The End of The Cursed
Chapter 3: Tempting Fate

There is no origin of ‘witches’ a witch is a changeling or one of several generations of the changeling’s progeny before the magic is simply gone from the blood. – Origin of Witchcraft and Related Minutia, a Work of Academia

Phillip was feeling rather good. His wounded shoulder had healed remarkably well, and he’d been able to convince the Doctor to give him opiates for it. The knife wound had been a simply clean slice, no arteries hit, and after a few weeks respite, it was clear than no substantial harm had been done. He had two full vials of laudanum in the pocket of his brand new waist coat. He had every intention, now that he was feeling so fine, of attempting to track down the little loose end he had left. The girl had had plenty of time to mourn the loss of her lover. If she had not died of exposure on that fateful night, she would be weakened, miserable, and easy prey for him. Which was good, because he was not a good a shot, and he was wounded many times over. It would not be possible for him to dispose of anything but particularly easy prey.

Lord Phillip took a self satisfied sip of the wine he was drinking. He spat it slowly back over the rim of the glass. Filthy little towns like these had taverns designed for the drinking of ales and strong spirits. There was not a decent wine amongst them. This particular white wine tasted as though its first life had been as dish water. Still, he was not going to complain. He had very little coin left, and both the clothier and the innkeeper had allowed him to extend a line of credit. A fact for which he was grateful, and necessitated him behaving like a consummate gentleman.

The merchants had all been pleased by the arrival of a wounded nobleman. Their little backwater town saw few new faces, let alone a noble with a rich purse. Here was someone who required much rest, medical care, and a new wardrobe! Surely a family member of the poor chap would come retrieve him and pay his bill in full. His ivory pistols and his fine velvet riding clothes had betrayed his lofty birthright. They could afford to extend such a fine young man credit, as it was sure to be repaid. Whatever hunting accident or jaunt gone astray that had brought him here, would soon be rectified, and they would all be much richer for it.

Phillip sighed. He was thirsty, and he could not drink their water, nor could he be seen to be drinking ale. If he drank ale, it would arouse suspicion that he was not what he claimed. He drank the wine, which contained his own spittle. He shivered. It was horrid. He should order some tea. He had no doubt that they would grumble about it, but at least the water in that case would be boiled and therefore less likely to be putrid with disease. A man as covered in wounds as he was, should not invite disease. A glass of tavern water, to that end, practically invited them in with a welcome basket and gold foil chocolates. He waved his hand at the bar keep.

“Hot tea please.” He said as he slid the wine glass back toward the man. “And a plate of whatever you are serving today.” He bit his tongue. He had almost said ‘whatever you are calling food –today’. If he was not going to pay, he would have to be excruciatingly polite…and to run off in the night with a rented horse. The man nodded curtly.

“Shepherd’s pie Sir, or if you prefer we have had some Hakarl sent in from Gyllene.” The barkeep said. Phillip’s head jerked up. They were close enough to Gyllene to have trade with the people there?

“Are we close to Gyllene then?” He asked. He had pretended to have a head injury as well as the one in his shoulder. It explained to the townspeople why his memory was effected. That in turn explained why it was taking so long for him to contact his relatives. It had nothing to do of course, with small matter of him being wanted for his own father’s murder.

“Aye sir. We are not 2 weeks journey from the border.” The man responded with a prolonged look across the splintery, grimy bar to where some less distinguished, but clearly anxious customers were waving empty flagons.

“So the castle of the Gyllene King, is nearby?” Phillip inquired, hoping that the barkeep would stay to answer his questions. He laughed and shook his head.

“Nay Sir! The Demon King lives in a castle keep high the mountains overlooking the ebony sea! It would take a man 2 or 3 months to reach it in this weather – maybe more, especially as a horse could never make it in winter. A sturdy mountain pony with the shaggy hair maybe, but a man of your height would have a devil of a time riding one. The mountain passes are all but shut. Even if you were to make it past the first ridge of mountains, there is a brief sea voyage to the Winterlands, and then the trek up their mountains to the castle! No one could be foolish enough to travel there now. If you are wondering how we came by the delivery of the fish…well, we got this batch of Hakarl during the summertime. Luckily it keeps real long.” The bar keeper gave a shrug as he turned back toward his other customers-his paying customers.

