“Jarl Frey,” I said, just loud enough to wake him. His eyelids fluttered for a moment, and then those ice-blue eyes stared up at me.
“Have you come to put me out of my misery, then?” he asked, his gaze flicking to my sword.
I shook my head in disgust. “I told you before—you don’t deserve such mercy.”
“Then why have you come?”
“I want to know why you took my sister’s life, but I know you won’t be able to tell me. I’m sure she was only one of hundreds you’ve killed in your miserable life.”
His eyes clouded over with pain. “You’re wrong. I do remember.”
I had the briefest sense of reaching toward his mind, and then I found myself completely immersed, as real as if I suddenly dived below the surface of the sea. There was no resistance from him. Not even the smallest protest that I had grabbed hold of his mind.
Show me the attack on my father’s castle, I commanded, and the memories were wrenched toward me so fast I flinched before them.
There was Jarl Frey’s longship landing on our shores, his men pouring over the sides with eager shouts. But Jarl Frey hung back, his hand upon an adolescent boy’s shoulder.
“This is your first battle, so stay close to me,” he said. “Your mother will skin me alive if one of the Celts kills you.”
The boy grinned and flexed his lean muscles. “I’m stronger than I look, Uncle.”
The memory shifted, moving rapidly through the battle that took so many of my clansmen’s lives. And then the boy appeared again—seen through Jarl Frey’s eyes. The boy stayed close at first, but they were soon separated by the chaos of battle. When Jarl Frey caught sight of him again, he was on the far side of the courtyard. The boy managed to take down one or two of my clansmen before another struck a blow to his side, placing him in the path of another man. With a jolt of recognition, I watched as my own father strode toward the boy, sword drawn. The boy tried to deflect my father’s attack, but he was knocked back easily. With a twinge of horror, I watched my father run him through with his sword. The boy fell, his eyes wide and unseeing before he even hit the ground.
Jarl Frey let out a feral cry as a new flood of memories crashed over us: his nephew as a tiny infant cradled in a woman’s arms, the boy learning swordplay from Frey, the same woman again who could only be the boy’s mother, her eyes a unique mixture of worry, sadness, and pride as the ship set sail.
It was about this time in his memories that my own mother and sisters appeared. From Jarl Frey’s viewpoint, there could be no doubt that we were the family of the king of Mide as we rushed toward the safety of the castle, dressed in our fine velvets and furs.
He contemplated killing my mother at first, but then when he saw my sister and me, his mind changed. Blood for blood, he had thought. The king’s daughter for the death of my sister’s child.
I watched him kill my sister again, felt her heart beat as fast as a bird’s beneath his hand that restrained her. I watched and reminded myself why I hated him. Why I wanted him to suffer. But even with these convictions in my mind, I still saw the boy as a helpless infant in his mother’s arms. I felt Jarl Frey’s immeasurable pain at losing his nephew.
The memories skipped ahead—I supposed I was subconsciously calling them forth. Jarl Frey threw his crutches to the floor, fell to his knees at a beautiful woman’s feet—his sister, the mother of the boy—and bowed his head. Her hair was so pale blond it was almost white, and tears streamed down her face. Icy shock trickled through me as I realized it was Rúna. But no harsh words came from her—only terrible sobs as she wrapped her arms around her brother.
His pain was a living thing that grew and grew no matter what poultices were used or how much he rested. Still he maintained his conviction that his actions were justified—that the innocent girl had deserved to die. But as the years passed, and his leg only worsened, he saw the truth: that he had angered the gods. He regretted what he had done, but in the darkness of his room at night, he admitted the truth to himself. He regretted it the most because it had crippled him, and he was now no longer able to be the warrior he always had been.
I pushed Jarl Frey’s mind away from me as though it was tainted and came back to myself. I stared down at him, curled so pathetically on the bed. He had suffered far more than a quick death would have given him. The hatred in me for this man was an old, old hurt, one that had been allowed to flourish and take root deep inside me. It wouldn’t easily be removed, but it was no longer strong enough to wish him further torture.
“My regret tortures me,” he said when I relinquished his mind, “but I know it does nothing to take away your own pain. The gods saw fit to take my own daughter from me, and now I know your sorrow.”
“I still cannot forgive you,” I said, my jaw clenched around my words. “Not even for Leif.”
Another tremor racked his body, and I left him there, suffering in his bed.
But I could no longer revel in it.
26
I spent the night on board Leif’s ship, surrounded by my undead army. After I left the jarl’s room, I escaped outside, simply unable to face Leif. I wanted to go to Sleipnir’s stall, but I knew it would be the first place Leif would look for me, and I couldn’t talk to him—not yet. We would have to work together in battle, but I couldn’t bear to be near him under his father’s roof. The night was long and sleepless. My mind tortured me with endless images: my sister’s death, meeting Leif’s father, and worst of all, every touch and kiss and gentle word I’d received from Leif. It all felt like I was betraying my clansmen, my sisters, all over again. But even as I struggled with the weight of betrayal, I knew I could never abandon the quest. I’d seen for myself what my undead army could do against a j?tunn foe, and it gave me hope that we would defeat Fenris and his army in the end. I owed it to my sisters and remaining clansmen to fight . . . and win.
By morning, I was a jittery, sleepless shadow of myself. Sequestered away from Leif and the others, I’d missed out on the battle preparation, and for once, I felt unprepared. But as I watched men and women march onto the quay, ready to defend themselves and their world from the j?tnar threat, I felt my weariness disappear. They lined the sides of the longships with shields of many different colors: red, orange, white, green, blue. All with runes I’d never seen before. They climbed on board weighted down by armor and swords, until the ships hung low in the water. It was a terrifying and glorious sight.
As though sensing the battle ahead, the eyes of the undead warriors had come alive, a fierce sort of hunger alight in them. I prayed that their sacrifice would be worth it; that we would be the victors against the j?tnar.
We’d gained two more longships in addition to Rúna’s, and so it was with a fleet of eight that we set sail for the rivers west of Skien. After a roar of well-wishes sent from the people who stayed behind in the village, quiet settled over the ship; the only sound the waters lapping at the sides.
Leif was the last to board, and the sight of him brought me shamefully close to sobbing. He wore the armor gifted to him in the Morrigan’s realm, his silver wolf mantle blowing softly in the wind. He looked tall and dangerously beautiful. I stiffened as he approached me, and hurt flashed across his face.
“I went to your father last night,” I said quietly.
He nodded slowly. “I know you left him alive, and I thank you for that. I’m sure it couldn’t have been easy.”
“I went to him planning to kill him, but it was harder knowing that he regrets what he did,” I said, unable to look at Leif. “It would have been easier to execute an unrepentant murderer.”
He reached out and lifted my chin so I was looking him in the eyes. “You had mercy on my father, but you cannot extend the same mercy to me?”