Page 135 of Edge of the Wild

“I – I don’t know, my lady. But.” He gasped. “But the ships – all of them have purple sails.”

“Purple?” Bjorn demanded, voice hardening.

Revna whirled, and ran. To the stairs, and up them. Up and up, to the heavy door that led out onto the wall walk, and through it, frigid air slapping at her, driving needles into her skin, trying to shove her back inside. She gritted her teeth, gripped her skirts, and charged out into the cold, moon-bright air.

The guards milled about, shouting with alarm. The torches glinted off their helms and breastplates, quicksilver flashes as they hurried back and forth.

“My lady!” one shouted, as she drew up to the wall, gripping its cold, stone edge until her fingers ached.

It was a clear night, without clouds or mist, and she could see the distant, half-moon smudge of the town, the white gleam of the frozen harbor. She couldn’t see the ships, but she could see the lit braziers at their sterns; the pinpricks of torches burning on deck.

“Purple?” she asked, her voice strange and airless.

“Yes, my lady,” the guard said. “That’s what the runner said. He could see it clear in the lights on deck. Purple…stitched with a giant snake.”

Bjorn, Rune, and Tessa arrived, crowding in behind.

“Mother, what is it?” Rune asked. “Whois it?”

She took a shuddering breath. “The Sels.”

18

Erik woke to the sound of dripping water.

Plink.

Plink.

Plunk.

He cracked his eyes, keenly aware of the tender throbbing at the back of his skull. Where he’d been hit. He wasn’t sure of much, but he knew he’d been clubbed in the back of the head, and that, wherever he was now, it was no place good.

“You’re awake.” He knew that voice.

Ragnar.

Vision still blurry, he managed to tip his head back with no small amount of effort, until his bruise was pressing against a hard surface, and his gaze landed on Ragnar, who stood just a few feet in front of him.

On the other side of an iron grille.

A black crosshatch of bars separated them, a manmade obstacle set in a natural frame: a stone opening. Torches in brackets burned on the walls, their smoky, oily scent choking in the small space. Their glow illuminated stone walls dripping strange ice formations; gleamed on icicles hanging down from the ceiling, and thrusting up from the floor, in patches near the walls. This was a cave. One being used as a prison.

Ragnar stood with his hands on his hips, his expression expectant, and Erik wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze, not right away. He turned his sore head on a stiff neck and surveyed his surroundings. A small room, rough-walled, a bucket in the back corner the only thing in the way of creature comforts. His heart leaped when he saw that he wasn’t alone. He spotted Birger – awake and sitting against the wall, expression drawn and grave – and Leif, beside the advisor, his head tipped back, gaze fixed dazedly on the icicle ceiling. Magnus, Lars, and Náli sat in a circle, playing cards, which Magnus had obviously been allowed to keep, but they’d all paused, and stared now at Ragnar.

Leif no longer wore his cloak: it had been bundled up and used as a pillow for Oliver, who slept curled on his side, hands fidgeting, his face sallow and shadowed. Another cloak had been spread over him as a blanket.

Ollie. Everything in Erik clenched, desperate, afraid, worried. Oliver was sick and getting sicker, and their cell was frigid. His breath plumed white in front of his face as he breathed.

“Erik.”

He turned to face his cousin slowly; could feel the hatred that bloomed in his chest carve his face to a portrait of fury. Ragnar’s swallow, the quick jump of his throat, told Erik just how effective a mask it was – and not really a mask at all. If not for the bars, he would have launched himself at Ragnar; would have clawed his throat out with his bare hands.

“What have you done, Ragnar?”

“What I had to.”

“What have you done, Ragnar?”

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