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Synopsis
From the international bestselling author Anthony Ryan comes the spectacular second novel in a new epic new fantasy trilogy inspired by Norse mythology.
"A gripping epic." – Publishers Weekly on A Tide of Black Steel
For more from Anthony Ryan, check out:
The Age of Wrath
A Tide of Black Steel
Born of an Iron Storm
Covenant of Steel
The Pariah
The Martyr
The Traitor
Release date: August 26, 2025
Publisher: Orbit
Print pages: 576
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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Born of an Iron Storm
Anthony Ryan
Thera
It was the cold that saved her. Drifting towards the seabed enveloped in a dark crimson cloud, the warmth in her body seeped away with the blood leaking from her wounds. The invasive chill sent jolts of pain through her chest and skull, shielding her from the lure of sleep from which she knew there would be no waking.
Fight! she commanded herself, red bubbles issuing from her mouth as she snarled in defiance. Kick! Get to the surface!
Her enraged determination produced only a feeble thrashing of limbs before the cold embrace of the water drew even tighter. Of all the many frustrations that beset her in that moment, she was irked to find that it was the image of Eshilde’s face that loomed largest. The cruelty in it. The resentment Thera had always known to simmer beneath the surface now flaring in those eyes, twisting her apprentice’s lips into a smile of malicious enjoyment. Thera had kissed those lips, and felt only passion when she did so. Now she felt hate. She knew Eshilde was dead, brought down and savaged by Snaryk, Lynnea’s faithful hound. But still, the perverse need to kill the traitor raged within, keeping death at bay for another few seconds until her starved lungs made Thera convulse and gasp for air that couldn’t be gasped. Salt water invaded her mouth and choked her throat, causing yet more convulsions. She had heard once that drowning was a peaceful way to die and found space in her frantic mind for an amused reflection on the ignorance of fools.
There is no such thing as a peaceful death…
The feeling of something beneath her summoned another reflexive jerk to her limbs. She assumed she had finally reached the seabed, then felt the object move. It was large and strong, pushing her upward with repeated shoves. A seal? she wondered. Perhaps an orca having a game with its prey. Unusual to find one so close to a harbour though…
She broke the surface gasping, this time rewarded with a lungful of blessedly sweet air. She felt the unknown beast shift beneath her and arms envelop her chest, legs kicking frantically against the back of her thighs. “Rope!” a voice called out in a loud sputter. “Throw the rope!” it shouted, heavily accented but familiar. Achier.
A wave of fatigue swept through Thera, causing her to sag in Achier’s arms. “Hold on!” he hissed into her ear. “They’re coming…”
But she could no longer find purchase on this world. Sensation leached from her body, taking even the cold with it to leave behind a dominating numbness and a desperate desire to sleep the un-waking sleep. This time she was saved by a bark, Snaryk’s massive head poking from the water to deliver a loud, urgent rebuke directly into her ear. It pained her enough to keep the sleep at bay.
She was dimly aware of a splash nearby as another body plummeted into the water from the ship above, more arms encircling her limp form. A rope looped around her chest, drawing tight before Thera felt herself hauled from the water. More hands dragged her over the rail then came the hardness of the Great Wolf’s deck against her back.
“Two wounds,” a voice said as her leather armour was quickly peeled away. “Deep. Not sure they can be stitched…”
“I can stitch them.” Achier again, his voice imbued with a hard authority she hadn’t heard before. “I was a healer,” he added, Thera imagining him confronting an array of doubtful faces. She flapped a hand, trying to indicate that they should listen to the Morvek, but she was already being lifted. She felt a marginal increase in warmth, nose filling with the familiar scents of her shelter aboard the Great Wolf.
“Going to get blood all over my furs,” she groaned, the words too faint to escape her lips.
“Out!” she heard Achier snap. “I need room and quiet to do this.”
“She’d best not die, foreigner,” another voice warned, Thera recognising the hard, gruff tones of Ossgrym Ironbones. “Or rest assured your life will be forfeit.”
Didn’t think he liked me that much, Thera thought, the chill returning as her sodden undershirt was cut away. She shuddered at the feel of deft fingers probing her wounds, then heard Achier’s voice close to her ear, the words delivered in a soft, apologetic murmur: “This will hurt very much. I am sorry.”
Hurt? Thera wanted to laugh. You think I don’t know hurt…?
All thought fled when Achier pressed a hand to each of her wounds and fire flooded into them. Thera would have screamed if her jaw hadn’t clamped shut as every muscle and tendon in her body tightened. Her back arched, spine strained so much she felt sure it would shatter. She could feel the fire sealing the holes in her body, seared flesh puckering and melting into a seam, staunching the blood. Thera didn’t know how long it took, the monstrous pain robbing her of any sense of time.
When finally the fire burned out, she slumped into her bloodstained furs, twitching in mingled shock and relief. Still, she couldn’t move beyond a limp flexing of her hands. Her wounds still ached, but the agony had faded, leaving behind a dull persistent throb until, abruptly, it flared into a sharp pain. Finding to her surprise that she could see, Thera blinked and saw Achier working a needle and catgut through the edges of her uppermost injury. It was an unnecessary act since the wound, although livid and angry, was now completely sealed. The one Eshilde had delivered to the spot just below Thera’s ribcage was also closed.
“Sorry,” Achier apologised again. “For the sake of appearances, you understand.”
She recalled then her first sight of this man, a small figure clinging to wreckage bobbing on the icy northern seas, suffering a weight of cold that should have killed him. “That’s how… you survived…” she grunted, her voice annoying in its smallness. “Your fire…”
“Sleep now,” he said, snipping off the last stitch to her upper wound and starting on the other. “You must rest.”
She felt an urge to object, since the spectre of the endless sleep that had almost claimed her loomed large. But it seemed that the mere mention of rest was enough to summon her surrender.
“Could you… do the same… for Eshilde?” she muttered as she fell into the welcoming void. “I so much want… to kill her… myself…”
In her dream she was back on the Great Wolf’s deck, crouched alongside Eshilde as they regarded Gelmyr’s corpse. The Johten Apt’s features were set in the same frown of incomprehension Thera remembered. At the time, it had been baffling. Now she knew the cause.
“I stabbed him in the back first,” Eshilde told her. “He thought he’d been struck by an arrow until I stuck him in the chest. He was still trying to ask me a question when he died with that stupid look on his face.” She laughed, the sound that of a child discovering the delights of cruelty. “Stupid old bastard. I do wonder what he was trying to ask, though.”
“Why,” Thera said. “He wanted to know why. As do I.”