Lord Phillip gritted his teeth. He had not finished ordering his lunch. The man had absolutely no decency if he would refill ale mugs before properly attending to a Lord. Phillip had no idea what hakarl was, but it sounded disgusting. The only Nordic delicacy he had ever been forced to try had been thinly sliced smoked horseflesh. It had been preserved twice, once by smoking, once by being soaked in rotten whey…although it had most likely been the other way round first. The memory was enough to make him gag. No wonder no one ever went to, or spoke of the little mountain kingdom. It was apparently also a difficult place to get to. Honestly, what sort of kingdom attached only half itself to land, and the second half across a small section of sea?

Well, it didn’t matter. The girl would never get that far. Why should she? Her demon lover was dead, the supposed King had left her, and she had no other reason to go to Gyllene. Besides, it sounded as if someone would have to be utterly mad to try to get there in this season. One would have to truly be a demon in order to wish to build their castle in such an awful place. The barkeep had returned. Gods! He was carrying a platter of something that was not Shepherd’s pie. He had shown too much interest in Gyllene. Did they think he was a lost citizen? One of their Lords?

“Here you are Sir, Hakarl with salted butter, and Skyr with sugar and cream.” He set down a plate of something in thin brownish strips that smelled like cat’s pee with a lake of butter on it. There was a dish of something white and wobbly beside it. Either this was their attempt to make him feel at home, as a presumed Gyllene nobleman…or they were feeding him the last of a product they wished fervently to be rid of…since he had yet to give them any coin.

“And of course your tea, Sir.” The barkeep said as he set down a steaming mug of what looked and smelled more like chicken broth. At least that appeared edible.

“Thank you.” Lord Phillip mumbled. He was decidedly not thankful, but he would remain polite, even if it killed him. Being penniless would certainly kill him before long. As it was he had no marketable skills, no method for finding work, and no recourse in this situation. As a Lord he was ineffectual – yes he looked good in the attire and the hair styles, but he had not learned many of the gentlemanly arts properly. In his few week stint running the estate he had started a witch hunt which had killed several innocent people, committed patricide, killed a prominent member of the council, and had let the only real witch escape unscathed. It seemed that estate management was perhaps not a career for him. The possibility of surviving this little vendetta now seemed likely, and if he did survive it, how was he to live?

He took an unwitting bite of the plate in front of him. He gagged and nearly vomited it immediately. Twice preserving seemed to be a favorite technique of these strange people. This had been fermented, and then dried, and then rehydrated with butter. Its smell alone churned his stomach. It had an odor like ammonia or a solvent. He pushed the plate away, although he took the small bowl of Skyr? Whatever it was, supposedly involved sugar and cream. It was edible, and took some of the taste out of his mouth.

There was one task he was suited for. He had recently proved to have quite an aptitude for emotional detachment. He knew of a specific line of work in which that was prized. If only he had left the woman who would give him a suitable reference, alive….it would be easier. No matter. Once this was over, he could at least apply to become a member of the council. Witch hunting, as it turned out, suited him quite well.

“Elias, are you awake?” Freya whispered as she bent down close to his spot by the fire. Mr. Grant startled awake. What was she doing in here? Thus far, the women had slept in the wagon, and the men of their party, on the ground by the fire. She put a finger to his lips and gestured for him to move away from the fire with her. He followed her off into the woods, and then stopped in surprise. There was a second glowing fire in a small clearing, and she had encircled it with a bed made of blankets.

“What is this?” He asked confused. He had thought she was sleeping alongside Xanthippe in order to keep the young woman warm. The girl was in a delicate condition just now and Freya’s natural heat was necessary. The cursed seemed to be warmer than the rest of them. Freya sighed.

“I don’t intend to sleep out here. Obviously I must get back to Xan as soon as possible.” She admitted. Mr. Grant tilted his head. If she did not plan to sleep out here, what was she planning to do with a second fire and a makeshift bed? Suddenly he blushed to the roots of his pale hair. Surely she did not intend for them to… She’d indicated wanting to return to Xan as quickly as possible so…no. she could not intend…He coughed.

“I should head back. I would not wish for your brother to awaken and notice that the two of us were gone.” He said delicately. He did not want to assume anything, but it was difficult to interpret this any differently. Freya sat down by the fire on the thick horse blanket.

