CHAPTER TWELVE

Vomit tasted sharp and sour in her throat.

Inga closed her eyes, took a deep breath, but another wave of nausea swept through her, bending her double.

The last dregs in her stomach splattered into the dirt.

She straightened up, hoping that was the end of it. For now. This was the worst it had been. So far she had managed to conceal how ill she had been feeling from any watchful eyes, but these last days had been unbearable.

Her whole body felt hollowed out, like some loathsome worm had sucked every scrap of strength from her limbs. Her breasts were swollen and sore.

She walked back towards Vendlagard, hoping it would be over soon. She knew the days of sickness didn’t last for ever. But once they passed, the baby would start growing in earnest, and she’d have far more trouble hiding her belly than her nausea.

How foolish she had been, harbouring moon-headed notions of what it would be like to carry a child: that she would feel so connected to the wonderful fabric of life; that she would know the ageless wisdom of motherhood, the gods’ special gift to her sex; that she would overflow with joy at the little life being knit together inside her.

Instead she felt sick, stupid and miserable.

The morning had begun with an ugly grey smear creeping across the sky, overtaking the darkness with a sullen gloom. The smell of wet grass filled her nostrils.

Perhaps Hakan would return today, if the gods were kind – though lately they had given little enough proof of that. Too many words were filling her mind. If he didn’t come soon, the dam must break and it would all come flooding out. Somewhere.

Onto someone.

She had left the wood behind her and was picking her way down the meadow towards the farmstead gate when she heard a voice call her name.

She turned to see Tolla trotting down to her from the treeline. Her heart sank into her shoes.

‘Come here, you!’

She’d been followed! Inga was incensed. She turned and hurried on down the slope.

‘I saw you,’ Tolla called, running after her.

There was nowhere to go. She spun on her heel. ‘So you’re spying on me now, is that it? How dare you!’

‘Believe it or not,’ cried Tolla, catching up with her, ‘I’m worried about you.’

‘Is that what you call sneaking around trying to catch me out? All you want is to get me into trouble!’

‘You silly creature – you’re quite capable of doing that yourself.’ For a moment, they glared at one another, a cloud of anger between them. ‘Well? I saw you being sick.’

‘I must’ve eaten something bad.’ She hardly cared whether Tolla believed her or not. ‘I can’t help it if your cooking is rotten!’

‘You’re pale as a ghost.’

‘You would be too if you’d just emptied your stomach!’

Tolla circled round her, a she-wolf studying its prey. Fear twinged at Inga’s belly. ‘Tell me straight. Are you carrying a child?’

‘A child! Are you mad?’ She tried to laugh away the suggestion, but it sounded hollow as a reed.

‘Mad I may be, but my eyes don’t lie. I’ve seen you, sick as a sow, and this isn’t the first time. Then there’s your stiff back, your cheeks pale as milk and you’re wrapped up like it’s Yuletide. I’m no fool, Inga. Now are you going to tell me the truth?’

‘I’m not carrying a baby! How could I be? I’ve no husband.’

Tolla snorted. ‘The two needn’t go together, as you well know.’

Suddenly Inga wanted to shout the truth. Scream it to the wind and collapse into Tolla’s arms, sobbing. But some part of her refused to let go; some obstinate, unfathomable part of herself, that wouldn’t let her give up her secret.

‘I tell you, I have no child! So my back is sore – so I’ve been sick? So what!’

But Tolla wasn’t listening. ‘I still can’t figure who the father is. You’ve been too sly for that.’

‘Now you’re dreaming up secrets where there aren’t any.’

‘Am I though?’

‘I can’t help it if your head’s full of stupid notions. I don’t have to stay and listen to this.’

Inga shoved past Tolla, but as she did, the nurse thrust her hand under her cloak. Inga felt strong fingers press hard against the taut swell of her belly. Even under layers of wool and linen, the bulge was unmistakable.

‘You are!’ Tolla gaped, in astonishment.

Inga tried to recoil, tried to think of some retort, but she was crumbling. ‘Oh Tolla – you mustn’t tell! No one can know.’

‘Who’s the father? Just tell me, whose is it?’

‘I can’t. Please.’

‘It was Konur, wasn’t it? It must have been.’ Suddenly, she took up Inga’s hands, her face all earnest. ‘You lay with him when he was here.’

