Sorrow's Peak (Serpent of Time Book 2) (16 page)

“It does,” she agreed, “doesn’t it?”

She couldn’t count the number of times the oddness of his behavior crossed her mind in the last two weeks. He’d been so kind, so attentive and his feigned interest in her was so believable she’d fallen for it like some lovesick girl with no brain in her head at all.

“I never would have guessed he’d made such plans had I not overheard things I was never meant to hear.”

“How did you find out his plot?”

She looked sheepishly away, the cold immediately burning from her cheeks with a harsh blush that made her feel momentarily nauseous. Only a couple of weeks passed since she’d fled, and though she did not let herself think often about the night she ran from the man she was supposed to marry, whenever she did her thoughts were conflicted with guilt and relief. Had she not made the decision she made, she would likely be dead, she would never have known Finn or Bren or learned she had a brother and a nephew.

“He…” she stammered and shook her head. “Even before we left Rivenn, he was aggressive in his affections. At the time I thought he was just passionate, that his desire for me was romantic.” Saying those words out loud made her feel like a stupid little girl all over again. “I had no experience with men beyond interactions with Aelfric’s soldiers, but even most of them treated me like I was a child. None would have dared flirtation, but Trys… He paid me just enough attention to make me feel alive and… wanted.”

“Lorelei, you don’t have to…”

“He would sneak into the gardens to find me in the days before we departed from Rivenn, steal me into the shadows where no one else could see and kiss me, tell me how beautiful I was, how much he wanted me and how much it hurt he could not have me until we were wed. ‘Just a little taste,’ he would say, his hands moving over my body, his mouth on mine…”

She could almost feel the fever of his touch, the heat of his breath as his soft tongue darted out to tickle her ear, his wandering hand sliding over her hip and gently gathering the folds of her gown to slip his fingers inside and caress the top of her thigh as he backed her into garden wall and pressed his body hard against hers.

Her sister saved her from him every time, running into the garden and calling her name, drawing their bodies apart with gasps, but Mirien couldn’t save her when they were gone from the palace. She’d been left to fend for herself, to fight off his advances and reiterate the things her mother said to her before she parted:
It will be magic on our wedding night
.

But Trystay promised it would be magical no matter when she opened her legs to him and let him inside. The things she felt whenever he touched her, the tingling eagerness sparking low in her belly and the strange ache she felt between her thighs grew stronger every time he was near.

“When we were traveling, he would tempt me. Tell me we were to be married, and none would ever know if we indulged in pleasures of the flesh before we stood with the priests and said vows. Sometimes in the litter he would kiss me,” she whispered, her embarrassment burning beneath the skin, “touch me in ways that left me wanting him.”

“Lorelei,” Bren interrupted. “If this is too difficult…”

“I want to,” she said distantly. “I feel like I need to.”

It took her several minutes to find her courage again after his interruption, but at last she pursed her dry lips together and then released them.

“On the night I ran away he got angry with me for refusing him again. He called me a childish tease and threatened to return me to my father and call the wedding off. I lay there in the dark feeling guilty and foolish, turning it all over and over again in my mind, weighing it out until I realized he was right. If we were to be married, there was no harm in...”

Brendolowyn reached across the space between them and touched her arm. She couldn’t look up at him, afraid she’d see condemnation in his eyes, despite the comfort of his touch.

“So I went to him, sneaking through the shadows until I came upon his tent, but he was not alone. I’d never seen the woman he was with before in the camp. I have no idea if she was always there, or if she’d met with the caravan on the road. She was Ninvarii—a sorceress. Dark of skin, light of hair, so beautiful I could never have compared to such a creature. She must have ensnared him, I thought at first, remembering all the things Aelfric and my teacher told me about the foul practice of magic. I was so jealous, I almost charged in and tore into her like a cat, but then I heard them talking. She was jealous too, angry with him for trying to pry my thighs when he was more than welcome between hers. He laughed at her and then promised after my death was pinned on the Underground Resistance, it would be her who stood beside him as queen when he wrenched Leithe from Aelfric’s hands and his father gave him his very own kingdom to rule.”

