Page 12 of Vow of the Undead
If I went before King Drakkar, how would I survive? I had to live at least long enough to honor the Gods so Hel could not drag my soul to the depths of the underworld where I’d never feast with Odin or roam in peace with Freya.
But survival at the king’s hands made no sense. Especially after I’d killed.
Steadily, snowflakes gathered on the ground, blanketing the patchy brown and gold leaves in white. Autumn had ended as quickly as it’d begun, which meant Vylheim was in for a dangerously long and dark winter. I shuddered, but not from the cold.
I’d killed. I’m corrupt. Broken. Evil.
Evil.
Evil.
Evil
My stomach twisted, and I wrenched my thoughts away from the darkness that stirred within me. If I didn’t focus on one thing at a time, my thoughts would descend into a spiral of madness where this incessant dwelling would overcome me. I’d be left paralyzed, incapable of following the vision that fluttered with hope in my heart.
My muscles had already stiffened and my heart skipped painfully.
This was my chance to find my mother.
According to the Gods,hewas my chance to free her. Was it certain death? The king stood at the helm of the system that exiled my mother for being a witch. If he knew I was both a witch and a killer, spilling my blood wouldn’t be a waste at all. It’d be a glorious message for all of Vylheim to witness.
And yet, the Gods had answered.
I was to go to him. If I did not, if I ran like I had when I hid under the hatch in the floorboards…
I shook my head, disgust coiling in my gut like sour mead. I would do this. I would do this because it was the clearest vision I’d had since my mother was taken from us ten years ago, just when I’d grown from a child into a young woman.
I ran my palm down the rough trunk where the bark was stripped and peeling and black. If I touched the tree of victory long enough, perhaps I’d gather the courage to force my feet forward. I’d march out into the village and track down King Drakkar, wherever he’d taken up camp.
Memory of his warrior’s stance and fixed stare sent uneasy flutters through me. He’d been fixated on me and only me, with a smile and the lift of his brows. Heat crawled up my neck at the memory. I forced a breath out and palmed my chest. I hated him. He was the man responsible for rippingmy mother away from me,notthe warrior I dreamed of no matter how he knotted his hair or carried his weapon.
I sucked in a breath of icy air so quickly it felt sharp in my throat. The shock of the cold sent away the shameful heat gathering within me every time I thought of the king’s eyes on me.
Perhaps it wasn’t so terrible for me to want to see him again since it was the Gods leading me to him.
In the vision, King Drakkar said he had what I sought, but that was the Gods speaking through the image of the king. Maybe they wanted me to track him because the runestone with the image of the witch could be with the records stored at Mara’s Keep.
I had to prove that witches were more than the Gods’ vessels. If she wasn’t a threat to the king’s beliefs, he’d have no reason to keep her in exile, and in a world bound by honor, he’d have to honor the truth. This truth was a piece of lost history, a saga that spoke of the first witch, a woman who served the ancient king of Vylheim until his dying breath.
The saga shifted and altered from the mouths of hundreds over the years, twisting to claim the witch had Odin smite the king.
But my mother’s visions said otherwise. The witch was loyal and I had the Y Tree to prove it. My mother had sacrificed hundreds of plants, burning them for glimpses of these details.
If I found the original runestone with the saga and the indent to fit the Y Tree—the ancient king’s signature—then King Drakkar would have no choice but to acknowledge that witches existed, and that we were capable of both believing the Godsandrecognizing human authority.
We weren’t a threat.
We were capable of keeping peace. All we wanted was to come out of hiding, to honor the Gods, and to share the history the people of Vylheim had forgotten.
Even the king and his council were bound by tradition.
I finally emerged from behind the tree, tapping the scab where Sten had cut a wound across my cheek. I never saw what kind of weapon he’d wielded, but it would scar my skin all the same.
Stalking through the quiet village, I noted no changes. No blood stained the ground. No royal camps were set up in the fields. Everything remained the same except for my home.
While other houses were dark, a candle flickered in the window.
I surveyed it. Had they waited up, hoping for me to return? Or would the king be asleep in my fathers’ bed while he and his wife took to the furs on the floor?