Eshilde laughed again, although this time it was different, coloured by a note of tired resignation. A stiff, icy wind gusted from the sea, tousling her braids as she shook her head. “You know why, Thera,” she said. “You know why I pounded that weakling’s skull to mush in Buhl Hardta. And why I killed the captain of that slave ship at Iselda’s Nail. It was always there for you to see, but you chose not to. Despite years administering justice to the dregs of Ascarlia, at heart, you remain a trusting soul.” She gave a tight, wincing smile, a friend imparting unwelcome advice. “It will be your death one day.”
“Whereas yours comes now,” Thera growled, readying her spear for a thrust. Yet her hands would not obey. The chill wind had grown fiercer, cutting through armour and skin with unnatural ease to birth a deep tremble in Thera’s core. The spear slipped from her grasp, clattering to the deck. She sank to her knees, rendered helpless by the cold.
“You think you won something here?” Eshilde asked, jerking her head at the destroyed Nihlvarian stockade on shore. “All you’ve done is prolong the agony, like a condemned soul who continues to kick even as the noose draws ever tighter…”
Letting out a wordless grunt of rage, Thera lunged for the spear, intending to thrust it through this traitor’s torso and enjoy her last few seconds of agonised life. But, when her hands closed on the haft, hard wood became soft wool and she awoke to find herself clutching a blanket.
Calm! A warm hand on hers, lowering the blanket to reveal Lynnea’s face. Her brow was drawn in concern, sapphire-hued eyes wide as they roved Thera’s face and body. The rapid thud of her heart slowed at the maiden’s touch and she lay back on a bed of soft furs, the absence of matted hardness making it clear some kind soul had seen fit to replace the stained bear pelt. Thera’s eyes flicked around the shelter, noting that they were alone. From outside, she could hear the chorus of hammer and saw that bespoke many hands at work. Repairs, she concluded.
“How many…” she began, her words ending in a parched rasp. Lynnea put a flask of water to her lips, and Thera drained the contents in a few gulps. “How many ships did we lose?”
Lynnea put the flask aside and shifted closer, Thera hearing the maiden’s voice in her head after a pause for consideration. A few boats only. We took more than we lost, but many need work before they’ll sail again. Some were lost to the flames. A few managed to escape. Lynnea shrugged her slender shoulders. Such is war, I suppose. It turns out to be a good deal more random in nature than I thought.
“War is a storm,” Thera said, one of her great-grandfather’s oft spoken nuggets of wisdom. “Once unleashed, it cannot be controlled, only survived if your hand is skilled enough.”
A fresh bout of chills swept through her, the sensation made worse by the heat that came from her sealed wounds. They felt like two hot coals sizzling on a patch of ice.
Calm, Lynnea repeated, lying down next to her and pulling the blanket over them both. Her arms encircled Thera’s shoulders, drawing her close. She wore only a loose shift and the warmth of her body soon banished the chills, the fiery heat of Thera’s wounds abating. Do they hurt? Lynnea enquired, touching a tentative finger to the stitches on Thera’s chest.
“They… burn a little. It’s not too bad.” Thera put an unsteady hand to Lynnea’s chin, raising it so their eyes met. “You knew what he could do, didn’t you? Back when we first found him, you sensed it.”
Lynnea’s lips curved a little in chagrin. I didn’t know the nature of his power. But yes, I felt it. As he felt mine. Sometimes that’s how it is. Other times not. My mother said there were ways to hide it from others like us, but she never taught me how.
Thera frowned in self-reproach as more memories of the night before crowded her head. “Your leg,” she said, pulling back the blanket to reveal Lynnea’s thigh. A bandage covered the wound, stained a soft shade of pink.
It’s all right. Lynnea’s hand closed on Thera’s. She remembered the awful sight of the arrow that had pierced Lynnea’s flesh, the blood welling around the wound. Cleaned and stitched, Lynnea assured her. There’s a woman in Uhlwald Kahlvik’s menda skilled in healing. She said I was lucky. Just a hair to the left and the arrow would have cut a vein that would’ve seen me dead in seconds. She gave a small grimace. It’s hard to walk, though.
“Achier. He can heal you as he did me…”
No. A stern note coloured Lynnea’s thoughts, blue eyes hardening. He has risked much healing you. To do so again so soon would invite discovery. Besides, not all wounds can be sealed by his fire and he has no power over sickness. Her face softened and she drew Thera close again. The feel of her aroused a curious mingling of intoxication and comfort, also a sense of connection she couldn’t recall from such intimacy before now. This is good. This is right. She wanted to pull Lynnea closer, as close as her weakened muscles would allow, but questions still irked her.
“Eshilde,” she began. “She lied. For years. You have the gift of hearing lies, yet you didn’t hear hers.”
It’s not lies I hear, Lynnea replied, drawing back so that their noses barely touched. It’s truth. I heard the truth of Annuk’s deceit in Buhl Hardta. And I heard the truth of Eshilde’s anger and jealousy throughout our journey, and the hate she tried to hide. I thought it merely the resentment of spurned love and frustrated ambition. I didn’t tell you because I knew you intended to send her away when our task was done. She closed her eyes. For which I am sorry.
“From here on,” Thera said, wincing with the effort of raising a hand to cup Lynnea’s cheek, “keep nothing from me. Our road is long, and I shall need all the help you can give.” Her voice dwindled as she spoke, eyelids growing heavy until Lynnea’s face was a vague pale oval. Thera slipped into a dreamless slumber with the feel of Lynnea’s lips upon her forehead.
“This is all we found.” Ossgrym set the sheaf of parchment down on the table where Thera had seated herself. She would have preferred to stand at a meeting like this, but, despite three full days of healing, her legs retained a treacherous tendency to fold beneath her at inopportune moments.
She had gathered the captains of this small army in a large shed where the Nihlvarians had kept their slaves, the only building left intact after the Ascarlian assault. During the battle, these unfortunates had used what water they had to douse the wooden walls against the flames. Fortunately, they had been discovered by Uhlwald Kahlvik who smashed the chains securing the door and allowed them to escape. A less discerning and level-headed soul may well have left them to perish. With their masters slain or fled, the slaves had quickly formed themselves into two distinct groups. The smallest consisted of thirty or so Nihlvarians with their red-tattooed faces. These, Achier informed her, were a motley collection of thieves and otherwise disgraced outcasts condemned to servitude to atone for their misdeeds. The larger group, over a hundred strong, were all Morvek. The two factions clearly despised each other but were unified by fear of their new captors, despite Thera ordering their chains removed. Ossgrym wanted to put them to work cleaning up the stockade and gathering booty, but Thera forbade it. “Leave them be, for now. I will have words for them later.”