‘No!’ cried Inga. ‘No! I never would. I never will. I don’t care what my uncle’s plans are.’ The shock of discovery was being rinsed away by cold, surging anger.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I don’t know! What could you do about it anyway? I can’t think any more. I can’t. . . see.’ She clutched at her head. ‘Everything ahead is so dark.’

Tolla slid an arm around her. ‘My poor little pigeon.’ For some moments, she held Inga, but her sympathy was too late. Too late and too weak. ‘Come, sweetling. Let’s think what’s best done now.’

‘There’s nothing doing,’ wailed Inga. ‘Not now. Nothing.’

‘Tell me, who is the father? I can help you.’

It would be so easy. But we agreed. . . I promised. She looked up

into Tolla’s eyes. She’d been looking into those eyes since the first day she could see. They had never held anything but love. But now, she couldn’t bring herself to trust them. Perhaps she could never trust anyone again.

‘I can’t, Tolla. Just swear you won’t tell my uncle about this. Or Hakan,’ she added hastily. ‘Or anyone.’

‘Oh, what have you done?’ The nurse’s eyes welled in pity. ‘How can I help if you won’t confide in me? Did someone force himself on you?’

‘I’m not going to tell you,’ sobbed Inga. ‘Just promise me you’ll keep it secret. If you love me, you will.’

‘I can’t promise that. Not if you won’t tell me everything.’ The nurse’s face hardened, as she tried a different approach. ‘Very well – I have no choice. I’ll have to go to Haldan. He’d flay me alive if he found I was keeping this from him.’

‘You want to save your own skin then, is that it?’ cried Inga. ‘But he mustn’t know. Not yet.’

‘What difference does it make? He’s going to know soon enough.’

Maybe – but not now. Not while Hakan isn’t here with me. I need him here. . . ‘He can’t know,’ Inga repeated. ‘Not yet.’

Softening, Tolla took her by the shoulders, looked at her straight. ‘I want to help you. Do you understand? If you only trusted me. . .’

Inga said nothing. Everything was flying out of control. But why should Tolla force her into this? Resentment coiled around her throat, choking her, enraging her. If she hated one thing, it was being forced into a corner – especially by someone wearing a smile.

But if their secret came out. . . What then?

Tolla shook her head. ‘You leave me no choice. I have to tell him.’ She turned to leave, but before she could, Inga snatched her arm, spinning her around.

‘Stay where you are!’ Without thinking, she shoved her,

hard. Tolla staggered back. ‘You’re nothing and don’t you forget it! My uncle took you in from nothing! You’re no better than a thrall! I am the blood of the Vendlings,’ she cried, beating at her breast. ‘And what are you?’ Tolla shrank from her. Inga saw in her kind eyes that each word struck a wound. ‘You will not do this! I won’t let you.’

Suddenly, Tolla surged back at her. ‘Don’t come the high lady with me, Inga. I’ve raised you since you were soiling yourself and suckling on these ’ere teats!’ She slapped her chest angrily. ‘You have to wake up, girl! This isn’t a game. Haldan must know. I may be nothing better than a thrall, but you’re my responsibility.’ And then, hearing the hardness in her own voice, she relented a little, laying a hand against Inga’s cheek. ‘You’re my child, Inga.’

‘No, I am NOT!’ exploded Inga. ‘I’m no one’s child. My parents are dead – DEAD!’ Her whole body shook with anger. Anger and fear and pain. ‘I’m NO – CHILD – OF YOURS.’

The two women stared at one another, stunned into silence by the venom in Inga’s voice.

‘Piss on it!’ spat Inga. ‘If you won’t help me, I’ll face it myself. All of it. I am a woman now, and my father’s daughter. I’m not scared of my uncle. I’ll do it now! And you, Tolla,’ she pointed an accusing finger at the woman who had loved her since she was a mewling babe. ‘You go walk the road to Hel for all I care.’ She screamed the last words, cold and dark.

Tolla started weeping. But Inga had gathered up her skirts, and was flying down the slope, furious as a valkyrie on the high road to war. The nurse looked after her, her strong shoulders sinking with her heart.

And suddenly, she looked very old and wounded and grey.

Hakan looked up at the grey skies growing darker with every moment. To the east, a dreary rainstorm was on its way in from the sea.

He was starving, but Vendlagard lay barely a quarter league on. He could see slithers of smoke. Once he’d crested that last ridge, he would be there. There would be food and warmth and shelter. Aside from those, he reckoned on little in the way of comfort.