The tears slipping down her cheeks burned hot against her cold skin, but cooled before they reached her chin and dripped off onto her cloak. She swallowed hard against the rising tightness in her throat; it ached until she felt like she would choke.

“I stood there in a trance, trying to figure out what I should do. Running seemed to be the only smart thing, but one of his men caught me outside the tent just as I was backing away to make a run for it. He grabbed me, so I did the only thing I could think of. I kicked him between the legs and shoved him to the ground. Then I ran. He raised the alarm and set the dogs on me, but I had a good head start… I don’t know how long I ran, but every muscle in my body felt like it was on fire and my lungs burned with every breath. I didn’t even have my shoes on,” she laughed, a distant chuckle, and shook her head. “I had no plan, no thought of where I would go, but then I heard them, the wolves, and I knew I was heading into the Edgelands. I decided I would rather be torn apart by wolves than taken back to Trystay alive. I tripped, I guess, and hit my head in the clearing. I thought for sure I was going to die when the wolves came, but they saved me,” she said softly. “Had Finn and his sister not come when they did, I would be dead.”

She hadn’t felt him come up behind them, didn’t know how long he was standing there watching them together and listening to her embarrassing tale, but the sound of his voice startled her. “And if my sister hadn’t stayed my hand that night, your prince and all of his men would have been as dead as the dogs they set upon you. I should have done it.”

“Finn.”

Startled, she jerked away from Bren, as if they actually had something to hide. She never told Finn the whole story, only that Trystay wanted to kill her. She was afraid to turn around and look into his eyes, afraid she would see disgust in them, afraid he would not want to be her mate after hearing what she’d been prepared to do.

“You might want to get that barrier raised, Elf,” he said, tossing down three rabbit carcasses in need of skinning. “The trolls are in fine form this night, and they’re headed this way.”

Brendolowyn regarded her with gentleness, a slow smile edging at the corners of his mouth before he reached out and touched her again, ignoring Finn’s glare. “What you did was very brave, my lady, and you should not be ashamed of something that never was.”

Lorelei nodded her head slowly as she felt his long fingers curl and tighten around her arm before he let go and rose to see to his task. Finn dropped into his place and pulled a knife from his belt to start skinning the offerings of food he’d brought back. For a long time she listened to the tight scrape of his knife and the chanting of the mage at their backs.

She avoided Finn’s eyes even though she could feel them on her.

Finally he nudged into her shoulder almost playfully and said, “If you ever tell him I said this, I’ll deny it, but the elf is right. You did nothing shameful. Men…” he started, pausing for a moment to choose the right words. She could tell it wasn’t something he did often. “Men have two brains, Princess, and most of the time we only think with the one below our belts. You were supposed to be married, and he should never have tried to pressure you into something you weren’t ready for, but you shouldn’t ever feel bad about almost giving into him. If you hadn’t…” He stopped for a moment, shook his head and then turned to look at her. “Well, you wouldn’t be here right now, sitting next to me in this wretched tundra freezing your backside off. And make no mistake,” he paused, his dark eyebrows lowering over his piercing blue eyes, “this is exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

His eyes were calmer than they’d been in days, almost peaceful, as the wolf within was given the chance to run and hunt.

“I don’t feel like I’m supposed to be here,” she said quietly, glancing up to survey the endless tundra beyond Bren’s rising barrier. Maybe with some reassurance from Llorveth, she would feel more compelled to her place. Or maybe not.

“No?” he asked. “Come on, Princess,” he chuckled gruffly and bumped into her again. “Tell me honestly that this,” his bloodied hand outstretched in front of them, “is not the only place in the world to be.”

She followed the line of his dripping hand and saw a host of angry shadows moving toward them. Raging trolls, three or four of them, and judging by the escalating snarls and grunts that brought them closer to their camp, they were none too happy with the intruders tucking themselves safely behind a magical barrier on their land. They arrived just seconds after Bren finished lifting the barrier, colliding stupidly with the invisible wall protecting them from the elements and all things that would harm them in the night.