Turning her attention to the pages, she found they bore an unfamiliar script. It resembled ancient Ascarlian but with a hard angularity and altered syntax that made it unreadable to all but Achier.
“This is a manifest of looted valuables,” he said when she passed him the topmost document. “Gold, jewels and such.”
“We found no such treasure,” Ossgrym said with a regretful huff.
“Probably consigned to a chest aboard one of the ships,” Kahlvik said. “Which means it’s either sitting at the bottom of the bay or carried off.”
“What else?” Thera prompted Achier, handing him the full sheaf of pages.
“A list of warriors slain in a battle on the sea,” he said, leafing through the parchment. “This one appears to be a letter from the Tuhlvyr to the captain of a ship in his fleet.”
“Tuhlvyr?” Thera asked.
“A person of high status,” Achier explained. “It is the highest rank among the wealthy of Nihlvar. Only a Tuhlvyr would be appointed to command a force this large.”
“Does this important man offer any insight as to our enemy’s intentions?” Thera asked.
“He and the captain seem to be friends of old. Mostly he talks of voyages they shared and battles they fought. Also it speaks repeatedly of his love and loyalty for the Vortigurn. Probably, he was worried this letter would be read by spies before it reached the captain.”
“Vortigurn?” Kahlvik enquired.
“The King of Nihlvar,” Achier said, his eyes narrowing as he read on. “The Tuhlvyr also speaks of great bounty to be found in a place called…” he paused, hesitating at an unfamiliar name before pronouncing it with slow deliberation “… Skar Magnol.”
The former slave blinked at the instant attention his words provoked in all present. Thera got to her feet, fists bunched on the table to prevent her swaying. “What exactly does he say about Skar Magnol?”
“It seems he expects it to have already fallen to Nihlvar.” Achier blinked, disconcerted by the hard stares now fixed upon him. “He hopes to go there soon to present himself to…” The Morvek frowned, puzzled by the next few lines. “Someone he refers to as the Vortigurn’s Ehlvyr. It’s a rarely used word, meaning ‘Chosen’.”
“When was that written?”
Turning the page, Achier pointed to the set of small marks below the main body of text. “Eight days ago.”
“This can’t be,” Ossgrym said. “Skar Magnol cannot have fallen so quickly. They could never have reached so far so soon.”
“There were fewer ships here than we expected,” Thera pointed out. “They must have gone somewhere.” She took the documents from Achier, leafing through them until she found one she had noticed at first inspection, but failed to spot its import. It showed a crude drawing that she had initially taken for a map of some far-off Nihlvarian port. Now she saw a distinct familiarity in those poorly rendered lines. “This is a plan of the Verungyr,” she said. “A long reach can become short if you have help. And we know our enemy is rich in spies.”
“The Sister Queens,” Ossgrym breathed, his gaze dark with unaccustomed fear. “Could they truly be under threat?”
“We have but one means of finding out,” Thera said. Realising her statement had been spoken in a thin parody of her usual voice, she coughed and straightened. “As Vellihr of Justice, my course is clear. I must take the Great Wolf and sail for Skar Magnol, regardless of all hazards.”
Elvine
“Do all she says.” Colvyn’s whisper was a rapid flutter of air into her ear before Vellihr Ilvar’s warriors clapped irons on his wrists and marched him away. “Take no risks on my account,” he added, craning his neck to offer a parting smile she felt to be wholly inappropriate in its comforting surety.
Then he was gone, leaving her alone with Sister Lore and the warriors busily dragging corpses from Nerlfeya’s Hall. Elvine tried not to look, but the sight of so many bodies trailing red streaks upon the polished floor of this sacred place was horribly magnetic. Sisters Iron and Silver were equally distracting, lying still and lifeless close to the fire so that the blood pooling around them appeared quite black.
“Never doubt the necessity of my actions, dear heart,” Sister Lore said.
Elvine’s gaze snapped back to the queen’s gore-covered face, finding it moulded into a serious frown. She still held the Spear of the Altvar, wet from head to shaft with the lifeblood of her fellow queens. “We have much to do, you and I,” Lore continued. “And no room for doubt. If you harbour any, now is the time to share, dearest one.”
For a moment Elvine couldn’t speak. Everything was so utterly wrong, so completely changed in the space of a few moments, that she feared the sound that would emerge from her lips might be the shrill giggle of a soul driven beyond reason. She searched Lore’s face for some sign of madness, something to explain this horror. But saw only the brisk and purposeful countenance she knew so well from their days together in the tower library.
“No…” Elvine began, finding she had to swallow several times to complete the sentence. “No doubts, my queen. Though this is… unexpected.”
“Yes.” Lore sighed, a measure of regret passing over her besmirched features as she surveyed the surrounding slaughter. “I had hoped to fully enlighten you before sending you off on so perilous a mission, but time proved my enemy. Still—” she reached for Elvine’s hand, her grip warm, that same bright smile lighting her face “—I knew from our first meeting that a mind so keen, not to say practical, would recognise a much-needed shift in perspective.”
A small sputter came from the far end of the chamber, where one of the seemingly dead servants of the Verungyr began to spasm as he was dragged across the floor. The warrior holding his arms released them and crouched to drive a dagger into the man’s throat. A shift in perspective.
Elvine’s gaze shifted back to Lore’s, still not seeing even a flicker of the insanity she expected. She’s mad, Elvine insisted to herself. She must be.
“Might I enquire, my queen,” she said, voice more steady than she imagined it could be, “as to my mother’s whereabouts?”
“Hard at work translating a recent batch of foreign correspondence, I would hope. You’ll see her soon.” Lore squeezed her hand again and began to lead her from the chamber. “Ilvar,” she called to the Vellihr of Lore as she made for the corridor leading to her tower, “be sure to search my sisters thoroughly before you burn the bodies. Then conduct a thorough inspection of their towers. Every document, regardless of how trivial, is to be brought to me.”
“I’ll see to it, my queen,” he assured her with a grave bow. In his gaze at least, Elvine saw the gleam of a deranged mind. She had known him to be a fanatic since their first meeting, but now his fierce ardour for the Altvar shone forth as he surveyed the fallen queens. As they passed him, Elvine heard him mutter a phrase from the Altvar Rendi: “‘Those who turn from the Altvar’s gaze shall ever be cursed.’”
“Come on,” Lore said, jerking Elvine’s arm as she tugged her away. “I must hear the tale of your quest in all its glory. Then, of course, you will write an account for the archive.”
