Page 14 of Children of Anguish and Anarchy

It blinds in gold.

Baldyr…

The man I feel to be their king walks with a commanding gait. The Skulls stiffen with his approach. Power reverberates through his every step. The captain’s quarters seem to shrink in his presence.

Instead of a fur cloak, Baldyr sports an entire wolf’s pelt. The fanged creature’s immortalized snarl hangs over his chestnut curls like a hood. Rectangular runes are carved into Baldyr’s fair skin. The sharp black marks travel from the left side of his head to the hard lines cut into his abdomen.

“Rísið upp,” Baldyr commands the men, a low growl behind every word. The Silver Skull holds me once more. His grip tightens on both of my arms.

No one speaks as King Baldyr moves through the room. He unclasps his pelt and throws it on the bed. My lips part as he removes his mask.

I see the face of the enemy for the first time.

King Baldyr is young. Far younger than I expected him to be. Though he commands men twice his age, he can’t be more than twenty-three.

I take in his high cheekbones and crooked nose. The wild beard that coats his jaw. His chestnut waves gather in a messy bun, loose strands falling onto his bare shoulders.

Three black marks are painted across his left eye, accenting the stormy look in his hazel gaze. His eyes darken when they settle on me.

I itch to break free.

“Er þetta sú?” King Baldyr gestures to me.

“Já.” The Silver Skull nods.

King Baldyr studies me from a distance, and the little that remains of my kaftan sticks to my frame. I shiver under his gaze.

He approaches and I stiffen; his dirt-stained fingers graze the majacite crown embedded into my skull. Sharp ripples shoot across my scalp. I clench my teeth to keep from crying out.

Baldyr’s touch reminds me of where I am. Of what I must do. Tzain and the others are still trapped below deck. I have to find a way to escape.

I look beyond Baldyr to scan the Silver Skull’s room. Marble walls block out the building storm. If it wasn’t for the way the floor swayed under our feet, I wouldn’t even know we were still on the ship.

A grand wooden carving covers the back wall, depicting the colossal man made of raging storm clouds. A raised bed holds a mattress stuffed with feathers. When King Baldyr catches me looking, I stare at the floor.

“Merle,” he appears to name me. I flinch as he reaches forward, grabbing my chin. I expect a rough grip, but his touch is soft, almost gentle as his fingers rest against my skin. He turns my head back and forth in the torchlight, as if inspecting a ripe papaya in the sun.

“It means ‘blackbird,’” he whispers in Orïshan.

I don’t believe my own ears.

“You are surprised I speak your tongue?” Baldyr unhands my cheek to raise the bloodmetal strapped to his palm. He reaches down and presses his hand into the slain maji’s chest. The crimson metal steams as it soaks in the maji’s essence, allowing me to see the translation at work.

“I like hearing your people call out to your gods.” Baldyr looks back to me. “They never seem to come.”

Ice crawls down my neck like a spider as the king steps away, turning toward the back of the room. A wooden table is set with a rich, half-eaten spread. The warm smell of bread punches my empty stomach. Baldyr goes for a bronze goblet of mead, at ease despite the corpse lying on the floor.

To my right, a desk lies in the corner of the room, covered with maps and parchments and different reading tools. Beside it, I spot a shelf, lined with unfamiliar weapons—animal claws, wooden clubs, and curved sabers. A collection of crystal daggers catches the light, shining right above a sleek black rod.

My staff!

I almost cry out. A piece of home I still have. Given to me by Mama Agba, the ornate staff shines. Its black neck still glimmers with the symbols my mentor etched into its spine.

I comb over each mark, eyes settling on the crossed blades of war. The familiar crack of colliding staffs echoes between my ears. I feel the touch of Mama Agba’s wrinkled hands.

I teach you to be warriors in the garden so you will never be gardeners in the war.

Words Mama Agba shared with me all those moons ago ripple through my mind. They reach for me through the darkness, traveling through her spirit, through time.

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