panged inside her chest at the impossibility of the idea.

A loud creak echoed in the corridor, making Silla jump in her skin. The enormous doors swung slowly outward, and her heart raced ever faster. With a deep breath, she forced her feet forward. She felt like an imposter. She was an imposter. It was Saga who was rightful heir to the throne—Saga who ought to be standing before these doors. But for now, Eisa would have to do.

And so, Silla would do her part. Would play queen for a while. And when Saga was found and brought to Kopa, everything would change.

“This is only temporary,” Silla recited to herself as she gathered her courage and strode through the doors.

As expected, the room was cavernous, with an enormous arched roof held up by towering black columns. Silla walked along the central walkway flanked by golden braziers. Stone benches climbed up on either side of her, hundreds of people seated upon them. Silla thought she might be smiling, but couldn’t be certain—she was too busy trying to remember if she swung her legs and arms at the same time or not.

At last, she reached the dais at the end of the walkway, but the stairs leading up to it made her nerves spike.

They’re stairs, she told herself, grinning like a wildcat. You’ve climbed stairs a hundred times. You won’t trip. As her slippered foot came down on the first stone step, Silla exhaled. She could do this. She wouldn’t—

She tripped on her ridiculous dangling cuffs.

The crowd gasped as Silla tumbled forward. Rey’s arms snaked around her from behind just as Atli Hakonsson lunged forward, catching her forearms. She blinked up at Jarl Hakon’s heir, humiliation flaming at her cheeks.

Atli’s smile was kindly, but as his gaze drifted over her shoulder, it quickly fell. Rey’s low grumble had Atli releasing her and backing away with an exasperated look. Rey hauled her upright, keeping hands clamped on her waist until she’d regained her footing. Well. This was not the first impression she’d hoped for, but as Jarl Hakon rushed forward, she tried to push it from her mind.

Slightly stockier than his son, Jarl Hakon wore elaborate red robes that brushed the floor. With golden rings on each of his fingers and silver cuffs in his beard, there was no question he was a man of wealth and status. The jarl cocked his head at Rey, who, after a long-suffering sigh, strode to Eyvind’s vacant seat on the dais.

Jarl Hakon turned Silla gently toward the crowd, and for the first time, she found herself slightly emotional. Queenly, she urged herself, reciting the attributes of Eisa Volsik. You must inspire their confidence.

“For the first time in seventeen years,” Jarl Hakon proclaimed, “a Volsik will lead the offering!”

The crowd shouted in approval, and Silla caught more than a few damp eyes among them. But then Atli was beside her, handing over a platter of boar steaks. His dark eyes glinted, a reassuring smile on his chiseled face telling her, Just like we practiced. With a deep breath, she stepped toward the enormous brazier lit to the side of the dais.

“Oh Bright One.”

“Louder,” whispered Atli.

“Oh Bright One!” Silla tried with a bit more zeal. “We offer you meat.”

She tipped the boar steaks into the flames, jumping back as the fat hissed and spattered.

“Mead!”

Atli handed her a golden goblet, which she poured into the flames. A bead of sweat clung to her temple, and Silla did her best to ignore it.

“And our finest weapon!”

At last, Atli produced a finely wrought dagger that looked to have cost a fortune. She hesitated, wondering how many sólas this weapon would fetch, but after Jarl Hakon impatiently cleared his throat, she tossed it into the brazier with the rest.

The crowd stood with a roar, stomping their feet. Silla hazarded a glance over her shoulder at Rey, wishing he was standing beside her. Instead, she found him glaring at the crowd as though every one of them had wronged him.

“Now!” exclaimed Jarl Hakon, “I present to you, Eisa Volsik!”

The banging grew to a cacophony, and Silla’s heart felt as though it had grown wings. Tears clouded her vision, and she wrung her hands, trying desperately to keep her emotion at bay. Temporary, she reminded herself. Soon this will all belong to Saga.

“Take a seat,” whispered Atli, directing her to the chair beside Rey’s. She fell into it, glad that her part in this meeting had ended. Her instructions were to keep a demure, queenly smile upon her lips for the rest of the gathering. Rey’s hand slid over, squeezing her knee.

“Did I not tell you that you’d do well?” he whispered.

“Did you not see me trip?” was her reply.

Rey’s lips twitched in amusement. His gaze drifted to Jarl Hakon, now standing at the front of the dais, one hand raised. Within a few measured breaths, the crowd had quieted and taken their seats.

“I’ve received word from our spy in Askaborg.”

The hair on Silla’s arms stood on end, and her heart raced. Finally, she thought, news of Saga. Surely the mystery of her whereabouts would be revealed.