Meðalhall is eerily quiet, even beyond the closed door of Aage’s study. All of Eyjar seems to wait in silent expectation as this audience draws to a close. Keiran and the Hunt sit on a long bench behind me. They don’t speak or move, but their support bolsters me nonetheless. Aage sits across from us, with only Breoca at his left. Neither has spoken since I began. We used to share stories around campfires during our quests together, laughing and joking over foolish things. Now, we face each other with grim solemnity and I cannot ignore how Aage is no longer the intrepid adventurer who wished to share in the Wild Hunt’s glory. His life and purpose are dedicated to the protection of his people above all else, and my place in his kingdom will never be worth more than Sluagh happiness.
I’ve given Aage our observations from the Wylds, from the unrest and turmoil seen throughout the lands to Roark’s kidnapping and the open hostility shown to traditionalists. I warn him of the mysterious deaths that seem tied to the shadow man, and of the vanishing population of young Sluagh and the lack of concern the Mainlanders seem to have about their disappearances. I’ve only briefly framed these discoveries within the context of the looming war in Faerie, including Roark’s kidnapping by presumably rogue Sluagh, not wanting to push too hard for him to choose against Sluagh neutrality. I don’t want to drag his people into the war if they’re unable to defend themselves from internal threats. Threats no one expected, it seems. As I talk, Aage’s expression grows darker and darker. Now, near the end of my speech and my recounting of the village massacre, I offer my strongest evidence of the brewing storm, and the man behind it.
“Keiran,” I call quietly.
He rises from the bench and steps forward. The bundle of cloth he lays on the tabletop beside our travel maps doesn’t look like much. At least, it doesn’t until he deftly flips back a few corners of the fabric, exposing the cleaver. Aage’s spine goes rigid and Breoca’s jaw clenches at the sight of the paltry weapon.
“Clearly, those who attacked the Seelie village were not trained warriors,” I say.
Keiran returns to his seat, but the brush of his fingers against the back of my hand offers quiet reassurance for a job well-done.
“This blade was abandoned in the thicket,” I explain. “The attempt to frame the Winter Court for the massacre may have worked, but if Oberon questions it, he’ll soon realize there is no one else near that village except Sluagh settlements.”
Aage reaches out and lifts the cleaver. The dull edge catches the light as he twists and turns the blade. As he finishes his inspection, he offers it to Breoca, who repeats the process.
I swallow, more nervous at the end than I was when I began, and clasp my hands behind my back. “I fear Oberon’s actions after he learns of this attack. I fear the influence of the man in my visions or whoever is convincing those young people to abandon their homes. And I fear the unrest in your lands will grow as more go missing and as supplies run out before the worst months of winter. You were our friend before you became our thegn, and you know your good heart matters more to us than your title. We don’t know what your huscarls have shared, and doubt some have been fully honest. That’s why we’ve returned to Eyjar.”
Keiran’s calm advice from last night echoes in my mind. I’ve offered all the information I can. Now all I can do is shut my mouth and wait.
Breoca returns the cleaver to the cloth and glares at it. Aage’s moved his attention back to the maps. He spins the documents to better examine our notes, his finger tapping here and there thoughtfully. It’s a familiar action.
Even when he was a young huscarl, Aage’s measured responses were well-known throughout the Wylds. After he won the title of thegn, he relied on those traits to keep the tentative peace secure. At last, Aage’s finger settles on the massacre site and he glances toward Breoca.
“Weren’t Dreher and Bouchard visiting each other recently?” he asks his retainer.
“For their children’s wedding, yes.” Breoca leans over and points at another spot on the map. “And we sent aid to Resnik and Boros a few months ago.”
“Boros is a liar, if he told the seidhr he received no aid. There’s no point questioning him about their troubles. Resnik will give us anything he’s heard though. He doted on Liv.”
I tense a little at the mention of Aage’s deceased wife. It was she who convinced Aage to turn to peace, refusing to marry him until he’d found a way to protect all the Sluagh, who had only recently installed him as thegn. The moment peace was declared through the Wylds, they were wed. Keiran and I met her a scant decade before she passed. I remember her smile most, and her needless apologies for Aage’s increasingly frequent absences from our Hunt’s questing. He had far more important matters to spend his time on by that point, but she never wanted us to feel as though our youthful friendship with him had been forgotten or outgrown. She laughed off our promises that visiting Eyjar and spending time in her bright, warm company was as enjoyable as going off on another adventure. Facing her teasing when we practiced swordplay against a blushing Breoca, listening to her share stories of her time as a healer before her marriage, and helping her in her small garden offered measures of peace to us all. Her loss rippled through all the Wylds, and through our Hunt. Mentioning Liv now—a woman who taught Aage to treasure peace above all else—and the bonds of loyalty she inspired means he’s made a decision.
“We always knew Boros, Chayka, and Bouchard would likely turn on us,” Breoca says after one final look at the map. “Bouchard’s been agitated since you refused to let him push against the Summer Court’s borders, and Boros hates anyone who can best him in a fight. I bet Chayka’s the one who wanted to work together.”
“Her armies aren’t strong enough to stand against us alone.”
Breoca taps a finger against the pommel of his blade. “She isn’t strong enough to stand alone against you. None of them are. If they want the Iron Crown, they’ll need allies to try to unseat you. At least we have enough proof of their alliance at last. You intend to confront them together?”
Aage nods. “Send messengers to them last. Don’t give them time to rally. Send a light escort of armed guards to ensure they don’t try to delay their travel or send messages to other allies. Let them slink into Krigsmöte with their tails between their legs. A lesson in humility may persuade them to not stir up further trouble.”
The bench behind me squeaks at the mention of the Sluagh meeting ground. If Aage is going to call the huscarls to assemblage on neutral ground, it means he expects guilty verdicts for those he brings charges against. It also means a solid week of riding to reach Krigsmöte if we want to get there and back before winter closes its icy grasp over the Wylds. Soon the biggest storms will roll in and the lean times will begin.
Breoca stands. “Rally the men first, then send the messengers?”
“Yes. I want us to be there before anyone else.” He gives a half smile to his friend. “At least we already had the Northern clans en route for a visit. We’ll meet them at the crossing and tell them of the new meeting place.”
“I’m sure they’ll be eager to hear why you’ve changed venue,” Breoca remarks.
Aage waves him away, distracted again by the map. “They’ll understand. It’s time to make a statement about a good huscarl’s responsibility to their people and their thegn. They cannot circumvent tradition simply because they are tired of being found wanting. For everyone else, this will be a pleasant assembly and time to catch up on each other’s news. We s
hould be sure to bring extra wagons for rations and tribute.”
“I’ll see to it,” Breoca promises. He gives Aage a half bow, offers me and the Hunt a nod, and leaves the study.
Once he’s gone, Aage sighs and leans back in his chair. His posture is relaxed, but his shrewd gaze latches on to me the same way Mother’s does when she’s about to test me. “A short time ago, I received a missive from Voll, warning me of trade concerns. So it troubles me deeply that you’ve seen no sign of the aid some of my huscarls requested.”
“Perhaps we missed it,” I say. “Would they have any reason to store it, rather than distribute it?”
Aage’s smile is hard. “Well, the last time this happened, Thegn Svend had just died.”