“Might I at least explain myself?” She asked gently. Her voice and manners were so calm, so proper, so lady like. How could she be asking him to even sit beside her in this way? The two of them, together on a blanket, in the night? If Frederick woke up and saw this, Mr. Grant knew that it would only be a moment before it became his very last moment. He decided to remain standing, but he nodded.

“Of course. You may tell me anything you like.” He hoped there was a respectable explanation for all this. Freya instead, began unbraiding her hair into waves of auburn that framed her face.

“If we return to Gyllene, my father will have every right to decide my future. If I am untouched, despite my age, he will try to marry me to someone from a neighboring kingdom. The southern half of Gyllene is generally considered a paradise, and any sort of alliance will be something he is eager for.” Freya began. Elias swallowed. Twenty seven was quite old for a woman to marry, but for a princess, and one who could claim to be 19 or 20, it was to be expected. It was just something he hadn’t considered.

“You are a Princess. It is your duty to do what you must for the good of your country.” He tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice. She had brought him aside to tell him that there was no hope for them? If this is what she believed, then why had she engaged herself to him? Why had she kissed him? More than once! And, with what he had thought was considerable affection. Freya shook her head, standing and coming towards him. She laid her hand on his folded arms.

“No. I know that it is my duty. I was engaged to the Prince of Twyle when I was but a day old. If he lives and is still unmarried, then I am still engaged. What I am truly saying, is that I do not wish to honor my duties. I am telling you what will happen if we do not act. I want to be your wife. There is however, only one circumstance in which that will be permitted. The situation with Xanthippe gave me the idea.” Freya admitted with embarrassment. Mr. Grant paled from his blush. It was what he had thought. He couldn’t do it. There were a thousand reasons not to, and only two really, to do so. He was, if only a merchant, still a gentleman. To take the virtue of a Princess was not only immoral, it was illegal – no matter how willing the girl was. Her father could just as easily kill him for treason, as to allow him to wed her.

“Freya, what you suggest is impossible. Not only might it not have the intended effect – after all your father could order my execution…but even if I were guaranteed a positive outcome, I would never harm you.” He said gently. It was physical pain to turn her down once the idea had fully woven itself into his mind. Freya shook her head.

“It would not be harming me! I wish for you to do this.” She assured him, trying to draw him toward the fire. “My father could not kill you if you were…if there were a child. If we are not successful in producing one within the narrow timeframe, Xanthippe has agreed to give me hers. If we delay our arrival by a few months, I can pass the baby off as my own. Frederick may object, but with a royal child needing claiming, and me already spent…father would believe my story.” Freya’s words were coming out fast, one on top of the other, insistent and anxious at the same time. She must have feared both his reaction and his refusal. He shook his head.

“I would not harm even your reputation. I love you Freya and I want to do what is best for you, even if it is not what I would desire. I wish nothing more in this world than to have you as my wife, but such a thing is likely impossible. If my knowing you amounts to nothing more than what has thus far transpired, and the opportunity to see you safely to your home…then it is worth it.” He replied as he gently took his arm back from her. He had known that she was too good for him once, and so he had married someone else. Now that he knew she was a princess, it had merely confirmed what he had already long been aware of.

Freya sighed. She loved him because he was a gentleman. He was in every way, unlike her violent and impulsive brothers. She could not be angry with him now for believing in courtly love. It still hurt her, that he did not want to see her happy. Didn’t he know that being forced to marry some unknown man she hadn’t seen since she was child would harm her?

“I thought perhaps you would say that. But, you do understand that I will be unhappy if I am forced to wed someone else? I am not asking you to harm me. I am asking you to keep me from harm by preserving my happiness. If you want what is best for me, surely you do not want me to marry an unknown royal whom I do not love?” She asked, her eyes pleading. This was uncharacteristic for her, and it was agony to be so open. Normally she was pragmatic, calm, and aloof.

