Hilde tilted the bucket over my head, dousing me with saltwater. “Do you accept Iseneld as your new homeland, embracing the Ice Gods as your own?”
Disavow Veronis and Gwylor, in exchange for Sjaf and Seffra. With the key to the Fallen Ones’ prison gone, what choice did I have?
My blood burbled like a death rattle.
“Yes.” All except Ildja.
The next bucket was full of what must have been melted ice. My teeth chattered.
“Will you fight for Iseneld against all foes, using your gifts to defend this land and its people?”
“Yes.” Especially Draki. Hilde dipped her thumb in ash and drew a symbol over my heart: a jagged star like the one Draki carved behind my ear, surrounded by flames like the skoldar Reyker had cut into my wrist. “The symbol of our country,” she explained. “You’re one of us now.”
Silence trickled through my veins.
Was it that simple? Water and ash, and now I was Iseneldish instead of Glasnithian?
“You’ve done this to others like me?” I asked, accepting the cloth Hilde brought me to dry myself. “God-gifted girls from Glasnith?”
“From your island, no. But from other isles, near and far. They’re all gone now, though. You are the first magiska I have met in some time.”
“Gone where? And what of your own people with gifts? Where are Iseneld’s magiskas?” For some reason, I thought of my journey to the Mountain of Fire, sleeping in the cold dunes, a dream of black hair and gold eyes.
“Some fled. Most died.”
The cloth fell from my fingers. “Draki killed them?”
“The males, yes. Men and boys alike, from Iseneld or foreign lands, he kills them so none can rise against him. The girls and women, he collects. The female magiskas of Iseneld went into hiding. When Draki finds them, he uses most of them up quickly as weapons in his war, and their bodies fade with their gifts. The servants whisper about a door in his bedchamber that leads to a magiska prison. Pray you stay in his favor and never see the inside of those cells.”
I wanted nothing to do with anything inside Draki’s bedchamber—that’s what I would pray for. “You said he uses up most of the magiskas. What does Draki do with the rest?”
“He feeds them to his mother.”
A shudder ran through me, and I dressed quickly, trying to stave off the chill. Draki had first sought me out as a sacrifice for Ildja—he would have given me to her, had the Fallen Ones not chosen me as their vessel and strengthened me with their blood. “Is that why Draki came to Glasnith, an island with only female magiskas? To add more of us to his collection?”
“It was Ildja’s will. She told him to end the Daughters of Aillira.”
Not take. Not enslave.
End.
The door to the temple opened and a Dragonman beckoned. I had so many questions, but there was no time for them. Draki was waiting.
The priestess touched my arm. “Come visit me again, when you find yourself in need of holy guidance.”
Beneath the invitation was a message: You seek answers that I can provide. I nodded, thanking her before the Dragonman ushered me away.
My first day in Dragon’s Lair, and it seemed I’d already found an ally.
With my cleansing complete, Draki took me to the barn to select a sacrifice. Like the Green Gods, the Ice Gods wouldn’t answer requests without a bit of blood. I tied the sheep’s legs together, thinking of the stew I’d eaten the night before, and Draki slung the animal over his shoulder.
He led me to a bolted metal door in the fortress cellar. The Dragonman guarding it removed the bolt and stepped aside, handing Draki a torch, and I followed the warlord into a cramped tunnel. The rocks here weren’t stacked, but hewn, carved straight through the cliffs. We passed several openings where other tunnels branched off, stretching into darkness, but Draki didn’t turn. Our tunnel wound on and on, sloping downward like we were traveling into the belly of the earth, steep enough that I had to hold on to the wall to keep from losing my balance. At the tunnel’s end was another barred door, and we emerged from it onto the beach at the bottom of the cliffs.
There was an enormous sea cave, a fleet of longships bobbing in its maw. The gray cliffs above us and the foaming slap of the sea against the sand reminded me of the home I’d just renounced, except rime glazed every surface.
At the edge of the water, Draki offered me a knife. Because I knew I couldn’t hurt him with it, I didn’t bother trying.
Wading into the icy surf, I cut into my palm and bled into the sea. Then I sliced open an artery in the sheep’s neck, holding it still—this wasn’t like killing the wolf, but it wasn’t easy watching the creature’s life slip away.
When the water swirled with red, Draki drew a symbol in the sand and motioned to the sea. “We begin with Seffra, wife of Sjaf. She is the womb of Iseneld, the life-giver, goddess of beasts and goddess of water. Her bounty keeps us fed, sustains us when crops die and winter reigns. First, you must give her your tears.”
“My tears?”
“Your sacred water in exchange for hers.”
I didn’t want to cry in front of Draki, but I’d spent so much time holding back, swallowing grief, that it was a relief to let go. I allowed myself to relive the moments I kept tucked beneath my sternum, close to my heart yet far from my thoughts: holding my father’s hand as he told me goodbye; Quinlan’s arm around me, promising I would love again; Reyker’s lips on mine, calling me his deer.
Tears slipped down my cheeks, dripping into the sea.
“Now, pray to her,” Draki said.
I imagined Seffra, a generous goddess floating beneath the waves, caring for the children of this island, guiding the fishermen’s nets to ensure Iseneld’s people never went hungry. Closing my eyes, I beseeched her, telling her how I came to be in Iseneld, asking her to accept me as one of her own. Calling on her kingdom’s creatures to give me a sign of her answer.
A minute passed. Nothing happened.
Had I renounced Glasnith only to be rejected by the gods of Iseneld?
“Look.” Draki pointed in the distance, where shapes slid through the waves. A pod of whales, spraying pillars of water into the air. One of them breached, its massive body leaping high out of the sea before splashing back down.
Awe dredged my soul up from the depths of mourning, the beauty of this moment singing along my nerves. It faded as Draki smiled at me with pride—the same sort of smile he’d given twelve-year-old Reyker when the boy had challenged him to a sword fight, stabbing at the warlord even after his arm was broken.
“Summoning animals was Veronis’s power,” Draki said, “but your veins carry blood from each of the Fallen Ones, and they all have an equivalent, a counterpart, here on Iseneld. You can awaken those gifts. I can make you the strongest mortal alive.”