The horse walked on while he tried, for the hundredth time, to order what he would tell his father. There was no honey-coating this one. No smoothing the edges; no washing it down with a swig of ale. Haldan would have to force it down – dry, barbed and sour.

Konur is dead. War is coming.

And he was the cause. He had killed the Karlung heir, and now all the clans of the Middle Jutes would come against them. Maybe even King Harald Wartooth and his vassal lords, if the Whisperer could talk him round. A war the Northern Jutes could never hope to win.

He groaned.

All his father wanted was peace, rest, prosperity; he worked for little else. Yet for all his talk, he had never been far from another tide of blood. One was rising now.

Konur was dead.

He wondered what the men at Vindhaven had made of his empty bed. Even now, two days later, they would be ignorant unless they had ridden out and struck upon Konur’s shallow grave. He felt a pang of guilt. There would be no new market harbour now. All that digging in the mud and the slime – all for nothing.

Maybe Dag at least had seen a black deed coming.

His thoughts returned to Inga.

She was his and no one else’s. They both knew it. What did it matter what his father thought anymore, now he had bought Inga with another man’s blood? Or whether Haldan found out now or later? Hakan scowled at the memory of how he had talked her round. Inga was right. She’s always been right. After all, what had his little plan been but the fear to confront his father?

Pitiful.

Well, he couldn’t be afraid any more. Soon, he would have far more fearful things to face than what his father thought of their secret. They all would.

Because now they would have to fight. The Whisperer wouldn’t stop until he was dead. A son for a son. An heir for an heir. He nodded to himself, grimly. The Karlung lord could try.

Inga. . .

That doubt again. That poisoned seed. Had she betrayed him? He couldn’t believe it. But why hadn’t she told him if Konur had forced himself on her? Why?

He would have an answer from her.

He sucked in deep and sat up straight as his horse trudged slap, slop past the weather-scarred gateposts of Vendlagard.

He was home.

He looked about the yard. He saw Einna, working her loom, as usual, under a little slanted shelter. No one else was about. She looked up from her work, without a word.

That wasn’t like her. He nodded a greeting, but she went back to her weaving with a disgruntled shrug.

The quiet was uncanny.

He dismounted, tethered his horse and left it munching a clutch of hay. If only my homecoming were as simple as yours.

Turning back to the yard, a feeling of estrangement caught in his belly, strange and sudden.

Nerves, is all. Maybe dread was a better word. Whichever way he cut it, this talk with his father was not going to go well.

He hobbled towards Einna, who still seemed determined to ignore him. She could at least tell him where everyone was.

He was about to hail her when a figure appeared at the hall-entrance. He recognized his beloved at once, but as she turned, he saw on her beautiful features an expression he never could have conjured in his most maddening dreams.

Her eyes were wide with terror, her cheeks bloodless, streaked with tears, her mouth ragged as a witless crone. And her hands. . . Her hands were terrible to look upon: hooked like talons, clawing at her belly.

‘Inga!’

She didn’t answer, something inhuman staring out of her eyes like some dead spirit. Then something shifted and she seemed to recognize him.

‘You!’ she cried. He ran to her but she staggered away.

‘Get away from me!’

‘Inga – what’s wrong?’

‘Get away – don’t you touch me!’ She shoved him, reeling away.

‘Come back!’ But she wouldn’t stop, so he had to go after her. Her steps were so wayward, he soon caught her, spinning her round. But before he could say a word, she flew at him, fists tearing at his chest, sobbing wildly.

Hakan held onto her, dogged. Where was Inga, the bright girl he’d known all his life? Who was this raving stranger?

He got hold of her fists, but she struggled harder, head writhing, frantic to get away. Bewildered, Hakan could only tighten his grip and hope for some kind of calm to settle.

At last she stopped struggling, but when she looked up, he was afraid.

He tried to speak – but the naked terror in her face stifled any words.

‘Let me go.’ Her voice was strangled with anguish. When he didn’t, she lunged at him, screaming in his face. ‘Let go of me! Don’t you touch me – you mustn’t touch me, you hear – NEVER!’

‘What? Why? Inga—’

‘You lied to me. You swore – swore an oath. We would be together, you said. All would be well, you said! You’re a liar, Hakan. You lied to me! Now let me go!’ Fear and hatred danced in her eyes.

Hakan could hardly grasp her words. Behind him, a woman’s voice called her name. Then a deeper voice bellowed his own. He glanced back. Tolla was emerging from the hall, and behind her the broad frame of his father, looking grim as thunder.