“I’m sorry Freya. I would in every way endeavor to please you, but this I cannot do.” He said sadly. It was unendurable for a beautiful princess to throw herself at him and beg to be taken, and for him to have to refuse. He should be questioning his very sanity! His own wife, before her death, had been particularly sparing with her affection. He had been allowed a kiss per week, and an attempt at a son for the purpose of his business but once every other month. To be offered physical love by a woman who actually wanted it-for any reason-was irresistible. He felt like he was trying to force a spring to coil inside himself, pinning it down so that it wouldn’t spring out of control. Until this moment the tenants by which he had governed his life had seemed so clear. Ordinary codes of conduct had never prepared him for a situation like this one. Freya was already covering the fire in snow to douse it and keep it from burning out of control.

“Understood. I will not ask again.” She said quietly. Faster than he would have thought it possible, her arm snatched out and grabbed the back of his head, and forced his lips onto hers . She pressed her mouth against his firmly, her fingers woven into his pale hair. It was a fervent, desperate kiss, the most passionate he had ever experienced in his life. He tasted tears on her cheeks as she released him from the kiss. “Just the one last time then.” She said almost sadly, but her voice was once again even and gentle. She was back to her usual self, all traces of the vulnerable girl were gone. Everything about was once again kind, stoic, and removed.

“Let’s get back. I should return to Xanthippe.” Freya began walking purposefully back to where they had parked the wagon. Her tone expressed no disappointment, anger or pain. It sounded just as it always did. It made him wonder what depths of emotions generally boiled in her, carefully hidden and utterly contained. Did he even really know her? Could anyone?

Freyr tugged a green woolen shirt and gray trousers off a clothes line. He nodded briskly towards the dress, also hanging on the line, indicating that Gilda should take it. She glanced toward the little farm house. There appeared to be no one at home in the little cottage who’s yard they were robbing. But it was such a darling house with grass growing on the roof. A strange skinny ladder was leaned up against it so that a goat could eat the grass atop the house. Two frisky young billies were up top the house munching on greenery poking through the thatch. How could she rob people with such a quaint solution to their sprouting thatch? She turned back to Freyr and shook her head stubbornly.

“Take the dress Gilda.” He ordered, but his voice was gentle.

“Freyr I can’t! What if they do not have any other clothes?” Gilda protested. While Freyr had given up much of his comforts to live in the woods, he had never known the depth of poverty that Gilda had experienced. Most of her life she had only ever owned one serviceable garment at a time. Freyr laughed loudly in reply to her concern.

“Gilda, do you suggest that the owners of these clothes have left their property utterly naked? We checked the house and barn…there is no one here. They must be wearing something, in order to be elsewhere.” He reminded her. That was logical. It still didn’t change her opinion.

“But we cannot rob them!” Gilda argued. Freyr smiled.

“I am the crown Prince. Once we arrive at the Duke’s castle, we can have funds sent to them.” He suggested.

“At least leave them some of our remaining coins. We might forget where they live and I don’t want to steal from peasants.” Gilda was adamant. Freyr growled, but in a low timbre that belied him almost giving in. Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the FɪndNovᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“At this moment you are also a peasant, and poorer than they are.” He said, but he put a few coins into the pocket of the last shirt remaining on the nearly empty line. Gilda nodded.

“Thank you.” She replied. Freyr took Gilda by the arm and began leading her back to the cover of the woods. He had Gilda tucked beneath one arm tightly, and the rolled up clothes under the other.

“Come along, we had better get changed before anyone sees us in our current clothes. We’d be arrested or shot on sight, and not for stealing either.” He said, with half a joke in his voice. Gilda tried not to giggle. At this point in time, Freyr did look exactly like a highwayman. His long dark brown hair was disheveled and his clothes were covered in blood. His massive stature, deep set dark eyes, and hawk-like nose looked horribly threatening when dressed so violently. He looked just like the sort of company that Gran had always warned her against. The memory of simpler times and simpler problems cut like a knife. Had it really been a few months ago that her worst fear was being escorted home by someone unsuitable?!

Freyr handed her the gray woolen dress they had just stolen, along with the underthings. Gilda took it hesitantly. She didn’t relish the thought of wearing another woman’s underthings, even if they had presumably just been washed…having come off of a line and all.

“Thank you.” She said, averting her eyes. Freyr was stripping off his clothes without any pretense of modesty. Every single muscle on his sinewy body shone hard and perfect in the coming moonlight. Gilda turned her head to one side. She wished they had stolen the clothes while he was a bear, then he would have put them on after the transition, and she wouldn’t have seen him dress or undress. But Freyr had not wanted to risk being seen as a giant talking bear while simultaneously stealing from a farmer who presumably owned a fire arm. Which, she had to admit, was reasonable. Now, she had to try to avoid looking at him.

