Fire and Lies (12 page)

“What are you going to do?” Bergen asked.

Rune shrugged. “Question Borg,” he said. “He is the link that holds all the answers to this.”

“And Kallan?” Bergen asked.

“Kallan.” Rune sighed, shaking his head.

“Go have her,” Geirolf advised. “Clear your mind and get some sleep.”

“By morning, you’ll wonder why you ever wanted her at all,” Bergen said. “She’s more than eager to let you based on what I saw the other night.”

“What did you see?” Joren asked.

“She did lean in to it,” Rune mused. “She seemed to want it.”

Rune turned the empty flagon over, pretending to look over the detail carved into the metalwork as he mused over the previous night when he had kissed her.

“She may even enjoy herself for once,” Bergen added.

Resolved, Rune slammed the flagon back to the table.

“Right,” he said with a resounding slur. He marched slovenly out the door, leaving Joren, Geirolf, and Bergen in his chambers with a matching set of grins.

* * *

“Kallan!”

The door to Kallan’s chambers slammed open and Rune’s feet fell one in front of the other. With a decisive click, he closed the door behind him.

He spun to his right, prepared, this time, for Kallan’s slap. Losing his balance, he fell back against the wall.

A bit of his heart sank once he realized she wasn’t there and he proceeded to look around the vacant room. With a stupor, he stumbled, making his way to the bedroom where he froze at the threshold, holding him in place as the Beast awoke to the surge of Seidr on the other side of the door.

Finally taken by sleep, Kallan laid sprawled out on the bed still bound by the gown and laced in her boots. The firelight flickered, casting a warm glow over her pale complexion. Her chest rose and fell to the steady rhythm of her breath.

Forgetting all reason for being there—his mind suddenly clear of drink—Rune forced the Beast into submission then quietly made his way to the bed. Taking up her foot, he proceeded to unlace her boots. Slowly, he pulled them off and quietly set them on the floor before gently pulling her up from the bed.

Still drugged with sleep, Kallan gave a half groan that pulled at Rune’s chest as he leaned her onto his shoulder to loosen the lacing on her corset. Her breast grazed his chest and his fingers fumbled repeatedly as he slid her gown down an inch at a time, first from her shoulders then down past her waist while he battled with himself to focus through the excess blood flow.

With one hand, he held her as he turned down the furs with the other, and gently laid her back on the bed, freeing his hands to pull the gown the rest of the way off of her. Left in nothing but her chemise, Kallan curled her legs in and released a sigh, allowing Rune to pull the furs over her. Quietly, Rune draped the gown over the back of a chair and caught a scent of rose oil.

Shoving his hand through his hair, Rune circled the room, dowsing the candle light until the whole of the room was submerged in darkness save for the small fire that lingered in the hearth.

He rested his hand in the doorknob, hearing the bitter hate in her voice over and over until pain replaced her words.

Get out.

And before he could think twice, he returned to her bed and brushed her cheek with his lips. Moments later, Rune crossed the sitting room. With the effects of the mead wearing off too soon, he closed the door behind him.

B
org fell to the floor of the stone room, which was painted in streaks of flickering orange light cast by the torch secured to the wall. Wincing, he curled into the pain gouging his ribs as warm blood flowed from the gashes on his brow. The hurried step assured him that his wardens were not yet through.

Forcing a steady breath, he opened a swollen eye. His commander stopped at his feet.

“What did you tell him?” Aaric said.

Borg studied the black markings on the high marshal’s neck. The symbols and runes scrawled up to his ear and hair line, making him look far more menacing there in the dungeons.

“Have you no idea how close you are to death,
Nidingr
?” Aaric said.

“Go to Hel,” Borg spat and Aaric’s foot slammed into Borg’s face. There was a crack and another wave of pain followed as blood pooled onto the stone.

“Sweet Aaric,” a woman’s voice purred. The sensual rustle of silks and soft fabrics came with a gentle step that matched the voice.

The air thickened and soothing warmth filled the room, easing Borg’s nerves. With aid from the familiar spell, he breathed through his shattered nose. A number of foreign odors—all as appealing as a familiar spice, a warm fire, a simmering stew—clouded his mind with euphoric care and Borg raised his eyes in time to see a woman glide down the steps into his cell and across the room.

He spat out blood and gazed upon the slender face framed by the long, black hair. With eyes encircled with golden light glistening like rumored gems, she looked upon him with a compassion he knew to be false. He had known her too long to think she could be sincere.

“Is that anyway to treat a guest?” she said to Aaric.

“Get out of here, sea witch! This affair doesn’t concern you,” Aaric said.

“Oh, but it does,” Fand said. “If you want a man to talk, then you have to make it worth his while.”

Smiling, she knelt down beside Borg’s mutilated form and slid a slender finger down his broken face. Borg studied the distrust in Aaric’s eye, concluding that the acting monarch didn’t like the goddess any more than he.

Borg flinched at her gentle touch and Fand met his fear with a girlish chuckle dripping with venom.

“Shh,” she hushed and caressed the cuts on his brow with just the tip of her finger.

Gold threads of light flowed from her hand and, like a tailor’s needle and thread, mended the wound, closing it the instant she touched him.

Fand finished one cut, and then another, working languidly as she moved her hand to each wound.

“Sing and skip over fairy mound,” Fand sang in play while repairing Borg’s wounds and restoring his energy.

“Fand!” Aaric growled and she ended her song. She continued her work as she gazed over her shoulder at Aaric.

“Don’t!” he said.

Ending her song, Fand finished her work until only the stains of blood remained as evidence to the wounds.

“There now,” Fand said. “Now… What were you about to tell us?”

“Tell you,” Borg said, gasping with relief.

“How long have you been working with Dan’s Mork?” Aaric said. “What information have you traded with Forkbeard?”