‘I don’t understand. What’s going on here?’

Before anyone answered, Inga seized her chance. With a desperate wrench, she tore free and bolted out of his reach. But immediately, she stopped and turned.

She tore off her cloak, flinging it down; snatched off shawl and mantle, and threw them in the mud after it. For a moment, she stood, clad only in her crimson dress – the same she had worn the night of his feast. That night she’d had the curves of a fresh and lovely maid. Now the bulge of motherhood swelled her belly. She looked beautiful and wretched.

‘You swore to me, Hakan,’ she said. ‘But now I am betrayed.’

Sobbing, she turned and ran out of the gate. Hakan stood there, mouth agape. As she vanished in a swirl of crimson, Hakan called after her.

‘Let her go,’ his father shouted.

Hakan turned. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘I think you know, boy,’ grabbing his son by the collar and flinging him towards the hall. ‘Get inside.’

So it must be now. . . so be it.

Wordlessly, Hakan stalked ahead of his father past Tolla. They strode through the shadowy hall, sending kitchen thralls scurrying for cover.

They were soon in Haldan’s chamber, the hide curtain pulled against prying ears. Torches sputtered in iron sconces as Haldan flung himself into his chair. His eyes flared bright under heavy brows.

Hakan knew that look – furious, threatened, ready to fight.

He knows our secret. That much was clear. But that didn’t explain Inga’s ravings.

‘Sit down.’

‘I won’t sit – not till you tell me what’s wrong with Inga.’

‘Don’t waste my time, Hakan. I know what’s been going on.’

‘Going on? What do you mean?’

‘I know. Between you two – I know everything.’

He felt blood rush to his face, but he said nothing.

‘Do you deny it?’

Shit on this. The Norns wove this long ago. ‘No,’ he said, setting his shoulders defiantly. ‘Who told you?’

‘She did.’

‘Inga?’ He could scarce believe she would betray their secret.

‘She came to me just before you returned—’

‘I’m going to marry her, Father. It wasn’t meant to come out this way, but now you must know: I’ll take no other for my wife.’

‘You can’t marry her,’ barked his father, hard as granite. ‘I told her the same.’

‘You can’t stop us. We love each other.’ His plea sounded so weak he almost choked on it. ‘It’s what we both want.’

‘You’re not listening, boy. You cannot.’

‘Why not?’ snarled Hakan. Don’t say it. . . Don’t say that bastard’s name.

‘Because Inga is your sister.’

The word rang like a death-knell through his head.

Sister. . .

His heart stopped beating. . . Everything stopped. And then, suddenly, a black abyss tore open inside him, sucking all the breath right out of him. His father’s face melted into shapeless shadow.

‘What—?’

‘Inga is my daughter. And your sister.’

Hakan’s hands were shaking, his bones crumbling. He slumped forward, catching himself on the table.

‘That’s a lie,’ he stammered. ‘She’s my cousin. Inga is my cousin.’ Why would he lie to me like this?

‘No, Hakan. She is my daughter.’

‘But her parents – her father. . . was your brother. Her mother was Briga. . .’

‘Briga was her mother, yes. But I am her father.’ Haldan rubbed wearily at his eyes. ‘Perhaps I should have told you this long ago. But I had my reasons for keeping it from you.’ He raked his fingers through his dark hair. ‘Sit down.’

Hakan sank onto the bench.

Inga is my sister. The words rang again and again.

When his father spoke, his words seeped into Hakan’s mind through some black dream of another world.

He spoke of a time long ago, when he and his brother Halmarr were young men. Hard days for the Vendlings: the years of the Amunding wars. They had lost many.

After the last battle was won and Arnalf Crow-King slain at last, they sailed back across the Belt from Raumarika. With them, alas, they carried Halmarr’s body.

Despite their hard-won victory, Haldan was bitter at his loss. Sorrow suffocated him, and though he had wife and folk around him, that night he felt utterly alone.

And the grief of Halmarr’s wife, Briga, was terrible to witness. When she saw his body, she raved like one out of her mind. They gave him a warrior’s funeral, and as his body burned, her cries at last dwindled.

All went to their beds. But Haldan’s bed was a cold one and had been for some years. Sleep was impossible. The night was filled with terrors: ghosts of men he had slain, fallen comrades, his father and now his brother. Haldan had risen, and after hours of aimless wandering, his steps led him near his brother’s dwelling.

