“You'd better hurry before my head clears,” Evenon said, his words slurring slightly.
The only rule in Tryggr was that the players had to tell the truth. The winner of the toss got to ask the question, and the loser had to answer after taking a drink. If he passed or was caught in a lie, she would get to cut off a finger. They hadn’t exactly defined the regulations, so she didn't know if they were playing with that particular decree. Her girlfriends certainly never had.
A high-pitched laugh rang out from the head table and Sibba glanced up to see Estrid, her hand on Torsten’s arm, her face split by a wide, toothy grin. Her cheeks were flushed with drink and happiness, and Torsten was eating it up. His bride, wearing a fine white and gold gown, was in rapt conversation with Tola on her other side. The vala’s green eyes landed on Sibba, and she looked away, back across the table to her drinking companion.
Sibba and Evenon had ended up together by default, and she was finding that she didn’t mind. He was easy to talk to, and she felt safe here, even in enemy territory, with him by her side. It was a new sensation and she did her best to relax.
“Well?” Evenon’s own cheeks displayed two round, pink spots.
Her mind raced with questions, and she tried to decide where to start. She wanted to know why he had looked at her that way when she had named the boat The Malstrom. She wanted to know who had cut his cheek, what he had been searching for in her pockets on the night they met.
Instead, she started at the beginning. “Where are you from?”
He went completely still, and she thought for a minute that one of his fingers would be hers. Then, he said, “A city called Lerora that lies across the Impassable Strait.”
Lerora. The exotic word bounced pleasantly around in her mind. “Across the—”
He held up a finger. “One question.”
This time Sibba flipped the coin, caught it, and slammed it to the table.
“Heads,” Evenon called.
She peered down. “Heads it is.” Picking up her own mug, she took maybe a less generous swig of the mead than he had. They had been drinking all evening. Her head was foggy, and if she moved her eyes too quickly, the room seemed to move with her.
“Where did you hear the name Malstrom?” he asked without hesitation. It made her wonder how long he’d been thinking that question. If perhaps his suggestion to play Tryggr hadn’t been a casual one, but something he’d thought out in advance.
She knotted her fingers together to keep them away from her pocket. The crown lay against her leg like a weight. “From the man who killed my mother,” she answered.
“What happened—”
It was her turn to hold up a finger. She waggled it at him. “One question.”
Evenon tossed back the rest of his mead and then stood to refill their mugs. He wasn't as unsteady on his feet as she thought he should be. She wasn't even sure that she would be able to stand.
Her gaze wandered back to Tola, drawn there as iron to a magnet. The wand-woman, dressed in a traditional black vala veil, sat erect in a high-backed wooden chair in a place of honor beside the jarl’s family. Her staff was at her side, her fingers white around the wooden pole. Tola was not drinking or even talking unless someone spoke to her directly. She looked like someone who had glimpsed her own future and seen nothing but a long, dark hallway.
Sibba’s head swam and she dropped it into her hands. None of this felt right. This wasn't where she was supposed to be. But she couldn't move; she couldn't extract herself from this situation. She was in too deep, facing her biggest fear. Estrid, Evenon, Tola. She cared about them. She cared about what happened to her brother, and even what happened to her clan. She wished she could just walk away from it all, but something kept her glued to the bench.
When Evenon returned, she was quick to flip the coin again.
“Tails,” he called before he had even sat down.
It was heads. He took a drink, and she studied him before asking, “Why are you here?” Because she was looking so hard, she saw the panic flash across his face, though it cleared as quickly as it had come.
“I told you. I thought you could use—”
“That's not an answer,” she interrupted, throwing back her own drink. “Why are you here, with me, in the Fields, at all? Don't tell me about proving yourself and looking for adventure. Tell me about Casuin, and what Malstrom means, and—”
Evenon's hand darted across the table and grabbed hers, pulling her to her feet. It was enough to startle her into silence. No one turned to watch as he dragged her outside.
It was snowing again—fat, wet flakes that melted when they landed on her shoulders. Her feet were sluggish and heavy, and the cold bit her cheeks and nose.
“What are you doing?” she asked, wrapping her arms around herself and squinting at him in the darkness. A cold, bitter wind whipped angrily against her face.
“Let’s take a look at the horses,” he said, but he wouldn’t look her in the eye. “Make sure they give us their best.” She had a sudden flashback to the night they met, the way his eyes had looked anywhere but at her as he’d buried his hands in her pockets. She knew she should feel wary, but the mead slowed her senses. Before she even thought to protest, he was pulling her along behind him toward the barn. Looking around to make sure they were alone, he cracked the door open and shoved her inside. In the dark, there were only the familiar sounds of sleeping animals and the sharp smell of manure.
“What are you doing?” Sibba asked again. She felt like she'd been here before, in this very same situation with this very same boy. He was too close, his gaze fierce and clear. What had happened to the slightly inebriated boy who had been feeding her drinks all evening? The playful boy who had been smiling at her just moments ago? The sudden change reminded her of Gabel in the woods—the way he had morphed from a ragged trader to a fierce warrior with just a change of the look in his eyes.
“Tell me about the man who killed your mother.” His cheeks were bright from the cold and it made the red gash across his cheek darker in contrast. He looked ghastly in the broken light creeping into the barn.
“What about him?” she asked. “He was a greedy trader who came to our island thinking he could steal our hoard. He shot my mother with an arrow to the neck.”
“And then?”