Once in her tower rooms, Lore washed her face and hands in a bowl of steaming water provided by a burly woman named Lilda, a servant Elvine remembered from her days before joining Felnir’s crew. She was quick to arrive at two salient realisations in recognising this woman. First, Lore must have told her to bring the bowl and washcloth before she went to Nerlfeya’s Hall. The second was the fact that few of Lore’s personal servants had been present for the massacre. Planned, Elvine thought, chastising herself for missing such an obvious conclusion. But then, her hands still shook and her mind remained a whirl of gruesome details and worry for both Berrine and Colvyn.
Upon entering the tower, Lore had set the Spear of the Altvar down upon the large oakwood table in the library. As in the chamber, Elvine found a dangerous distraction in the red beads dripping onto the polished surface from the iron head.
“Be so good as to clean that before you go,” Lore told Lilda while towelling her hands dry.
“I shall, my queen.”
“Although I am, of course, delighted with the fruits of your mission, dear heart,” Lore said, coming to Elvine’s side, “I confess myself a trifle disappointed in the treasure you brought me. I expected a gift of the Altvar to be more ornate, if not imbued with some form of blessed ability. Or am I, perhaps, missing something?” She arched an eyebrow at Elvine who spent a panicked moment wondering if it was suspicion she saw in the queen’s gaze, or mere amusement.
Don’t tell her! she instructed herself, the harsh certainty of it momentarily banishing Elvine’s fears. Tell her that thing spoke to me and she’ll never let me or it out of her sight.
“It appears to be just a spear, my queen,” she agreed. “But I swear to its authenticity…”
“Of which I have not the slightest doubt.” Lore laughed and began to offer a reassuring embrace, then paused to look down at the red spatter covering her robe. “I must change. Lilda brought refreshments. Feel free to partake.” She waved a hand at the jug of lemon tea sitting on the table and made for her private chamber.
Elvine watched the servant wipe the gore from the spear with brisk efficiency, showing no sign that she might have felt anything more than old iron and wood. Her task done, she offered Elvine a wordless nod and departed with bowl in hand. Casting a furtive glance at the door to Lore’s chamber, Elvine hurried to the spear, reaching out to grasp it, then stopping short. What will it tell me to do? The notion that whatever lived in this ancient thing might command her to use it on Lore caused her hand to hover over the dark wood of the haft. It doesn’t command, she reminded herself. It provides insight only. At least, it did before.
Taking a breath, Elvine settled her hand on the spear. The familiar heat blossomed instantly, the heat that only she appeared to feel, and the same soft voice spoke in Elvine’s mind, warm as before but now tinged with sorrow and a note of reproach. You gave me unto dark hands, it said.
“I had no choice,” Elvine whispered back, eyes flicking to Lore’s chamber door.
The absence of choice is always an illusion, child. A pause, Elvine feeling the heat against her palm fluctuate, a sensation that conveyed an impression of calculation. She that wielded me is vile, the spear said finally. As poisonous a soul as I have ever encountered, made worse by her ignorance of her own vileness. She is also sharper of mind than most. But not you, child. Be wary. Be watchful. Be her trusted confidante, but trust nothing she says. Most of all, be her friend, for she has never known true friendship in all her life. It will be your weapon when the time comes. And it will come.
Hearing the creak of hinges, Elvine removed her hand from the spear and hurried to the jug of tea. She surprised herself by not spilling any as she poured two cups.
“Now then,” Lore said, striding into the library, her slender form clad in a clean white robe. “I believe it’s time for your story.” She accepted the cup Elvine proffered and gestured to the nearby couch. “Come. Leave nothing out. I’m especially interested in the Vaults of the Altvar. It occurs to me I should have sent an artist with you to capture them before they fell to ruin. Were they everything I imagined them to be, Elvine?”
Be her friend. “I believe they were, my queen.” Elvine waited for Lore to sit, then settled herself on the couch, sipping her tea. It tasted so good she wondered if the recent sight of death had a tendency to sharpen the senses, perhaps force an appreciation for pleasures that can so easily be taken away. “They were wondrous to behold indeed.”
She went on to relate the full tale of her time as part of Felnir’s crew, beginning with the ambush at Velgard’s monument on Ayl-Ah-Skorna. As she spoke, she studied Lore’s reaction closely. Felnir hadn’t been able to extract the identity of their paymaster from the mercenary prisoners, and it occurred to Elvine now that there may be more aspects to Lore’s treachery than she realised. However, the queen reacted to this event with a seemingly genuine frown of surprise, and a modicum of anger, not that Elvine could trust her judgement of such things now. Less than an hour before, she had witnessed the starkest evidence of this woman’s capacity for deceit. Continuing her tale, Elvine described the inscription she found on the ruined base of Velgard’s statue.
“It depicted what I believed to be the constellation of Trieya’s Quill. Setting our course to follow its rise led us to the southern Fire Isles. There beneath the mountains we discovered the underground city I believe to have been constructed by Velgard’s followers, beyond which lay the Vaults of the Altvar. I have already told you what occurred there, and the destruction of the Sea Hawk shortly after.”
Elvine saw the same frown of puzzled annoyance pass across the queen’s face at this, accompanied by a soft mutter: “So, some things he is not content to leave in my hands.”
“My queen?”
“Nothing of import.” Lore smiled and waved a hand. “The Sea Hawk, you are sure she went down with all her crew?”
“That I cannot say for sure, my queen. The fog was thick, and battle, I have discovered, is as confusing as it is perilous.”
“Yet you contrived to escape it with the aid of that handsome young Albermaine-ish mercenary.” Lore’s voice took on a coy note. “I assume the subsequent voyage was very… intimate.” She evidently mistook Elvine lowering her eyes for embarrassment instead of fear. Laughing a little, she patted Elvine’s hand. “It would be cruel of me to begrudge you some pleasurable distractions, dear heart. Worry not. I’ll keep him safe for you. Perhaps, in time, he can be released into your very tender custody. We’ll have to see.”
Elvine fought down a lurch of nausea at the direness of Colvyn’s predicament if Lore were to discover that, not only was he Elvine’s half-brother, but also the son of Evadyn Blackheart.
“Now,” Lore continued. “You mentioned earlier that you were also bearing a missive from Veilwald Hakkyn of the Aiken Geld. Please relate it in full.” She listened with no indication of either surprise or dismay to Elvine’s description of the Veilwald’s plight. Lore merely pursed her lips upon hearing how Hakkyn’s northern islands were beset by raiders, the Kast Geld appeared to have been completely overrun, and Veilwald Ossgrym slain.
