My brow furrowed. “Isn’t he too weak? He’s been bedridden this whole time, after all.”
“Yes, but he said he’d be here,” Leif said distractedly. “Going to him would mean that I no longer trust his word.”
I shook my head. The Northmen’s prickly pride made little sense.
“Aunt Rúna,” Arin shouted above all the other voices, “tell us of the wolf you kept like a dog.”
Rúna grinned. “There’s a good lesson in that for you, nephew.”
As the others roared again with laughter, a small commotion drew our attention to the entrance of the hall. A grizzled man dressed richly in dark velvet and fur leaned heavily upon his cane. Zinna and a woman I assumed was another servant hovered at either side of him, watching as though they feared he’d fall at any moment.
Leif jumped from the bench and strode forward to offer his arm, and the man took it after a moment’s hesitation. The hall went silent, and some Northmen even bowed their heads. So this was Leif’s father. He walked with a painfully pronounced limp, one of his legs so badly scarred and shriveled it was now deformed.
“Father,” I could hear Leif say, his voice low, “are you sure you’re well enough?”
The man brushed away his concern, but his voice sounded weak when he answered. “I wouldn’t miss a feast.”
Leif led him into the light of the fire, and as my gaze settled on the older man’s face, I froze, every muscle in my body going stiff. The blood pounded in my ears.
The man’s gaze shifted to mine, and so many feelings hit me at one time that I felt as though I would burst. They clamored within me, screaming to be heard.
A Northman looming above Alana and me, cutting off our escape—
—the axe in his hand stained red—
—a deep cut from his eyebrow down to his cheek dripping blood—
The scar splitting Leif’s father’s face from his eyebrow to his cheek was unmistakable.
“Father, this is Ciara, Queen of Dyflin and Princess of Mide,” Leif said, holding his hand out to me with a proud smile. Confusion flitted across his face when I did nothing but stare at them both.
Leif’s father bowed his head to me. “I am Jarl Olafsson, but you may call me Frey.”
I clenched my hands into fists to hide how badly I was shaking. That voice. My sister’s murderer’s name was Frey Olafsson. Blood for blood, he had said. And then he’d taken the dagger to Alana’s throat.
Leif grabbed hold of my arm, steadying me. “What’s wrong? Are you ill? Do you need to sit down?”
I could feel that I had no color in my face. My knees threatened to no longer hold me. So many times I’d thought of this moment—of what I would do if I was able to confront this man again—how I would tear his mind apart and force him to slit his own throat as he once slit my younger sister’s. But the vicious man who had been my sister’s attacker was no longer there. In his stead was a broken-down old man, one who could barely make it out of bed, who could barely stand on his own two feet.
And he was Leif’s father.
“You murdered my sister,” I said, the words torn out of me before I could stop and think.
I couldn’t look at Leif, but I felt him stiffen in shock beside me. His father’s ice-blue eyes—Leif’s ice-blue eyes—stared at me with a slowly dawning realization.
“You murdered her before my eyes, and I have long hoped my father’s injury to you was fatal. I see that it wasn’t, but I hope your suffering has been unbearable.”
He flinched before my words, but it wasn’t enough.
“May you live another ten years in agony,” I said, my voice thick with unshed tears.
I fled before he could respond, leaving the room full of horrified silence.
25
I barred my door. But it wasn’t long before Leif came. He called softly through the door at first. When he got nothing but silence, his cajoling tone turned demanding.
“Ciara, let me in,” he said. “We have to talk about this. Don’t make me apologize through the door.”
“Go away, Leif,” I snapped, my shoulders hunched almost to my ears. I didn’t know how I’d face him. Never had I felt so far from home as I did at this moment. I’d risked everything to join him on this quest, even more so when I traveled to the land of my clan’s enemy. And now, despite knowing who his father was, I still wanted Leif.
It made me sick with confusion and rage.
“Don’t make me break down this door,” he threatened, and it so incensed me that I strode over to the door and wrenched it open.
“How dare you—”
He plunged both hands into my hair and kissed me, his full lips soft against mine. I felt my eyes flutter closed before I finally pushed him away. “No. Why would you think you could kiss me right now?”
He let out a shuddering sigh. “I’m sorry, Ciara. I don’t know what to do—I can’t stand the thought of us going back to the way we were when we first met . . . not after all we’ve been through.”
He reached toward me, and I jerked away.
His nearness was torture. I wanted to throw myself into his arms and bury my face against his chest, but then I would look up at his eyes—Jarl Frey’s eyes—and see Alana dying again.
“Don’t pull away from me,” he said. “Not now. Not again. I am not my father.”
“Did you know?” I countered. “Did you know your father murdered my sister? I told you the story—how could you not have known?” I suddenly felt sick. “Were you there?”
I backed up in horror, but he grabbed hold of my hand. “By all the gods, I swear to you, I didn’t know until the moment you recognized him. I stayed here when he went on raids to éirinn to keep watch over Arin and Finna.”
I believed him, but it didn’t make it any better. “I can’t bear to look at you right now, Leif.”
He looked like he wanted to argue, but he relented and moved toward the door. Just before he left, he turned to me and said, “Just because it’s my father doesn’t mean I don’t understand how you feel. I made it my life’s mission to track down the j?tnar and have my revenge for what they did to my sister. She was murdered, too, and if I came face-to-face with her murderer . . .” He trailed off, but his eyes were so full of sorrow and sympathy for me that I had to look away.
I was left alone for a time, while I paced my room like a caged animal. What would my father say if he knew I’d come face-to-face with Alana’s killer and done nothing? And Máthair?
No, there was only one option: I would have my revenge.
It wasn’t difficult to find the jarl’s room. The door with heavily carved knotwork gave it away. To my horror it was only one door down from my own bedroom. I’d been separated from my sister’s murderer by only a few walls this whole time.
I waited in the shadowy hallway until one of his servants left his room, and then I opened his door and strode in as if I belonged there. I gripped the hilt of my sword as my eyes adjusted to the darkness.
The feast had ended long ago, and I knew with the jarl’s injuries he would retire early. He writhed on his bed, his breathing ragged and pained, and I could tell it was his leg that tortured him. I hated this broken man. Hated him for taking away my right to confront him for killing my sister, to demand justice. How could I demand justice from an infirm, elderly man? A man whose injuries had clearly been punishment enough all these years. Did he even remember killing my sister? Or was she just one of many faceless victims?
I stalked over to him, my blade catching the light of the fire as I passed by. As I stood over him, I contemplated all the ways I could kill him: the point of the blade thrust into his heart, a slash to his throat as he’d done to my own sister, a stab to his gut to make him die slowly and miserably.
He moaned in his sleep, and my hand turned white on the hilt of my sword. This man was nothing like the one from my memory—the heavily muscled monster. Now he was only a shriveled old man. I sighed heavily and took a step back.