No. My throat should have been on fire, but it didn’t hurt. The sand in the circle on the Blood Ring’s floor was undisturbed, because he’d never thrown me into it. Draki had only made me think he was hurting me. Killing me.
“I just taught you the most important lesson of all.” His hands slid down my back as he pulled the knives from the stone, muscles barely shifting. “Before you learn to fight, you must be certain of the value of what you’re defending.”
I started to shove him, but he stepped away. “Stay out of my head, Draki.”
“I would, if only you stopped leaving the door wide open.” He twirled the throwing knives, skipping them across his knuckles, spinning and catching them without ever looking. “I will take you back to your room to rest. We can begin tomorrow.”
I snatched the knives from him. “We begin now.”
When the Dragon smiled, he seemed to glow from within, too strange, too beautiful to be wholly human. “As you wish, little warrior.”
CHAPTER 33
REYKER
As instructed, he met Draki outside Dragon’s Lair at midnight. He’d been loath to leave Vaknavangur—for a full day, he’d lugged stones and gathered logs and scrambled about, patching the roof, until repairs on his childhood home were nearly complete. It had been a soothing reprieve. One that could not last.
Draki waited by the lava field’s gate, wearing his traditional war garb—wool trousers, boots, and nothing else. He left his torso unclothed, exposing the black ink that marked what he was, not that anyone could miss the distinctive yellow sheen of the warlord’s eyes. Together, they rode south in silence. Reyker had learned long ago how pointless it was to ask the warlord questions, so he didn’t bother.
After a few hours, they arrived at Hidden Falls. Draki slowed his mount and Reyker followed suit, the horses winding their way along the sloped path, curving around hills and ledges, until the falls finally came into view. The wide river that fed the falls rushed over the edge where land ended, spilling into a canyon. From here, Reyker couldn’t see into the canyon, so it seemed the falls crashed into nothingness, a hole ripped straight into the earth.
Jutting above the falls was a rocky cliff, flat and gray, contrasting against the white water, the green hills, the brown canyon. On it stood a group of men, thirteen in all.
Night was already seeping away, the deep blue of the sky paling to light indigo. Enough to see the faces of those gathered at the falls, and the way they startled as the Dragon came closer. Reyker recognized some of the men, and he noted the expensive clothing they wore, the ceremonial weapons they carried. These were lords and jarls from across the island, a meeting of Iseneld’s leaders. One Draki had not been invited to attend.
Reyker stiffened, knowing what was to come. He scanned the leaders again, but Solvei was not among them. A small mercy.
“My friends,” Draki called, dismounting when he reached the cliff. “You should have told me this was a party. I would have brought wine.”
There were wary gazes, some shuffling.
“We meant no offense,” one of the lords finally said, shouting to be heard over the thundering water. The lord was younger than his companions, a nervous-looking man who dropped into a bow. “We did not wish to burden you with our petty debates.”
“How thoughtful.” Draki strode toward him, and the young lord cowered. Somehow the warlord’s voice was louder than the falls even though he didn’t raise it. “But no discussion is too trifling when it concerns the future of my country.”
“This is not your country.” A scowling man unsheathed his sword—Jarl Sigmundsson. His village had been the last to accept Draki’s reign, and only to avoid bloodshed. Reyker had gone to Sigmundsson on Draki’s orders to kill him and had instead convinced the man to surrender for the sake of his people. The overlord was gray haired, but his years didn’t temper his bravery. “You have brought suffering upon the people of Iseneld. You made an enemy of men who have been rulers here since before your serpent mother spat you from her womb.”
Draki smiled. “Is that what you all think?” No one else said a word as the warlord circled them, though many rested their hands on their weapons. “It appears I have made a terrible mistake. I shall rectify it immediately and step down as high jarl.” He stopped in front of the gray-haired jarl. “Is that what you came here to debate? How to overthrow me? And who would take my place? You, I suppose.” He flicked Sigmundsson’s chest, and the jarl fumed. “You are kin to my predecessor Jarl Gudmund, are you not?”
“I am brother to the rightful jarl of the Streamlands, the one you stabbed in the back.”
“Figuratively and literally,” Draki said, steepling his fingers. The lords murmured. Their panic was growing, and the warlord was a leech, feeding off it.
“I, too, understand the importance of brotherhood.” Draki’s eyes slanted to Reyker. “Such bonds make us blind to our brothers’ faults and misdeeds. Sometimes they are undeserving of the faith we put in them. It is the same with all of you. I offered my trust, believing we wanted the same things for Iseneld: to see it triumph, ruling over the rest of the world. For our strength to unite us so that we might conquer those lesser nations across the sea and enjoy their bounties for ourselves, as the Ice Gods created us to do. But it seems I misjudged my countrymen. And as I punish my brother when he fails me, so must I punish the lords who hold Iseneld back. You weaken our people, and that is a thing no jarl should abide.”
The lord who had bowed to Draki shuffled backward, as if he could escape. Draki struck, quick as a viper, his hand lashing out, curling around the lord’s throat. “Weak men deserve a coward’s death.”
Draki launched the lord into the air, off the ledge. The man shrieked as he plummeted, and then the noise was cut off as the falls drank him down. It was replaced by the sound of swords and axes being drawn.
Draki walked between the men, amusement curling one side of his mouth. “Brother, clean up this mess.”
The roar of the falls filled Reyker’s ears.
He could refuse. But that was a path he’d stumbled down many times, one that ended with Draki killing these men anyway, only their deaths would be far worse. This was a punishment, a test, a game. If Reyker did as Draki asked, the warlord would take him back into his confidence. He could gain the information he needed to aid Solvei and the Mountain Renegades.
A choice that was not a choice.
Reyker’s sword and axe came free. He stepped onto the cliff, his breath heavy in his lungs. The black river whispered, and he gave it control.
For Iseneld, he told himself.
His limbs flowed like liquid, sliding beneath the weapons that swung at him. His blades were silver ripples that danced across the air, meeting flesh, opening veins, until he was surrounded by crimson waterfalls instead of lords. Sigmundsson was the last man standing, and the river drained to a trickle as Reyker met the overlord’s sword with his own. The man was a good fighter, but it was only a matter of moments before Reyker disarmed him.