“I know this must all seem very strange, even frightening,” the queen said when Elvine finished. “But know this, my most cherished servant, all that has come to pass is necessary, if… regrettable
It was the cold that saved her. Drifting towards the seabed enveloped in a dark crimson cloud, the warmth in her body seeped away with the blood leaking from her wounds. The invasive chill sent jolts of pain through her chest and skull, shielding her from the lure of sleep from which she knew there would be no waking.
Fight! she commanded herself, red bubbles issuing from her mouth as she snarled in defiance. Kick! Get to the surface!
Her enraged determination produced only a feeble thrashing of limbs before the cold embrace of the water drew even tighter. Of all the many frustrations that beset her in that moment, she was irked to find that it was the image of Eshilde’s face that loomed largest. The cruelty in it. The resentment Thera had always known to simmer beneath the surface now flaring in those eyes, twisting her apprentice’s lips into a smile of malicious enjoyment. Thera had kissed those lips, and felt only passion when she did so. Now she felt hate. She knew Eshilde was dead, brought down and savaged by Snaryk, Lynnea’s faithful hound. But still, the perverse need to kill the traitor raged within, keeping death at bay for another few seconds until her starved lungs made Thera convulse and gasp for air that couldn’t be gasped. Salt water invaded her mouth and choked her throat, causing yet more convulsions. She had heard once that drowning was a peaceful way to die and found space in her frantic mind for an amused reflection on the ignorance of fools.
There is no such thing as a peaceful death…
The feeling of something beneath her summoned another reflexive jerk to her limbs. She assumed she had finally reached the seabed, then felt the object move. It was large and strong, pushing her upward with repeated shoves. A seal? she wondered. Perhaps an orca having a game with its prey. Unusual to find one so close to a harbour though…
She broke the surface gasping, this time rewarded with a lungful of blessedly sweet air. She felt the unknown beast shift beneath her and arms envelop her chest, legs kicking frantically against the back of her thighs. “Rope!” a voice called out in a loud sputter. “Throw the rope!” it shouted, heavily accented but familiar. Achier.
A wave of fatigue swept through Thera, causing her to sag in Achier’s arms. “Hold on!” he hissed into her ear. “They’re coming…”
But she could no longer find purchase on this world. Sensation leached from her body, taking even the cold with it to leave behind a dominating numbness and a desperate desire to sleep the un-waking sleep. This time she was saved by a bark, Snaryk’s massive head poking from the water to deliver a loud, urgent rebuke directly into her ear. It pained her enough to keep the sleep at bay.
She was dimly aware of a splash nearby as another body plummeted into the water from the ship above, more arms encircling her limp form. A rope looped around her chest, drawing tight before Thera felt herself hauled from the water. More hands dragged her over the rail then came the hardness of the Great Wolf’s deck against her back.
“Two wounds,” a voice said as her leather armour was quickly peeled away. “Deep. Not sure they can be stitched…”
“I can stitch them.” Achier again, his voice imbued with a hard authority she hadn’t heard before. “I was a healer,” he added, Thera imagining him confronting an array of doubtful faces. She flapped a hand, trying to indicate that they should listen to the Morvek, but she was already being lifted. She felt a marginal increase in warmth, nose filling with the familiar scents of her shelter aboard the Great Wolf.
“Going to get blood all over my furs,” she groaned, the words too faint to escape her lips.
“Out!” she heard Achier snap. “I need room and quiet to do this.”
“She’d best not die, foreigner,” another voice warned, Thera recognising the hard, gruff tones of Ossgrym Ironbones. “Or rest assured your life will be forfeit.”
Didn’t think he liked me that much, Thera thought, the chill returning as her sodden undershirt was cut away. She shuddered at the feel of deft fingers probing her wounds, then heard Achier’s voice close to her ear, the words delivered in a soft, apologetic murmur: “This will hurt very much. I am sorry.”
Hurt? Thera wanted to laugh. You think I don’t know hurt…?
All thought fled when Achier pressed a hand to each of her wounds and fire flooded into them. Thera would have screamed if her jaw hadn’t clamped shut as every muscle and tendon in her body tightened. Her back arched, spine strained so much she felt sure it would shatter. She could feel the fire sealing the holes in her body, seared flesh puckering and melting into a seam, staunching the blood. Thera didn’t know how long it took, the monstrous pain robbing her of any sense of time.
When finally the fire burned out, she slumped into her bloodstained furs, twitching in mingled shock and relief. Still, she couldn’t move beyond a limp flexing of her hands. Her wounds still ached, but the agony had faded, leaving behind a dull persistent throb until, abruptly, it flared into a sharp pain. Finding to her surprise that she could see, Thera blinked and saw Achier working a needle and catgut through the edges of her uppermost injury. It was an unnecessary act since the wound, although livid and angry, was now completely sealed. The one Eshilde had delivered to the spot just below Thera’s ribcage was also closed.
“Sorry,” Achier apologised again. “For the sake of appearances, you understand.”
She recalled then her first sight of this man, a small figure clinging to wreckage bobbing on the icy northern seas, suffering a weight of cold that should have killed him. “That’s how… you survived…” she grunted, her voice annoying in its smallness. “Your fire…”
“Sleep now,” he said, snipping off the last stitch to her upper wound and starting on the other. “You must rest.”
She felt an urge to object, since the spectre of the endless sleep that had almost claimed her loomed large. But it seemed that the mere mention of rest was enough to summon her surrender.
“Could you… do the same… for Eshilde?” she muttered as she fell into the welcoming void. “I so much want… to kill her… myself…”
In her dream she was back on the Great Wolf’s deck, crouched alongside Eshilde as they regarded Gelmyr’s corpse. The Johten Apt’s features were set in the same frown of incomprehension Thera remembered. At the time, it had been baffling. Now she knew the cause.
“I stabbed him in the back first,” Eshilde told her. “He thought he’d been struck by an arrow until I stuck him in the chest. He was still trying to ask me a question when he died with that stupid look on his face.” She laughed, the sound that of a child discovering the delights of cruelty. “Stupid old bastard. I do wonder what he was trying to ask, though.”
“Why,” Thera said. “He wanted to know why. As do I.”
Eshilde laughed again, although this time it was different, coloured by a note of tired resignation. A stiff, icy wind gusted from the sea, tousling her braids as she shook her head. “You know why, Thera,” she said. “You know why I pounded that weakling’s skull to mush in Buhl Hardta. And why I killed the captain of that slave ship at Iselda’s Nail. It was always there for you to see, but you chose not to. Despite years administering justice to the dregs of Ascarlia, at heart, you remain a trusting soul.” She gave a tight, wincing smile, a friend imparting unwelcome advice. “It will be your death one day.”
