CHAPTER 1

Two days west of Kopa

Silla Nordvig had once vowed no force in this world could draw her to the true north of Íseldur, but clearly she’d underestimated the gods’ twisted sense of humor. Because here she was, on a horse with Axe Eyes, heading for that very place.

The canyon’s black walls climbed up on either side of them as Horse walked beside a flat-­bedded river. Nature had made a valid attempt to reclaim the space, moss and greenery carpeting the riverbanks and exposed ledges. But black volcanic stone dominated, the sheer canyon walls stark and raw in their beauty.

They’d ridden through the canyon for two full days now. The sun rose and set, the world moving on as though it hadn’t been smashed to pieces. But with each passing day, Silla’s spirits sank lower. It was starting to settle in—­there would be no Kopa.

Instead, there was Kalasgarde.

Silla exhaled. Rey claimed to know people in Kalasgarde who could help her hide from the queen and Klaernar. He thought it would be safe for her. But Silla knew better than to hope; her foolish heart had been bruised too many times. The truth was, there was no place safe for her. Not now that she knew her true name.

Eisa Volsik.

Heir of King Ivar’s sworn enemy. Hunted by Queen Signe for her mysterious, wicked plans. Political pawn to those in power. Easy reward for those who were not. The name brought nothing but misery. Chest tightening, Silla clamped her hands around the saddle horn until her knuckles grew white.

Not her. Not her. Not her.

Silla drew in a long breath. Exhaled it slowly.

Kopa had been Matthias’s decision, and Kalasgarde was Rey’s. As the days wore on, the idea of choosing for herself grew in Silla’s mind. Perhaps there were better options for her than the northern wilds of this kingdom. A southbound ship leaving Íseldur had a pleasing feel to it. She could go to the Southern Continent or Karthia, perhaps. Anywhere she could fade into obscurity.

For the time being, Silla had resigned herself to Rey’s plan. Istré for now. It was easier not to decide for herself. A relief, if she was being honest. But between the black walls of the canyon, Silla had nothing but time to think. To remember their names.

Ilías Svik. Matthias Nordvig. Skeggagrim.

Good men, all dead because of her. Perhaps living was her punishment. To wake each morning with the anguish of their blood on her hands, with the ache of Jonas’s betrayal etched into her soul, knowing that Metta was in the Klaernar’s prison, suffering at the hands of her captors.

Certainly, Silla bore the bruises of Kopa—­a beating so thorough that her eye had swelled up and her ribs ached with each slight movement. Even so, she couldn’t help but think she deserved far worse.

They rounded a bend, the canyon widening. The lower levels of the wall had eroded away in one spot, leaving a thin black spire topped with a wider rock.

“They call it Hábrók’s Hammer,” said Rey from behind her. “We will camp here tonight. There is an overhang there to shelter under. Plenty of grass for Horse . . .” Her mind drifted to the rumble of his voice along her back. It was impossible to keep their distance while on horseback, and in her exhaustion, she’d given up trying. Though she’d never admit it to anyone but herself, his presence behind her—­a solid wall of warrior—­was reassuring.

“Silla?”

She shook her head, trying to disperse the haze clouding her mind. Rey had dismounted and was staring at the small crescent-­shaped scar at the corner of her eye.

Stop staring at it! she wanted to scream. This scar was her damnation. It had allowed those men near Skarstad to identify her; it had gotten her father killed. Silla turned her head, dismounting from Horse.

Over the past days spent traveling together, she and Rey had settled into a routine of sorts. Mindlessly, Silla removed Horse’s saddle and brushed her down, while Rey pulled supplies from the saddlesack and set up camp. By the time Horse’s coat gleamed and she’d wandered to a lush patch of grass, Rey had a fire roaring. As it happened, he was remarkably adept at kindling a fire, even from the wettest wood.

She sank onto the grass. Pulled at an errant thread dangling from her cuff. It was Rey’s tunic, as were the breeches belted around her waist. His clothing swam on her, but it didn’t matter. She’d burned the red dress Valf had put her in. If only she could burn the memories of his hand, clutching her neck while the other went to his belt.