Borg looked to Aaric, who could cut into him as many times as he wished, then to the Fae witch able to conduct her spells.

“You seek to end this war,” Borg said. “You wish to save the queen.”

His words accused, judged, and damned.

Fand laughed, but Borg’s gaze was fixed on Aaric, who stared at Fand with such loathing it confirmed Borg’s suspicions: the marshal was not on her side.

“I desire nothing more that the death of Queen Kallan,” Fand said. “You know this. Our deal was set on this.” Fand permitted a soft grin.

Borg shifted his attention from Fand to Aaric. Whatever deal was made, he doubted very much that Aaric supported it.

“What do you want with me?” Borg asked, deciding to follow the will of the witch.

“Leave Lorlenlin,” Aaric said. “Stay out of Dan’s Reach. Stay away from Forkbeard.”

“Continue the machinations you’ve started,” Fand said.

Borg blinked back surprise.

“Back off, Witch!” Aaric growled. “I am still marshal here! Lorlenalin is still in my keep!”

“Tell no one,” Fand added, ignoring Aaric’s rant.

“You have no place here, Fand!”

Borg looked from Aaric to Fand.

“If this is what you want, then why not leave me to my intentions?”

“Because, pauper,” Fand said, “you need to know that I am here—watching—and that, should you fail, it is your death that will redeem your failure.”

“Enough of this,” Aaric said. “Answer,
Nidingr
. What information have you given to the king of Dan’s Reach?”

A low chuckle rose from Borg’s chest.

Aaric slammed his fist into Borg’s face. Another crack and blood flowed from Borg’s nose. Without a word or reprieve, Aaric turned on his heel and stomped his way up the stone steps.

“Marshal!” Borg called and Aaric stopped. Borg paced his pain with his broken breath. “I’ll give you my answers, if you answer this.”

“You think you’re in a position to negotiate?” Aaric asked.

“Where is the queen?” Borg said, ignoring Aaric’s question.

As if amused, Fand looked to Borg and then Aaric, seemingly delighted at the tension in the room.

When Aaric didn’t answer, Borg coughed, then threw back his head in a fit of hysterics. Loud, maddened laughter echoed through the dungeons. Borg dropped his head to the floor and allowed his body to shake with enjoyment as his wild laughter carried his mind from his cell.

After several moments, Borg settled down and forced the words out.

“Taken,” Borg gasped. “By Gunir’s king.” Another bout of laughter. Just as quickly, Borg peered up from the floor as serious as Aaric staring down at him. “I told the Ljosalfr that I would free him if he promised to take our queen and kill her.”

Aaric launched himself across the room and Borg threw himself back in another fit of laughter. Aaric slammed his fist into Borg’s face, throwing him down against the stone, and the laughing ceased. Blood splattered the floor as his head ricocheted off Aaric’s fist again and again until Borg gurgled blood, too near death to plead for his life.

“Aaric,” Fand said softly. Pain shattered the pounding in his head as Aaric released what little was left of Borg, who lay too beaten to hear the cell door close behind his captors.

* * *

“Aaric!” Fand called.

“Leave me!”

“Aaric!” She followed on his heel.

“You have no place here!”

“But I do.”

Aaric spun, throwing Fand into the wall where he pinned her against the stone with a hand on her neck. The other, he raised, cradling a ball of white Seidr flame.

“You have your way, Fae witch,” Aaric growled. “My queen is dead. Now get out.”

“Hardly,” Fand said, smiling. Aaric tightened his grip on Fand’s neck, forcing her smile to fall.

“Kill me, Aaric,” Fand forced through her breaking throat. “And Danann will find you. Kallan may be dead, but Danann still hunts you. You need me to hide you.”

Aaric tightened his hold.

“What will you have to say for yourself? Hm? When the goddess finds her Drui?”

The white flame doubled in size and Aaric positioned his arm to fire.

“Wherever you are, Gudrun isn’t far behind.”

The fire vanished and Aaric released Fand, who fell to the floor coughing.

“Get out,” he said, unconcerned with the traitor, the witch, or the Fae, and left the dungeon.

* * *

Fand remained on the floor, rubbing her throat where Aaric had nearly snapped her neck. As the last of his footsteps died away, Fand smiled and lowered her hand. Free of pain, she rose to her feet and hummed herself a ditty as she walked back to Borg’s cell.

“Sing and skin o’er Fairy mound.

Over the hills and through the dalr.”

She turned the handle and pushed open the door. Stull humming, she all but pranced down the steps and approached the still breathing bloody mass on the floor.

Tsking, she peered down at Borg.

“You’re a fool,” she said. The pile of blood and bones gasped. “I should let you die here,
uskit
.”

The breathing had reduced to a wheezing that confirmed his neck was fractured and he possibly had a punctured lung.

“Once more,” Fand said, placing a hand to Borg. “Ride to Gunir and finish the job.”

Bones popped back into place. Skin reknitted itself and mended as the golden threads of Seidr flowded through the corpse and repaired the damage done by Aaric’s hate.

“Y-you’re letting me go?” The words scraped free of Borg’s throat before Fand had finished mending his wounds.

“The queen is dead. Only part of your deal is complete. You still have a message to deliver to Gunir.”

“But the marshal—”

“Is useless,” Fand finished for him. “His hold on this city is slipping. The people don’t even remember the name of their queen.” She watched the Dokkalfr relax as she finished. Disgusted, she watched the sluggish soldier rise to his feet then and regain his composure. With a nod, he trudged toward the door with barely a limp. His head hung low with incompetence.

“And, Dokkalfr,” Fand called.

Borg raised his eyes to the goddess.

“This time, don’t get caught.”

Borg pursed his lips as if tasting the bitter bite of failure. With a subtle nod, he trudged out the door and left Fand alone in the cell.