“Whereas yours comes now,” Thera growled, readying her spear for a thrust. Yet her hands would not obey. The chill wind had grown fiercer, cutting through armour and skin with unnatural ease to birth a deep tremble in Thera’s core. The spear slipped from her grasp, clattering to the deck. She sank to her knees, rendered helpless by the cold.
“You think you won something here?” Eshilde asked, jerking her head at the destroyed Nihlvarian stockade on shore. “All you’ve done is prolong the agony, like a condemned soul who continues to kick even as the noose draws ever tighter…”
Letting out a wordless grunt of rage, Thera lunged for the spear, intending to thrust it through this traitor’s torso and enjoy her last few seconds of agonised life. But, when her hands closed on the haft, hard wood became soft wool and she awoke to find herself clutching a blanket.
Calm! A warm hand on hers, lowering the blanket to reveal Lynnea’s face. Her brow was drawn in concern, sapphire-hued eyes wide as they roved Thera’s face and body. The rapid thud of her heart slowed at the maiden’s touch and she lay back on a bed of soft furs, the absence of matted hardness making it clear some kind soul had seen fit to replace the stained bear pelt. Thera’s eyes flicked around the shelter, noting that they were alone. From outside, she could hear the chorus of hammer and saw that bespoke many hands at work. Repairs, she concluded.
“How many…” she began, her words ending in a parched rasp. Lynnea put a flask of water to her lips, and Thera drained the contents in a few gulps. “How many ships did we lose?”
Lynnea put the flask aside and shifted closer, Thera hearing the maiden’s voice in her head after a pause for consideration. A few boats only. We took more than we lost, but many need work before they’ll sail again. Some were lost to the flames. A few managed to escape. Lynnea shrugged her slender shoulders. Such is war, I suppose. It turns out to be a good deal more random in nature than I thought.
“War is a storm,” Thera said, one of her great-grandfather’s oft spoken nuggets of wisdom. “Once unleashed, it cannot be controlled, only survived if your hand is skilled enough.”
A fresh bout of chills swept through her, the sensation made worse by the heat that came from her sealed wounds. They felt like two hot coals sizzling on a patch of ice.
Calm, Lynnea repeated, lying down next to her and pulling the blanket over them both. Her arms encircled Thera’s shoulders, drawing her close. She wore only a loose shift and the warmth of her body soon banished the chills, the fiery heat of Thera’s wounds abating. Do they hurt? Lynnea enquired, touching a tentative finger to the stitches on Thera’s chest.
“They… burn a little. It’s not too bad.” Thera put an unsteady hand to Lynnea’s chin, raising it so their eyes met. “You knew what he could do, didn’t you? Back when we first found him, you sensed it.”
Lynnea’s lips curved a little in chagrin. I didn’t know the nature of his power. But yes, I felt it. As he felt mine. Sometimes that’s how it is. Other times not. My mother said there were ways to hide it from others like us, but she never taught me how.
Thera frowned in self-reproach as more memories of the night before crowded her head. “Your leg,” she said, pulling back the blanket to reveal Lynnea’s thigh. A bandage covered the wound, stained a soft shade of pink.
It’s all right. Lynnea’s hand closed on Thera’s. She remembered the awful sight of the arrow that had pierced Lynnea’s flesh, the blood welling around the wound. Cleaned and stitched, Lynnea assured her. There’s a woman in Uhlwald Kahlvik’s menda skilled in healing. She said I was lucky. Just a hair to the left and the arrow would have cut a vein that would’ve seen me dead in seconds. She gave a small grimace. It’s hard to walk, though.
“Achier. He can heal you as he did me…”
No. A stern note coloured Lynnea’s thoughts, blue eyes hardening. He has risked much healing you. To do so again so soon would invite discovery. Besides, not all wounds can be sealed by his fire and he has no power over sickness. Her face softened and she drew Thera close again. The feel of her aroused a curious mingling of intoxication and comfort, also a sense of connection she couldn’t recall from such intimacy before now. This is good. This is right. She wanted to pull Lynnea closer, as close as her weakened muscles would allow, but questions still irked her.
“Eshilde,” she began. “She lied. For years. You have the gift of hearing lies, yet you didn’t hear hers.”
It’s not lies I hear, Lynnea replied, drawing back so that their noses barely touched. It’s truth. I heard the truth of Annuk’s deceit in Buhl Hardta. And I heard the truth of Eshilde’s anger and jealousy throughout our journey, and the hate she tried to hide. I thought it merely the resentment of spurned love and frustrated ambition. I didn’t tell you because I knew you intended to send her away when our task was done. She closed her eyes. For which I am sorry.
“From here on,” Thera said, wincing with the effort of raising a hand to cup Lynnea’s cheek, “keep nothing from me. Our road is long, and I shall need all the help you can give.” Her voice dwindled as she spoke, eyelids growing heavy until Lynnea’s face was a vague pale oval. Thera slipped into a dreamless slumber with the feel of Lynnea’s lips upon her forehead.
“This is all we found.” Ossgrym set the sheaf of parchment down on the table where Thera had seated herself. She would have preferred to stand at a meeting like this, but, despite three full days of healing, her legs retained a treacherous tendency to fold beneath her at inopportune moments.
She had gathered the captains of this small army in a large shed where the Nihlvarians had kept their slaves, the only building left intact after the Ascarlian assault. During the battle, these unfortunates had used what water they had to douse the wooden walls against the flames. Fortunately, they had been discovered by Uhlwald Kahlvik who smashed the chains securing the door and allowed them to escape. A less discerning and level-headed soul may well have left them to perish. With their masters slain or fled, the slaves had quickly formed themselves into two distinct groups. The smallest consisted of thirty or so Nihlvarians with their red-tattooed faces. These, Achier informed her, were a motley collection of thieves and otherwise disgraced outcasts condemned to servitude to atone for their misdeeds. The larger group, over a hundred strong, were all Morvek. The two factions clearly despised each other but were unified by fear of their new captors, despite Thera ordering their chains removed. Ossgrym wanted to put them to work cleaning up the stockade and gathering booty, but Thera forbade it. “Leave them be, for now. I will have words for them later.”
Turning her attention to the pages, she found they bore an unfamiliar script. It resembled ancient Ascarlian but with a hard angularity and altered syntax that made it unreadable to all but Achier.