It would be easier if he were not so physically impressive. Every portion of him was evenly muscled and well proportioned. He caught her looking at him out of the corner of her eye and gave a raised his eyebrow slightly, but without hope. He knew nothing would come of her furtive glances.

“Are you not going to get dressed?” He asked. “I thought the dress you have on was dreadfully uncomfortable?” It was. The warmer climate was making the blood crusted woolen dress and lack of undergarments unbearable. They had been in Gyllene only 3 days and she was ready to return to winter. Gilda sighed.

“It is.” She undid the buttons on the front of the horrid brown dress and pulled it off over her head. Freyr turned to face away. For inexplicable reasons, this upset her. She removed her shorn off underdress and tossed it aside as well. The new underclothes – even if they were someone else’s, were exceedingly comfortable. She pulled the softer gray dress over her head as well. Perhaps the sheep of Gyllene had higher quality wool? This was softer and finer than she imagined a peasant woman would be able to afford unless it came from her own sheep. Gilda did her best to do up the laces in the back of the surprisingly comfortable dress by herself. The laces would not be pretty, but it was the best she could do on her own. The dress was made for a girl of her slenderness, but most girls as thin as Gilda did not have the embellishments to their figures that she did. Gilda looked down and sighed. The dress was straining, and failing to contain her chest. She looked like a painting of a renaissance era courtesan. She did not have any kind of scarf or shawl to hide it under either. Freyr turned back around. His eyes settled on her bosom, but not in an amorous way, more in irritation.

“That’s almost worse. How could we possibly go into town without you coming to harm?” He asked with a wry shake of his head. He tore the non-bloody of the two sleeves off of his old pale leather shirt and ripped it down the middle. He wrapped it crisscross around her chest like a bandage. He gave no indication that touching her thusly affected him in any way. He might have been wrapping a bandage on a stranger. It wasn’t much better, the tightly wrapped leather shirt turned scarf almost embellished. Freyr sighed.

“Well, it’s the best we can do.” He said as he began doing up the laces on his own stolen shirt. It was dark green, and the trousers were brown – not Freyr’s usual leather, but some sort of stiff serviceable material. He didn’t look like himself, and he was behaving so distantly now that she felt they had rewound their acquaintance back to the beginning. She barely recognized him, and he touched her as one might touch a cabbage. It was terrible.

“Thank you, for the fashionable wrap.” She said, maintaining only a small amount of sarcasm. “Does this mean that we get to stay in an Inn?” She asked hopefully. She’d lived a rough life before Freyr, but this was getting ridiculous. He shook his head.

“I’m afraid we have not enough coin for that…since I was convinced to part with most of it.” He said firmly, but not unkindly. Gilda nodded.

“I see. Well, how much farther it is to the castle of the Duke?” She asked wondering how long this wilderness trek would endure.

“I’m afraid it is over a week away at this speed, and we cannot travel faster without the light, and without risking being seen.” Freyr admitted regretfully. In truth he was rather nervous about arriving there. If the Duke had died, if it was his son in power – there was no guarantee that he knew the secret. In order to even prove his lineage he would have to get past the guards at the gate, and they would not necessarily even let in a peasant who demanded to see the Duke after sundown. There were many ways that this could all go terribly wrong. Gilda gave a long suffering sigh.

“Then I suppose we should make camp?” She asked, untying the poor patient black mare who had been standing guard over their thieving exploits. Freyr nodded.

“We need to find somewhere deeper in the woods, further from the road. I do not know how safe this part of Gyllene is at night.” He kicked their bloody old clothes under a fruiting bush of some type. The climate in the Summerlands was remarkable. They didn’t even really need the cup and stone here. The land had fruit, vegetables and a preponderance of animals who came to enjoy the prolonged summer. Freyr suddenly gripped Gilda and forced her behind him. Oh Lord! What had he heard? Please let it be the kindly farmer’s daughter to whom this dress actually belonged and not an actual thief. Or worse…a one armed Lord come back to finish the job.