Scream, dear. I do so enjoy it.

Rey’s voice diverted her thoughts. “Tomorrow we’ll travel past a village. I’ll stop and have a falcon sent north to the warriors who will fetch you.” He paused, eyeing her. “And we shall reach Istré after dark.”

Silla’s temples throbbed at the mere thought of Istré. Days now, it had been the two of them plodding through this canyon. Here, she’d settled into a numb existence. Not quite safe, yet not quite in danger: It was an in-­between. But the words village and people had her survival instincts on edge, making her pulse beat erratically.

A weighted silence hung in the air, and Silla knew Rey was choosing his words. “You must eat more tonight, Silla.” He pulled a few strips of dried elk from his bag and offered them to her.

Silla stared at his outstretched hand. The thought of food made her stomach roil, and the thought of Kalasgarde was like an anchor tied to her, pulling her down, down, down. She felt lost and so very tired. Not just her body, but her bones.

Her soul.

But she took the dried elk all the same. Forced herself to bite into it. What she wouldn’t give for her skjöld leaves, to fly away from everything for a moment or two. Would there be an apothecary in Istré? Silla had lost all her belongings, sólas included. Rey, though . . . he kept coins in a pouch on his battle belt, others in the false bottom of Horse’s saddlesack. She could pilfer a few. Sneak off to the apothecary in Istré.

She was filled with self-­loathing at the vile thought. Rey had saved her life in Kopa. She could not steal from him. But the longings were fiercer than she’d felt in days . . . weeks.

Without the leaves how could she distract herself from the gloom of her thoughts? Before, she’d had Jonas to help her escape. But like the leaves, he’d brought nothing but misery. All of the bandages for Silla’s grief were now gone, and gods, but it hurt.

Rey had busied himself sharpening one of his many daggers, but she felt the touch of his gaze on her skin. Silla glanced his way. With the fire’s flames reflected in his eyes, with that sharp jaw and the sprawl of his legs, the man looked like a malevolent god honing his blade. Utterly unbothered by anything. Impenetrable to human emotion. Brutally handsome.

Her eyes trailed across his broad frame and landed on his hip.

“May I?” she asked, nodding at the flask.

Rey hesitated before pushing to his full height and stepping around the fire. Crouching down to her level, he pressed the flask firmly into her palm. “Go easy,” he said, a groove deepening between his brows.

She wanted to reach out. Smooth the line away. Instead, she lifted the flask to her lips and took a large swallow. It burned a path down her throat, making her wince. Still, Rey stared at her scar so intently that she squirmed.

“Why do you stare at it?” she asked, blinking against the burn of the fire whiskey. “My scar?”

Rey seemed to shake free from his reverie. Running a hand down his face, for a moment he looked a little unsettled. “It reminds me,” he said, “of a life long ago.”

Silla puzzled over his words for a moment before helping herself to another gulp of brennsa. “Tell me,” she said.

Rey settled back across the fire, passing his dagger across a whetstone. “I prefer not to think of it.”

“Bad memories?” she asked, though of course he did not answer.

Tendrils of warmth unfurled in her belly, sending tiny vibrations all through her. Silla took yet another large mouthful of the fire whiskey, closing her eyes as it took effect. It was like a full-body exhalation, her tangled worries loosening, the burn of guilt soothed.

She lifted the flask for another drink.

“Silla.” Rey’s voice floated across the fire, carrying irritation and warning all at once. Silla, of course, ignored him. He wanted her to be responsible and sensible when all she wanted was to forget.

Pushing onto her feet, she arched her back in a stretch. She felt better already. Almost happy. “In a life long ago, I had chickens,” she said. The brennsa flowed through her with a silent rhythm that made her want to move. “And a swing. And I played a game. Do you want to play it, Axe Eyes?”

He scowled at her. The light from the fire caught his black curls, the warm brown of his curving cheekbone. Rey’s normally fastidiously trimmed beard hadn’t been touched in some time, and Silla considered that the past few days must have held their challenges for him as well. A better woman would offer to trim it for him—­would try to lighten his burden.

A better woman was not her.