“This is a manifest of looted valuables,” he said when she passed him the topmost document. “Gold, jewels and such.”
“We found no such treasure,” Ossgrym said with a regretful huff.
“Probably consigned to a chest aboard one of the ships,” Kahlvik said. “Which means it’s either sitting at the bottom of the bay or carried off.”
“What else?” Thera prompted Achier, handing him the full sheaf of pages.
“A list of warriors slain in a battle on the sea,” he said, leafing through the parchment. “This one appears to be a letter from the Tuhlvyr to the captain of a ship in his fleet.”
“Tuhlvyr?” Thera asked.
“A person of high status,” Achier explained. “It is the highest rank among the wealthy of Nihlvar. Only a Tuhlvyr would be appointed to command a force this large.”
“Does this important man offer any insight as to our enemy’s intentions?” Thera asked.
“He and the captain seem to be friends of old. Mostly he talks of voyages they shared and battles they fought. Also it speaks repeatedly of his love and loyalty for the Vortigurn. Probably, he was worried this letter would be read by spies before it reached the captain.”
“Vortigurn?” Kahlvik enquired.
“The King of Nihlvar,” Achier said, his eyes narrowing as he read on. “The Tuhlvyr also speaks of great bounty to be found in a place called…” he paused, hesitating at an unfamiliar name before pronouncing it with slow deliberation “… Skar Magnol.”
The former slave blinked at the instant attention his words provoked in all present. Thera got to her feet, fists bunched on the table to prevent her swaying. “What exactly does he say about Skar Magnol?”
“It seems he expects it to have already fallen to Nihlvar.” Achier blinked, disconcerted by the hard stares now fixed upon him. “He hopes to go there soon to present himself to…” The Morvek frowned, puzzled by the next few lines. “Someone he refers to as the Vortigurn’s Ehlvyr. It’s a rarely used word, meaning ‘Chosen’.”
“When was that written?”
Turning the page, Achier pointed to the set of small marks below the main body of text. “Eight days ago.”
“This can’t be,” Ossgrym said. “Skar Magnol cannot have fallen so quickly. They could never have reached so far so soon.”
“There were fewer ships here than we expected,” Thera pointed out. “They must have gone somewhere.” She took the documents from Achier, leafing through them until she found one she had noticed at first inspection, but failed to spot its import. It showed a crude drawing that she had initially taken for a map of some far-off Nihlvarian port. Now she saw a distinct familiarity in those poorly rendered lines. “This is a plan of the Verungyr,” she said. “A long reach can become short if you have help. And we know our enemy is rich in spies.”
“The Sister Queens,” Ossgrym breathed, his gaze dark with unaccustomed fear. “Could they truly be under threat?”
“We have but one means of finding out,” Thera said. Realising her statement had been spoken in a thin parody of her usual voice, she coughed and straightened. “As Vellihr of Justice, my course is clear. I must take the Great Wolf and sail for Skar Magnol, regardless of all hazards.”
Elvine
“Do all she says.” Colvyn’s whisper was a rapid flutter of air into her ear before Vellihr Ilvar’s warriors clapped irons on his wrists and marched him away. “Take no risks on my account,” he added, craning his neck to offer a parting smile she felt to be wholly inappropriate in its comforting surety.
Then he was gone, leaving her alone with Sister Lore and the warriors busily dragging corpses from Nerlfeya’s Hall. Elvine tried not to look, but the sight of so many bodies trailing red streaks upon the polished floor of this sacred place was horribly magnetic. Sisters Iron and Silver were equally distracting, lying still and lifeless close to the fire so that the blood pooling around them appeared quite black.
“Never doubt the necessity of my actions, dear heart,” Sister Lore said.
Elvine’s gaze snapped back to the queen’s gore-covered face, finding it moulded into a serious frown. She still held the Spear of the Altvar, wet from head to shaft with the lifeblood of her fellow queens. “We have much to do, you and I,” Lore continued. “And no room for doubt. If you harbour any, now is the time to share, dearest one.”
For a moment Elvine couldn’t speak. Everything was so utterly wrong, so completely changed in the space of a few moments, that she feared the sound that would emerge from her lips might be the shrill giggle of a soul driven beyond reason. She searched Lore’s face for some sign of madness, something to explain this horror. But saw only the brisk and purposeful countenance she knew so well from their days together in the tower library.
“No…” Elvine began, finding she had to swallow several times to complete the sentence. “No doubts, my queen. Though this is… unexpected.”
“Yes.” Lore sighed, a measure of regret passing over her besmirched features as she surveyed the surrounding slaughter. “I had hoped to fully enlighten you before sending you off on so perilous a mission, but time proved my enemy. Still—” she reached for Elvine’s hand, her grip warm, that same bright smile lighting her face “—I knew from our first meeting that a mind so keen, not to say practical, would recognise a much-needed shift in perspective.”
A small sputter came from the far end of the chamber, where one of the seemingly dead servants of the Verungyr began to spasm as he was dragged across the floor. The warrior holding his arms released them and crouched to drive a dagger into the man’s throat. A shift in perspective.
Elvine’s gaze shifted back to Lore’s, still not seeing even a flicker of the insanity she expected. She’s mad, Elvine insisted to herself. She must be.
“Might I enquire, my queen,” she said, voice more steady than she imagined it could be, “as to my mother’s whereabouts?”
“Hard at work translating a recent batch of foreign correspondence, I would hope. You’ll see her soon.” Lore squeezed her hand again and began to lead her from the chamber. “Ilvar,” she called to the Vellihr of Lore as she made for the corridor leading to her tower, “be sure to search my sisters thoroughly before you burn the bodies. Then conduct a thorough inspection of their towers. Every document, regardless of how trivial, is to be brought to me.”
“I’ll see to it, my queen,” he assured her with a grave bow. In his gaze at least, Elvine saw the gleam of a deranged mind. She had known him to be a fanatic since their first meeting, but now his fierce ardour for the Altvar shone forth as he surveyed the fallen queens. As they passed him, Elvine heard him mutter a phrase from the Altvar Rendi: “‘Those who turn from the Altvar’s gaze shall ever be cursed.’”
“Come on,” Lore said, jerking Elvine’s arm as she tugged her away. “I must hear the tale of your quest in all its glory. Then, of course, you will write an account for the archive.”