Lorelei couldn’t help the tickle of a laugh near the back of her throat. It may not have been the most perfect place, but even without Llorveth’s acknowledgment she knew Finn was right; she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

Leaning into him from the side, she let the tension of the last few days, of the story she’d finally felt brave enough to tell flutter away on the wings of her own laughter. Brendolowyn drew away from the magical barrier and turned back over his shoulder to look at them. He shook his head, but he was smiling and soon all three of them were laughing at the absurdity of the conditions beyond that wall, of the quest that lay in waiting to be completed.

For the first time in days, no one thought about the possibility of death that awaited them, or the fact that an even more impossible task lie beyond the retrieving of Llorveth’s horns.

She wasn’t just where she belonged, but in proper company between two men who would see her to the end of whatever she had to do.

For the first time since she’d left Trystay’s encampment and ran into the Edgelands she felt safe.

CHAPTER NINE

“So, the stepmother was a dragon?”

Frigga paused and leaned her back against the post behind her to rest. She lifted a forearm across her soot-smudged brow to wipe away the sweat and then turned her head downward to look at Vilnjar again. Head tilted in thoughtful repose, a smile that spoke of disbelief worked at the left corner of her mouth, drawing the narrow pink softness of her lips upward.

Her face glistened with perspiration, golden hair clinging to her cheeks and forehead where it was damp, and though she was covered from head to toe in smeared ash Vilnjar had never seen anyone fairer than Frigga in all his life.

She paused and leaned her back against the post behind her to rest a moment. She lifted her forearm across her brow to brush away the sweat again and then turned her head downward to look at Vilnjar. A smudge of soot trailed behind her arm, making her look fierce despite her wide-eyed innocence and intrigue with his story.

“A true dragon, like the Drakiiri of old?”

“Aye,” Vilnjar nodded and continued to pump the bellows to keep the heat consistent, as she’d asked him to do. It was tedious work, and the muscles in his arms and chest had been screaming in protest for days, but it was a small price to pay for her company and her smiles. He distracted himself with the stories he told, sometimes forgetting he was actually working, though at night his body ached with the strain of labors unlike any he’d ever performed in his life.

Almost a full week passed since his brother departed from Dunvarak, since he’d taken up his duties as Frigga’s storyteller, and during those six days she put him to work with the bellows while she shaped and hammered weapons and armor contracted by the captain of the Dunvarak guard himself. Sometimes her father, Broehn Black-Hammer, worked beside her, tossing the occasional disparaging glare toward Vilnjar, though other times it almost seemed as if the man was actually listening to the stories Frigga insisted he go on telling.

On that particular morning Broehn was called to meet with Hodon and though Frigga didn’t seem to know the purpose of said meeting, Vilnjar could tell it was on her mind. More than once, she’d glanced through the milling bodies on the street to stare at Hodon’s hall across the way, so distracted from her work only the sound of her storyteller’s voice was enough to draw her back to the moment.

“One of the last Drakiiri, or so we’re told,” he went on. “Did you know the Drakiiri were made in the opposite fashion of the U’lfer?”

“Opposite?” She furrowed her soot-stained brow. “What do you mean, opposite?”

“The Drakiiri walked among men disguised in their skins, but in their true form embodied the dragon, not the man. Chroniclers of that time say the magic it required for them to maintain human form was so exhausting, they needed to feed regularly upon the essence of their human lovers to hold onto their guise, or else be discovered for what they truly were.”

“Is that how Jora discovered Yrsa was Drakiiri? Did she capture Dáinn and feed on his soul?” Confusion wrinkled her perfect brow, the ashen lines burrowing deep into her forehead. “Wait, wouldn’t that remake her, so she was a Dvergr instead of a human woman?”

“Not quite,” he chuckled and shifted his position. He arched his back, stretching the muscles for momentary relief before returning his attention to the task at hand. “Though the Drakiiri could shape their bodies into whatever form they desired, Alvarii, Dvergr, human, they tended to maintain the same appearance once they’d chosen one. It was easier to reform the same disguise, I guess.”