Bjorn and Ström join me, the three of us braiding into celebratory knot-work as we cavort and glorify in being together.
All of us, alive to enjoy our love another day.
I don’t know how long we’ve flown, but as snowy fieldsthawing to spring appear below, plus tenacious, wind-stunted evergreen forests, I know we’re nearly back. Close to Eriksson lands now, we wing down hard, towards a stalwart watchtower upon the last range of mountains that mark the border between Magnussen and Eriksson territory.
As we land with our retinue upon the topmost landing plaza of that watchtower, Magnussen guards in dragon form seethe up all around to waylay us. But they see their Border Captain, and at his roar, they stand down.
Merely settling to the plaza at attention, as everyone shifts down.
We all take a moment to dress now, as Captain Olander moves forward, giving us the fly-bag with all our things. Our gear from the Old Palace has been saved from when we were captured by the Jarl; it feels good to be dressed in comfortable black tactical wear again, rather than the battle-leathers I needed to show myself in when we were in the Magnussen court.
As I haul on a modern black sweater and thick leggings, buckling up badass black boots and zipping up a black down hoodie, I feel like myself again. I make certain King Huttr’s Blood Seal is in the zipper pocket of my hoodie; then I give Captain Olander a nod of thanks for protecting it.
He gives me a sober nod back, aware of the vast service he did for me.
“This way. I had my men store all your things from the altar down in our safe-vaults.” Captain Olander gestures for us to follow him, though the Eriksson retinue remains on the landing platform.
“We’ll be here, waiting for you.” Jarl Jorg Eriksson gives his great-grandson an eyebrow lift. “Just in case Oggi tries any additional shenanigans.”
We nod, Ström moving in to give his great-grandfather a solemn kiss on the hand, and then we’re following Captain Olander as he trots down a corkscrewing stairwell, blocked by a solid door of iron pine at the bottom.
We enter the watchtower fortress, and I find it’s even more bleak than the Magnussen Jarl’s palace was. Though everything is made of that same white granite, the stone luminous beneath the torches thatburn in black iron brackets all around, the watchtower has no comfort to it.
Even more barren than the palace was, there’s no ornamentation of any kind, save for the wrought-iron sconces on the walls that hold the torches. Lookout slits slash the fortress at intervals, not made of glass but covered by magical barriers that keep the cold out, to some extent.
Still, the place is chill and drafty, forbidding in its austerity. I know now that Magnussens are not frivolous creatures, as we take a long hallway, then another, burrowing deep into the side of the mountain.
At last, we come to a massive iron pine door that has the most ornate ironwork I’ve seen yet. It’s an enormous lock, complicated in the extreme, as Captain Olander waves a hand over it now, giving it a series of expert touches with his magic. As a number of complex sigil-wards flare blood-red then white, the entire grid unlocks, seven massive locks chunking back inside the door. And then the door’s swinging open.
As Captain Mortensen hauls it wide, ushering us all in.
The space beyond is a small, circular cell. Buried deep in the mountains, I have a feeling this is one of the most well-protected spaces the captain could access, this near to Seerselen.
All the items from the altar are here, piled on a low wooden table in the center of the space. My mind is a steel trap; I peruse them, noting none of them have been harmed or tampered with in any way.
As Captain Mortensen hands us a silver silk fly-bag, nodding to the table.
“Load it up. None of it had any magical signature as I got it out ofUnhaemmerten, so I imagine you’ll be safe flying with it,” he says as he glances at Bjorn. “You need to be fast, though. The Jarl knows I brought these items here. I expect him to send a retinue of guards to waylay us just as soon as he can get free of your witnesses at the Trial’s basin.”
“Even with the Eriksson Jarl protecting us, my father can’t just let me fly away unharmed.” Bjorn snorts now, as he, Ström, and I load things intothe bag.
“You know your father.” Captain Olander gives Bjorn a wry smile. “He can’t stand that you showed him up—twice now. He always needs to be the alpha, even if he doesn’t provide for his people like one. It makes me miss the days your mother was still here, to smooth out his temper and quietly rule the clan beneath him. She is sorely missed.”
“By all of us,” Bjorn says shortly, though his quick smile is grateful to his friend. As everything fromUnhaemmertenmakes it into the bag, Bjorn cinching it up with a quick jerk, we’re ready. Turning to his friend, Bjorn claps Captain Olander Mortensen on the shoulder.
And the captain clasps his shoulder back.
“Get out of clan lands, Olle,” Bjorn says with gravitas now, as he stares his friend down. “My father’s going to come after you. I don’t care what Svanhild says. She can protect you from him, but not in Magnussen territory. Get out of here… just as soon as we do.”
“I will.” Captain Olander is stalwart as he smiles sadly at Bjorn. “My family is all dead; I’m not life-mated. I will go where the winds blow me and live to fight another day.”
“You could come to the Old Palace. We’d have a place for a good fighter like you there,” Ström says at once, as he nods at Captain Olander. “You did us an immense solid, disobeying your Jarl for us. My great-grandfather knows it.”
“I don’t want to bring more trouble to you and your Jarl.” Captain Olander smiles with sadness now as he shakes his head.
“Go to Stockholm,” I say, then. “As soon as we get to the Old Palace, I’ll borrow a phone and call my uncle, the King, and tell him a Captain of the highest caliber is coming to join the Kingsguard. One who saved my ass, Ström’s, and Bjorn’s. Personally.”
“Thank you, Hög Skjaldmær.” Captain Olander puts his fist to his heart, as his hazel eyes shine.