A light flickered inside.

Opening the door, there she was, sitting alone, carving a groove back and forth in her table. He went in, figuring each might find solace in the other’s words. Or even the other’s silence. ‘But it wasn’t like that,’ Haldan murmured. ‘Instead I saw something I’d never seen before. A beauty kept only for my brother’s eyes.’

She had talked a great deal. Of her past. . . Of the long drifting summers in her mountain home, far to the south. She had talked of loneliness, of longing. . . for something. Just one good thing that would last. She thought Halmarr was that. But everything was taken from her. Only she remained in this world. And now, she didn’t want to.

Haldan remembered her talking low in the guttering light. Her soul torn yet soaring; her face so sad yet so lovely. ‘A sight no man could resist. I saw the sun, and I was blinded. I wanted to feel its heat.’

He had reached out and stopped her knife. She had looked into his eyes, taken his hand and put it to her lips, already wet with tears. And without another word, the bench fell, and he was kissing her.

The darkness bade them forget their sorrows for a time. ‘And all the while,’ he added bitterly, ‘your mother slept in my bed.’

He shook his head, remembering. ‘Briga was like no other woman. She was pleasing enough to burn a hole in any man’s soul.’ He had slipped away before dawn, ashamed, his brother’s ashes not yet cold.

Haldan took a pull at his cup, as if the memory was a flame that needed dousing.

‘That’s it?’ Hakan’s head was so laden with thoughts he couldn’t even look up. ‘What of Inga?’ He found he could hardly utter her name.

‘I returned to Briga later that day. But she was changed. Her passion vanished. I had come to invite her under my protection, but she wouldn’t hear of it.’

Instead, Briga was filled with shame. They had dishonoured Halmarr, she said, binding Haldan with an oath: to guard the secret of those stolen hours. ‘And so I have, until this day.’

‘What. Of. Inga?’ Hakan repeated in a whisper. He had to know. Had to hear the story to its end.

Haldan looked up sharply. ‘Not long afterwards Briga’s belly started showing. Between Halmarr’s departure and that night the days were few enough that no one suspected the child wasn’t his. But she knew. Halmarr’s seed was weak, she told me. She knew the child was mine.’

Haldan was sure this would change her mind. He told her he would talk around Guthrun, that they would look after her. But instead Briga held him to a second oath: that the only way he could make amends for his betrayal was to honour the child as Halmarr’s. ‘If I had any honour, she said, any love for him, I would swear to do this. And only we two should ever know the truth.’

He had promised, and the child had grown within her. But as the child grew stronger, Briga grew weaker. Sickness often laid her low, and each time, she cared less and less for living. Her time came on a sudden, earlier than it should, before the break of spring.

‘The birth was dreadful. Bad as your mother’s death in its way. She was already so weak. Before it was done, her spirit left her. Tolla had hold of the baby’s head and arms. The rest she pulled from a dead womb.’ Haldan leaned back, expelling a long sigh. ‘That child was Inga.’

Hakan took a deep breath and then vomited out his rage. ‘Why didn’t you just tell us!’

‘I kept my oath. I’d sworn to safeguard my brother’s name and honour.’

‘Hel take your fucking oath! She’s your daughter! Your daughter! Didn’t she have a right to know who her real father is? All you gave her was another ghost to haunt her all these years. Do you even care?’

His father’s voice was a whisper. ‘It sickens me to admit it. I was ashamed of her. I am ashamed of her. Every day, her very life accuses me of my betrayal. Do you know how often I’ve asked myself if I only went to Briga that night with some evil intent? Whether I’d always wanted what was his—’

‘You’re still only thinking of yourself! Open your eyes! Look what your lie has led to. . .’ But when his father had no reply, the destruction of everything Hakan had hoped for suddenly broke over him like a wave. He hung his head, crushed. ‘You don’t understand. I love her.’

‘You know you can’t marry her. A brother and sister can never lie together. It is against nature. Not even the beasts do such things.’

‘But I already have. . .’ he groaned. ‘Don’t you see? It doesn’t feel against nature. It feels good and true and—’

‘It doesn’t matter how you feel. Things cannot be as you want them. I told Inga the same. You must forget whatever you feel for each other.’

As if it were so easy. As if I could cut out the love that fills my heart like a cancer. And the child. . . ‘What of our child? What of the incestuous bastard that your lie has spawned? She carries your grandchild. This is your doing!’

