and pure and perfect and chained. For two years, he had thought of little else.
Zabbai.
Swann’s death brought everything from Râ-Kedet flooding back.
The bottle slipped from his fingers and struck the stone with a thud. Red mead flowed down the steps of Gunir. Bergen didn’t move to stop it.
He could still smell the death on her.
And then their mother—
“Bergen.”
Bergen sat up. Like he, Rune looked beaten down and broken beneath the grief that had penetrated the city. Everyone felt the effect of Swann’s death. No one was immune to that loss. And Caoilinn’s death, at least that was one they could explain.
“Did you find him?” Bergen asked. The sound of his own voice felt foreign to him.
Rune shook his head as he watched a drop of mead cling to the lip of the bottle still resting on the steps. “Geirolf is looking with Torunn,” Rune said. “They haven’t seen him since…”
Rune dug his fingers into his eyes and Bergen stared at the city, too grief stricken to cry, too tired to sleep, too much death to live without hate.
Hate.
Bergen turned his thoughts to the fire that burned in his chest. That was something he knew and welcomed. He would need it where he was going.
Bergen shoved his hand through his short black hair and rubbed the back of his neck, then took up the bottle from the steps and shoved the egg into his pocket.
“And what of Mother?” Bergen asked, rising to his feet. “Has her body—” Bergen lost the words in his throat. There was no more room for grief, no more room to feel anything anymore, but hate.
Rune shook his head and wearily climbed each step to the great oak doors of the keep. “According to Geirolf, Father’s orders were to leave her.”
“We can’t just leave her,” Bergen said. The hate swelled again.
“What will you have me do?” Rune said, turning back to his brother. “Swann is dead…and Mother. Father is missing. After finding their kin slaughtered…the hundreds that lay dead…” Rune rubbed his hand over his face. “The Dokkalfar will want answers. They won’t stand for this, nor should they.”
Rune continued up the steps.
“Why should I concern myself with their misery when it was their kin who started this?” Rune gazed down upon his brother. “When it was they who took our Swann from us?” Bergen asked.
“Would you have war?” Rune said. “Would you see more dead? The Dokkalfar are strong.”
“We have numbers.” Bergen took a step closer.
“They have a witch, Brother. A Seidkona.”
Bergen’s face fell as he assessed the Dokkalfar’s strength against their numbers.
“One Seidkona doesn’t make an army,” Bergen said and turned away, but Rune’s hand flew to Bergen’s arm.
“They have weapons,” Rune said. “Forged from a steel the likes I have never seen before. If there is war…” Rune shook his head and left the thought unfinished. “We can’t win this.”
“There are others,” Bergen said. The rising darkness within him blanketed his face as his thoughts turned to the mountains.
“What others?” Rune asked.
“Rune. Bergen.”
Torunn stood on the steps of the keep. Her dainty shoulders sagged from the insurmountable grief they all bore these past few days. Her long black hair, always so neatly twisted and fastened to the back of her head, was disheveled, making her appear almost crazed.
“Your father,” she said. Her lip quivered. “He’s here.”
* * *
“I’ve never seen him like this,” Torunn whispered as Bergen and Rune entered the corridor behind her. “He came in, mumbling such madness. It’s like he’s gone. I can’t get him to talk to me. He won’t speak to Geirolf.”
“Where is he, Torunn?” Rune asked as she wrung her hands together.
Torunn stopped before their mother’s bower. The door was open just enough to make out the endless babble that accompanied the uttering of a mad man.
Rune pushed on the door and entered with Bergen following close behind.
Zabbai.
Swann’s death brought everything from Râ-Kedet flooding back.
The bottle slipped from his fingers and struck the stone with a thud. Red mead flowed down the steps of Gunir. Bergen didn’t move to stop it.
He could still smell the death on her.
And then their mother—
“Bergen.”
Bergen sat up. Like he, Rune looked beaten down and broken beneath the grief that had penetrated the city. Everyone felt the effect of Swann’s death. No one was immune to that loss. And Caoilinn’s death, at least that was one they could explain.
“Did you find him?” Bergen asked. The sound of his own voice felt foreign to him.
Rune shook his head as he watched a drop of mead cling to the lip of the bottle still resting on the steps. “Geirolf is looking with Torunn,” Rune said. “They haven’t seen him since…”
Rune dug his fingers into his eyes and Bergen stared at the city, too grief stricken to cry, too tired to sleep, too much death to live without hate.
Hate.
Bergen turned his thoughts to the fire that burned in his chest. That was something he knew and welcomed. He would need it where he was going.
Bergen shoved his hand through his short black hair and rubbed the back of his neck, then took up the bottle from the steps and shoved the egg into his pocket.
“And what of Mother?” Bergen asked, rising to his feet. “Has her body—” Bergen lost the words in his throat. There was no more room for grief, no more room to feel anything anymore, but hate.
Rune shook his head and wearily climbed each step to the great oak doors of the keep. “According to Geirolf, Father’s orders were to leave her.”
“We can’t just leave her,” Bergen said. The hate swelled again.
“What will you have me do?” Rune said, turning back to his brother. “Swann is dead…and Mother. Father is missing. After finding their kin slaughtered…the hundreds that lay dead…” Rune rubbed his hand over his face. “The Dokkalfar will want answers. They won’t stand for this, nor should they.”
Rune continued up the steps.
“Why should I concern myself with their misery when it was their kin who started this?” Rune gazed down upon his brother. “When it was they who took our Swann from us?” Bergen asked.
“Would you have war?” Rune said. “Would you see more dead? The Dokkalfar are strong.”
“We have numbers.” Bergen took a step closer.
“They have a witch, Brother. A Seidkona.”
Bergen’s face fell as he assessed the Dokkalfar’s strength against their numbers.
“One Seidkona doesn’t make an army,” Bergen said and turned away, but Rune’s hand flew to Bergen’s arm.
“They have weapons,” Rune said. “Forged from a steel the likes I have never seen before. If there is war…” Rune shook his head and left the thought unfinished. “We can’t win this.”
“There are others,” Bergen said. The rising darkness within him blanketed his face as his thoughts turned to the mountains.
“What others?” Rune asked.
“Rune. Bergen.”
Torunn stood on the steps of the keep. Her dainty shoulders sagged from the insurmountable grief they all bore these past few days. Her long black hair, always so neatly twisted and fastened to the back of her head, was disheveled, making her appear almost crazed.
“Your father,” she said. Her lip quivered. “He’s here.”
* * *
“I’ve never seen him like this,” Torunn whispered as Bergen and Rune entered the corridor behind her. “He came in, mumbling such madness. It’s like he’s gone. I can’t get him to talk to me. He won’t speak to Geirolf.”
“Where is he, Torunn?” Rune asked as she wrung her hands together.
Torunn stopped before their mother’s bower. The door was open just enough to make out the endless babble that accompanied the uttering of a mad man.
Rune pushed on the door and entered with Bergen following close behind.
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