Once in her tower rooms, Lore washed her face and hands in a bowl of steaming water provided by a burly woman named Lilda, a servant Elvine remembered from her days before joining Felnir’s crew. She was quick to arrive at two salient realisations in recognising this woman. First, Lore must have told her to bring the bowl and washcloth before she went to Nerlfeya’s Hall. The second was the fact that few of Lore’s personal servants had been present for the massacre. Planned, Elvine thought, chastising herself for missing such an obvious conclusion. But then, her hands still shook and her mind remained a whirl of gruesome details and worry for both Berrine and Colvyn.
Upon entering the tower, Lore had set the Spear of the Altvar down upon the large oakwood table in the library. As in the chamber, Elvine found a dangerous distraction in the red beads dripping onto the polished surface from the iron head.
“Be so good as to clean that before you go,” Lore told Lilda while towelling her hands dry.
“I shall, my queen.”
“Although I am, of course, delighted with the fruits of your mission, dear heart,” Lore said, coming to Elvine’s side, “I confess myself a trifle disappointed in the treasure you brought me. I expected a gift of the Altvar to be more ornate, if not imbued with some form of blessed ability. Or am I, perhaps, missing something?” She arched an eyebrow at Elvine who spent a panicked moment wondering if it was suspicion she saw in the queen’s gaze, or mere amusement.
Don’t tell her! she instructed herself, the harsh certainty of it momentarily banishing Elvine’s fears. Tell her that thing spoke to me and she’ll never let me or it out of her sight.
“It appears to be just a spear, my queen,” she agreed. “But I swear to its authenticity…”
“Of which I have not the slightest doubt.” Lore laughed and began to offer a reassuring embrace, then paused to look down at the red spatter covering her robe. “I must change. Lilda brought refreshments. Feel free to partake.” She waved a hand at the jug of lemon tea sitting on the table and made for her private chamber.
Elvine watched the servant wipe the gore from the spear with brisk efficiency, showing no sign that she might have felt anything more than old iron and wood. Her task done, she offered Elvine a wordless nod and departed with bowl in hand. Casting a furtive glance at the door to Lore’s chamber, Elvine hurried to the spear, reaching out to grasp it, then stopping short. What will it tell me to do? The notion that whatever lived in this ancient thing might command her to use it on Lore caused her hand to hover over the dark wood of the haft. It doesn’t command, she reminded herself. It provides insight only. At least, it did before.
Taking a breath, Elvine settled her hand on the spear. The familiar heat blossomed instantly, the heat that only she appeared to feel, and the same soft voice spoke in Elvine’s mind, warm as before but now tinged with sorrow and a note of reproach. You gave me unto dark hands, it said.
“I had no choice,” Elvine whispered back, eyes flicking to Lore’s chamber door.
The absence of choice is always an illusion, child. A pause, Elvine feeling the heat against her palm fluctuate, a sensation that conveyed an impression of calculation. She that wielded me is vile, the spear said finally. As poisonous a soul as I have ever encountered, made worse by her ignorance of her own vileness. She is also sharper of mind than most. But not you, child. Be wary. Be watchful. Be her trusted confidante, but trust nothing she says. Most of all, be her friend, for she has never known true friendship in all her life. It will be your weapon when the time comes. And it will come.
Hearing the creak of hinges, Elvine removed her hand from the spear and hurried to the jug of tea. She surprised herself by not spilling any as she poured two cups.
“Now then,” Lore said, striding into the library, her slender form clad in a clean white robe. “I believe it’s time for your story.” She accepted the cup Elvine proffered and gestured to the nearby couch. “Come. Leave nothing out. I’m especially interested in the Vaults of the Altvar. It occurs to me I should have sent an artist with you to capture them before they fell to ruin. Were they everything I imagined them to be, Elvine?”
Be her friend. “I believe they were, my queen.” Elvine waited for Lore to sit, then settled herself on the couch, sipping her tea. It tasted so good she wondered if the recent sight of death had a tendency to sharpen the senses, perhaps force an appreciation for pleasures that can so easily be taken away. “They were wondrous to behold indeed.”
She went on to relate the full tale of her time as part of Felnir’s crew, beginning with the ambush at Velgard’s monument on Ayl-Ah-Skorna. As she spoke, she studied Lore’s reaction closely. Felnir hadn’t been able to extract the identity of their paymaster from the mercenary prisoners, and it occurred to Elvine now that there may be more aspects to Lore’s treachery than she realised. However, the queen reacted to this event with a seemingly genuine frown of surprise, and a modicum of anger, not that Elvine could trust her judgement of such things now. Less than an hour before, she had witnessed the starkest evidence of this woman’s capacity for deceit. Continuing her tale, Elvine described the inscription she found on the ruined base of Velgard’s statue.
“It depicted what I believed to be the constellation of Trieya’s Quill. Setting our course to follow its rise led us to the southern Fire Isles. There beneath the mountains we discovered the underground city I believe to have been constructed by Velgard’s followers, beyond which lay the Vaults of the Altvar. I have already told you what occurred there, and the destruction of the Sea Hawk shortly after.”
Elvine saw the same frown of puzzled annoyance pass across the queen’s face at this, accompanied by a soft mutter: “So, some things he is not content to leave in my hands.”
“My queen?”
“Nothing of import.” Lore smiled and waved a hand. “The Sea Hawk, you are sure she went down with all her crew?”
“That I cannot say for sure, my queen. The fog was thick, and battle, I have discovered, is as confusing as it is perilous.”
“Yet you contrived to escape it with the aid of that handsome young Albermaine-ish mercenary.” Lore’s voice took on a coy note. “I assume the subsequent voyage was very… intimate.” She evidently mistook Elvine lowering her eyes for embarrassment instead of fear. Laughing a little, she patted Elvine’s hand. “It would be cruel of me to begrudge you some pleasurable distractions, dear heart. Worry not. I’ll keep him safe for you. Perhaps, in time, he can be released into your very tender custody. We’ll have to see.”
Elvine fought down a lurch of nausea at the direness of Colvyn’s predicament if Lore were to discover that, not only was he Elvine’s half-brother, but also the son of Evadyn Blackheart.
“Now,” Lore continued. “You mentioned earlier that you were also bearing a missive from Veilwald Hakkyn of the Aiken Geld. Please relate it in full.” She listened with no indication of either surprise or dismay to Elvine’s description of the Veilwald’s plight. Lore merely pursed her lips upon hearing how Hakkyn’s northern islands were beset by raiders, the Kast Geld appeared to have been completely overrun, and Veilwald Ossgrym slain.
“I know this must all seem very strange, even frightening,” the queen said when Elvine finished. “But know this, my most cherished servant, all that has come to pass is necessary, if… regrettable
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Born of an Iron Storm
Anthony Ryan
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