‘Then let its blood be on my hands. We will keep her condition a secret until her time is come. And then. . .’

‘You’ll never take my child,’ snarled Hakan. ‘I’ll kill you before I see you do that.’

But Haldan seemed to care little for his son’s threat. ‘You’ll see the sense in it soon enough. A child would embarrass the plans I have for your sister.’

Hakan could hardly believe his father’s cold heart. ‘And when were you going to tell me these plans?’

‘At the proper time.’

‘The proper time!’

‘It has all been arranged. Inga knows it, and she will obey.’ Haldan cleared his throat. ‘She is to marry Konur, heir to the Karlung lands.’

‘No,’ replied Hakan, a weird smile curling on his lips. ‘She won’t.’

Haldan lurched to his feet, slamming a fist on the table. ‘You test my patience sorely, boy. I am lord of these lands as one day you will be. You’ll soon learn there are greater concerns than a pair of mooning lovers. I’m sorry if your heart must suffer. But if it must, so be it. Inga will marry whomever I choose for her. It’s decided. Konur shall have her.’

‘No, Father – he will not.’ Hakan laughed, and soon his laughter grew to fill the chamber. The rafters echoed with his mad cackle, mocking the great Lord of Vendlagard.

For a heartbeat, doubt glimmered in Haldan’s eye. ‘He will.’

‘He’s going to find that very hard.’

‘What do you mean? Why?’

‘Because I killed the bastard!’

His father gaped, eyes aflame. ‘What?’ he whispered.

‘Stuck him in the heart.’

Haldan covered his face. ‘You stupid, selfish, hot-headed fool! Do you realize what you’ve done?’

Hakan nodded, unable to shift his weird grin. ‘You mean what you have done. More fruit from your honourable lie.’

Suddenly, there was a scraping of wood as Haldan shoved back his chair. The high seat toppled with a tremendous crash and Haldan was across the table in an instant. Hakan lurched backwards, surprised at his father’s speed, and before he’d blinked, strong hands were around his neck, and they went sprawling to the floor.

Hakan thrashed wildly under his father’s weight, but Haldan was heavier by far. Hakan writhed, eyes bulging, ears ringing.

And then, as abruptly, all was still. His father stopped. Frozen. Listening. His grip slackened, eyes darting to the doorway. Then Hakan heard it too.

A thin, whistling noise.

It was moments before he realized what it was: a woman’s wail – high, piercing, desperate. Father and son looked at each other, confused. Then panic sank cold fingers into Hakan’s heart.

He shoved off his father. Haldan yielded, rolling clear. Hakan jumped to his feet and rushed to the doorway, hauling aside the drape.

He ran and ran, ignoring the pain – out of the chamber, through the hall, into the yard, summoned all the while by the ever-loudening wails. He ran, horror rising in his chest.

The sound led him to the stream running down to the wash-pool. Another scream. He quickened his pace. He could see the alder tree. The memory of her body flashed through his mind – supple and white in the moonlight.

He reached the bank, dropping down onto the clearing around the pool. His eyes snatched at details: Tolla on her knees in the muddy grass, apron crumpled under her chin, the dreadful wailing spiralling from her mouth into the leaden sky. Next to her, Einna, rolling on her belly, head twisting in anguished sobs.

And beyond her. . .

He stopped.

There in the pool was Inga.

The water was smooth as silver. Only her pale fingers and the crimson bulge of her belly broke its surface. He stepped to the edge of the pool and looked down on her, unable to blink.

She was floating just under the surface, suspended in the crystal water, her eyes shut. Her fair features were calm. . . as if her mind had flown far away in a dreamless sleep. The folds of her favourite dress quavered with the current, her long dark hair fanning out about her face. Strange billows of crimson clouds swirled about her body, moving as though to some silent dance. An eddy from somewhere in the depths teased the dark tresses around her neck, drawing them aside.

And then he saw it.

A gash slashed deep across her throat. A wound like he’d never seen – ugly, gaping, livid against her delicate skin. Blood was leaking from it in weak ripples. Something glinted at the bottom of the pool. The image of Inga’s knife rippled up from the silt, glittering.

No words came. No thoughts.

All he knew was that he could no longer hear Tolla’s wailing, nor Einna’s sobs. Some other sound was blotting them out, filling his ears, ringing in his head like the shrieks of the whole world in the Final Fires. And as he sank to his knees, he couldn’t have said what the new sound was.

He didn’t know that he was screaming.