Page 18 of Vow of the Undead
Evil.
I gritted my teeth until my jaw ached and the feeling pulled me out of the dwelling spiral.
“You will?” Alva asked, eyes round and widening more and more as she stared at me.
“I have to.”
She only cocked her head. My promise was enough to stop the flow of tears for now. Both of ours.
I wanted nothing more than to look away from her. To forget the person I’d become since I gave in to my darkness at the same age Alva was now. I was even more desperate to leave Skaldir and every scarred memory behind.
My heart squeezed as Alva leaned into me again. I hugged her close, protecting her from the cutting wind as Rolf marched up behind her, the baby now wrapped in several layers of fur.
As he spoke, he confirmed every fear I’d had. Ragna was tested, taken, and told she was sentenced to a lifetime in the wasteland.
“If she dares leave the wasteland,” he said, wetness shining in his eyes, “they’ll kill all of us.”
Another message worth the shedding of an entire family’s blood, because if anyone got any ideas of fighting or breaking any law, we’d descend into chaos, we’d damn Vylheim to become a wasteland again.
That blood of war would scar the earth until nothing could grow and our children starved.
“I’m going to find the lost history,” I said.
Absent-mindedly, I’d pulled the Y Tree out of my dress and fingered the sharp edge that I’d washed off in the stream at the border of Skaldir, rinsing away Astrid and Sten’s blood. The story went that the king of the ancients, Harald, had used this symbol, this very necklace, with its cross shape and unique tilt where the cross met, to mark the original runestones with his seal. Once his council of witches smoothed the stone with elemental enchantments, it could only be broken with this seal. Showing the king the true history would prove the existence of witches and their history of living with kings in harmony.
Without this runestone, our king and the council denied witches and all manner of magic, monsters, and Gods.
Rolf said nothing as he looked down at his infant son.
“I can use it to help,” I said.
That was a lie. I only hurt people.
No!I could at least try, I could fight this darkness within me. I could forget the bodies I’d left in the forest. I could forget everything I’d done and take on a new name.
Servant.For the king.
I’d gladly live out the remainder of my days within the walls of Mara’s Keep if it meant access to our history. If I lived at all. How long would it take for King Drakkar to realize two people in his royal court never returned from Skaldir?
Rolf’s tired eyes and sagging mouth didn’t exude belief in me, but Alva’s hope was enough for now. She didn’t know, yet, that I was a killer, that I’d always been wicked, wrong.
A flash of the hatch beneath my bed crossed my mind. Echoes of screaming followed until I buried the memory and conjured a smile for Alva’s sake.
She smiled back and I knew I’d carry the sight of her little grin with me as I forced myself to face the king.
Just beyond Skaldir’s borders, my horse was already breathing heavily as we caught up to the tail end of the royal party. Almost a hundred travelers from Torsholt and other nearby villages had joined for the same reason a dozen villagers from Skaldir trailed along behind us.
Winter had already begun.
Travel to Mara would be slow and rough enough, but survival in the north with snow starting on the second day of autumn would be brutal.
Anyone who was born in the north and opted to run to the south was not only considered weak and a traitor to their ancestors who’d established themselves here, but they were rarely welcomed back after running away.
Unlike my father and his men, those who trailed us intended to live in Mara, except the few who bravely declared they were offering themselves to the king’s exploration efforts. Survival was dependent on if a southern stranger took them in and taught them how to live. Or perhaps gave them a new job.
And survival for the souls who planned to explore wasimpossible. If the arduous journey didn’t kill them first, they could be chosen for the Age of Exploration where the sea would claim their lives.
The parade of horses clopped alongside people on foot. Some rode in wagons pulled by the oxen they hoped to transport to the new home and farm they envisioned in the south.
