Istare down at Ström’s hand, confused and shocked that the horrible Alfhild Fey might have saved something that was once precious to Ström. He seems far more shocked than me, as he quietly stares down at the stunning silver and moonstone jewelry set glittering in his hand.
They are a set fit for royalty, as we all gaze at the ridiculously ornate piece now. And to Blood Dragons, moonstones signify something more. They’re jewels to be given to the one you truly love, the dragon you wish to life-mate.
Worn in proud display, after the life-mating has been done.
“She never wore them.” Ström stares at them. “Now it seems she never got rid of them, either. She never auctioned them off like she said she did. She lied to me…”
“She only told you she sold them,” Bjorn sets a firm, comforting hand to Ström’s shoulder now, “to make you twist even more in her infernal sways. Bound to her tighter, for all your unrequited love of her.”
“But these are the only items inside her safe. Could this Alfhildwoman have truly loved you, do you think?” Baldur asks now as we all stare at the jewelry in Ström’s palm.
We all go quiet then, as we digest the realization that the horrible Alfhild Fey could have had a heart after all—and that she might have loved Ström, despite everything she did to manipulate him and keep him under her sway.
It leaves him in a complex storm of emotions now to realize the woman who captured him, used him, tormented him, and kept him bound to her side via magic might have loved him.
I thread my arms around his waist as Bjorn grips his shoulder; Ström looks lost as he glances up, flashing the smallest smile of gratefulness at Bjorn, then wrapping one arm around me and squeezing me to him, tight.
I refrain from mentioning how Alfhild used not just love and infatuation, but sex to make Ström twist in her odious talon-tips decades ago. As Ström places the sparkling jewelry and the velvet bag on a nearby table, however, his eyes remain glued to it. No one seems to want to bring up the horror of Ström’s subjugation to her, as he heaves a breath and nods towards the door.
“We need to move—and leave her legacy here to rot.”
“Ström’s right,” Bjorn says. “We won’t find any remaining evidence of our Bone Mage drakaina—though Litha was here, she wiped out everything that could connect her to Alfhild, or give us any clue of who she is. We need to find these passages into the Jarl’s palace and get going, to save the Thorsens.” He nods, then grips Ström’s shoulder one last time.
My Second Drake stews now, in a dark place even as he nods. We wait a moment as he moves his hands over the walls again, looking for Alfhild’s hidden passage to the Jarl’s palace.
As he searches behind the massive headboard of the bed, he startles. His power flares over the wall behind the headboard, and I see a door hidden by magic shimmer to life where nothing had been before. It’s not Alfhild’s magic that obfuscated it, as an ancient glimmer of violet-black Bone Magic shows itself now in the hidden door.
Cursed the fuck up with nasty death-runes.
“I remember Alfhild getting me to unlock a cursed door, the few times we raided the Jarl’s palace for something she wanted,” Ström says now as he stares at it. “I never got to see what I was working on; she blindfolded me with her power before she led me to it. But I could touch it… and feel it with my magic to open it for her.”
As Ström lifts his hands before the door, Bjorn shoves the enormous bed aside. We all step in front of the doorway as Ström closes his eyes, working only with his inner senses and his power now.
As he moves his hands in intricate patterns over the door, touching sigils in a complicated dance, even Baldur’s attention is rapt upon what Ström’s doing. Because this is like what Ström did atUnhaemmertenas he draws on all our power to boost his and figure this serious curse-work out.
He gets a mega-boost to his power now from Baldur’s magic in our mix. It’s like pure light shines through Ström’s Bone Magic now as he works. It glimmers through the old violet curses in waves, as Baldur’s power somehow resonates with Ström’s own inner light.
Because unlike Mikkel, Ström’s lived in his brightness all his life. He’s only hidden his power out of fear that he would be caught and killed for it; the deep light that lives inside Ström’s magic comes out now, brilliant, as he works.
It’s like watching the most beautiful dark stars being born, as even Bjorn gives a low whistle, seeing and feeling all that beautiful magic. Baldur’s got his eyes closed, a beatific smile on his face as Ström works, swaying slightly as if listening to music in the Void that none of us can hear.
It’s incredible, as Ström causes each coiled phrase of violet sigils to flare white, then erase, though something about it makes me sad. Because Mikkel could be this bright, just like Ström; it’s in him, even though he’s been a bastard all his life.
As I feel Mikkel scream anew from the latest torture being done tohim, Ström finishes. The last nasty violet sigil on the ancient door flares out, and it opens.
Admitting us to a stone passage, dark as a sepulcher, beyond.
“We’re in.” Ström opens his eyes and turns to us. “There are more cursed doors between here and the palace, but I can work them. The problem is, I don’t know which way we went, as Alfhild took us through. She only unblinded me once we reached the Jarl’s palace and raided his treasure houses for whatever she wanted.”
“One problem at a time.” I smile as I take Ström’s hand, then lean in and kiss him, grateful for him and everything he is. We make ready to go, Baldur leading and lighting up his magic inside the tunnel so we can see, then Bjorn, setting his jaw, but following.
But before we can leave, Ström turns back.
Staring at the Cisternerne’s dark waters and Alfhild’s domain, shrouded in watery shadows now that Baldur’s light has left it, Ström is silent. Then, a vicious sensation roars up inside him, as I feel an explosion of his Bone Magic surge out.
Filling the space, Ström’s power is wild, unhinged in its brutal majesty as his seething currents of forest green, dark maroon, and black-violet Bloodwind whirl. Before I know it, he’s pulling on Bjorn’s power, mine, even Baldur’s, and Mikkel’s far away—calling from us a terrible combustion of magic we’ve only been able to produce a handful of times.
It’s only happened thrice before. The first time was when we were at death’s door on a sinking ship, caught by Alfhild’s runes and unable to escape our inevitable drowning. Only me bonding Mikkel could produce this kind of combustion then, when we crashed together in a crazy storm of emotions that devoured us entirely.