“Don’t be a coward and shoot us from in the trees. If you wish to take what little we have you may do so, we will not fight you if you do not seek to harm us. What we carry is not worth our lives.” Freyr said loudly to whomever was stalking them. A man’s chuckle answered them and he stepped out of the trees. He was dressed all in black and was swinging a pistol around his finger. It was not…Lord Phillip. Surprisingly that was not a relief. Gilda was far more sure of their chances against him. For all she knew he was now armless. This man looked strong, but not imposing like Freyr was. He needed his pistol in order to get their attention. His appearance was unsettling for some reason that Gilda did not quite understand.

“Such a brave speech from an unarmed man.” The would-be robber said as he came towards them. Gilda tried to move herself in front of Freyr instead. If this was one of the many ways she would die, she was going to take it. Hopefully if this did kill her, it would still end the curse. Gran would see her dying on journey to retrieve the blood of the King of Gyllene and consider her death to be part of an attempt to end the curse borne by a man she had forced her granddaughter to love.

“I do not require armaments.” Freyr said as he slid his arm behind himself, gripping Gilda’s wrist painfully and holding her back. His free had grasped the stoutest piece of their unlit firewood. “You are welcome to the few coins we carry. We have nothing else of value.” He said, keeping Gilda, and she realized belatedly, the signet ring on the hand attached the wrist he was twisting, behind him.

“I will take your coin of course…but you have another pretty piece of gold with you don’t you? Do I need to shoot you dead before you will be convinced to share that as well?” The man in black asked. Freyr made a deep growling sound. It was utterly other. No human could even attempt such a sound. The man was briefly startled by what sounded like a bear hidden in the dark. Freyr took that opportunity to lunge at him. He had the man by the throat in his left hand, allowing the man’s feet to dangle in the air as he kicked and squirmed. With his right hand, Freyr grabbed the gun and bent the barrel upward until it made a U shape…and consequently could never be fired again. Gilda held her hands behind her back. She had to keep the ring secret. If it was stolen, they would have no way to prove their identity to those who did not know of the curse. The thief looked at the ruined gun in his hand with an emotion that went beyond surprised.

“How did you?” He choked, as his faced turned red. He coughed around Freyr’s grip on his throat, his feet swinging awkwardly. He was quite literally being killed by the man he had attempted to rob. Freyr smiled and set him down, keeping the former pistol in his hand. He continued to squeeze it in front of the man’s face until it broke into a series of pieces. Freyr let them fall like ivory and metal rain onto the ground.

“I am the lost crown prince of Gyllene. I’m sure you have heard of me, and the men of my lineage. Should you run into anyone of interest – do tell them that I am returned.” Freyr gave the man a push on the shoulders. “Go on then now.” He said calmly. Gilda was still breathing hard. The man looked frightened, embarrassed, and disheartened. He did not look angry. Gilda did not understand anything about this circumstance, it all felt entirely wrong. Nothing the man had done was in keeping with the behavior of a robber.

“Farewell then. Should we meet again, let us hope we do not recognize one another.” The man in black said elegantly. He began to bow, and then stopped short as if censuring himself and disappeared back through the woods. Freyr returned to Gilda and despite her squirming and attempts to get away, he held her face firmly and gave her a lengthy kiss on the mouth. His hands wound into her hair to hold her to him as if desperately relieved that she was in one piece. The feeling of his tongue on her lips was enough to melt any of her resolve to remain aloof, and she would have acquiesced to almost anything, but he stopped.

“Are you alright? How is your wrist? I did not want him to steal the ring.” He lifted her slender wrist and examined it for bruises. Gilda shook her head. Fact had just collided in her brain and explained why the incident bothered her so much.

“It is fine.” She said pulling it back. “What I wish to know, is why there is a second nobleman out in the woods, seeking us.” She asked, the lilt in her voice betraying the question. Freyr cocked his head.

“What do you mean? Why do you think he was of noble birth?”

“I did study the clothes, the speech patterns, the method of carrying one’s self, and all things pertaining to being nobility. He filled all of them. Even his pistol was made of ivory and silver, no ordinary robber would have kept such a showy thing, had they been lucky enough to obtain it. He didn’t even carry it like a true thief should.” The more Gilda thought about it, the more she realized it was true. He had never intended to rob them. She wasn’t entirely sure what he had intended, but it hadn’t been to steal from them. She bit her lip. “Even his clothes were new, all of them brand new. As if he had purchased the black clothing in order to make a costume, and not because he needed to wear them.” Gilda finished. It had been a nobleman disguised as a robber. Why? Freyr sighed and rubbed his palm against his forehead.

“If what you suggest is true, then we are in much more trouble than I initially imagined.” He said with a shake of his head. “If the man was a noble, then my father must have told the nobility that we are on our way back. Ordinarily I would think that was good, but it is not. It means that he utterly trusts that witch Seer that he keeps. It also means that the nobles are in dire need of reassurance, which indicates that my father’s rule is in immediate danger. He still trusts the nobility enough to inform them of our impending arrival, but they are so ready to overthrow my family that they have sent out envoys against us. My father must not be remarried, or have any additional heirs. Without heirs, upon his death, or upon a coup, the seat would go to one of the Dukes of the original Gyl.” Freyr sat down next to their unlit fire and put his face in his hands, elbows resting on his knees coltishly.

Despite the length of his legs and arms steepled together, he looked somehow like a boy, forlorn and without hope. Gilda forgot her promises and sat beside him and put her head on his shoulder, wrapping her arm through his. He leaned his body against hers gratefully. The scent of her hair and the feel of her body leaning against him heaven. He missed her. A few weeks ago he had been almost certain that she loved him, even in spite of all that he came with. He had thought against all reason that she had wanted him even a fraction as much as he wanted her. Now he wasn’t even sure that she liked him.

There was also the matter of him being phenomenally disheartened. He was not leading her back to the safety and luxury he wanted to provide. He was leading her to her death. The young noble in the ridiculous all black attire had been the son of one of the three Dukes. He didn’t know which one, but they were the only ones who could hope to claim the kingship. A Duke had betrayed his father, and he was leading her straight toward one. No matter how far she wished to be from him, more than a finger’s breadth could not be tolerated now. She was in far too much danger. As his consort she would be killed immediately, and without warning due to the fear that her slender waist might be concealing an heir.

He rolled out one of the skins and pulled her onto it with him. He tucked the other one over them and pulled her close. They had had no dinner, and so would need to rise early in order to feed themselves, but a fire was too risky right now.

“I’m sorry Gilda, for this physical imposition, but I will have you close to me until I can guarantee your safety. Food and water will have to wait for morning. If that young noble attempts to return with reinforcements, he will need the light of the fire to find us now that it is fully dark. You were right about him not being used to the woods…he’s not a real highwayman, and we will not be in danger if we are here, together, in the dark.” He said apologetically. Gilda nodded against his chest. She was warm and comfortable, and felt safe for the first time in ten days. So she fell instantly asleep, just as she had during the witch hunt, the first time that Freyr had held her. After all the dreams of his arms being comfort, being nestled in them was both reassuring and soporific. Gilda willed her sleep to be dreamless, and without visions. She couldn’t handle any more secrets.

Freyr held Gilda in his arms as she slept, inhaling the perfect perfume of her hair. The weave of this dress was softer, and she felt heavenly in his arms. He sighed inaudibly. None of this made sense. There was a second noble who sought their death, although not necessarily their death. The man had seemed particularly ill equipped to kill them. Perhaps his interest was only the end of their reign, before it had begun. He had pretended to wish to rob them, but then had expressed interest in Gilda. Obviously any man who saw Gilda wished to possess her, but this was different. If this man knew that they were the lost Crown Prince and consort returning from exile, it gave an even more sinister connotation to his request. If Gilda were ill-used in that way, it would throw suspicion on the heir that she might eventually produce. She could never be Queen if such a thing were known, and he would have to either divorce her or abdicate. If this were an attempted coup, raping his wife was as good a way to achieve as outright killing him.

One of the Duchys must with to either end him, or to foster more suspicion surrounding his prospective reign. If they raised more obstacles to his rule, they could gain public support and the subjects of Gyllene would be in favor of the coup. No matter how they planned to go about it, he and Gilda were both in danger. Also, it was clear now that they had more enemies than he had previously known. They were in grave danger from the outside, and now it seemed, from within.

Sᴇarch the FindNovel.net website on G𝘰𝘰gle to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.