“I might be,” he replied. “Are you the captain?”
“Captain Ivak Norrison, at your service.”
He studied the ship behind the man, a merchant vessel by the looks of it. “You do take passengers?”
“I transport people up the coast from time to time, yes.”
“What about elsewhere? Wai Alei, for example.”
Ivak studied him, staring down his long, hooked nose. “We avoid those waters. The world serpent won’t let us near.”
Of course she wouldn’t, not when their kingdoms were at war. Still, he doubted Joren would sink innocent merchant vessels. Could he have changed so much in a year? “Where do you carry goods?”
“Our next run is to Liang.”
While not his first choice, anywhere away from Ridaeron’s shores took him closer to home, and he’d be a stone’s throw from Cairn Ocland, one of Eisland’s allies under the Compact.
But Cairn Ocland and Liang were moments from entering war, their rulers frequently squabbling over the boundaries set by their ancestors. As far as he knew, Liang remained at peace with her southern neighbor, and a three-day yacht ride south would place him in Enchanter Joaidane’s territory. Joaidane would contact Joren, and he’d be on Eisland’s shores in a matter of weeks.
“Can your hold accommodate a horse?”
“If you bring the supplies to care for it, we can do that well enough. We’re leaving with the evening tide if you’re seeking passage. Doesn’t give you much time.”
“I might take you up on that offer. I have a few things to handle first.”
“Don’t tarry long in your decision.”
He smiled and gave the man a small bow, then made his way down the dock. Leaving and returning home seemed the wisest course and yet, as he looked over his shoulder to the mountains, his heart ached. He had come to consider this kingdom his home as well.
An old woman shuffled to his side, blue eyes focused on the purple-capped peaks. “Beautiful sight, isn’t it?”
“They are. Where I come from, we also have mountains, but…” He’d never seen a mountain covered in flowers and verdant trees until he traveled to Ridaeron. Farther east, the snow overtook them, but here on the western coastline facing Wai Alei, flowers dappled the mountain range’s rocky face in vibrant hues of scarlet, blue, and violet.
“Not all mountains are the same.” She smiled, eyes crinkling heavily. “You look as though you are trying to burn them into memory, young man.”
“I suppose I am.”
“Going somewhere?”
“I’m…not sure.”
“Why don’t you tell an old woman all about it?” She patted his hand, and before Sigurd realized it, he was being drawn to sit on a nearby bench.
“I have no place here anymore,” he admitted. “Not since she died.”
“Yes, the loss of a loved one does tend to change our perspective on life.”
“How’d you know it was a loved one?”
“The sadness in your voice. The ache in your eyes. An old woman knows these things. But sometimes things aren’t quite so lost as we believe.”
He managed a small smile. “I wish it were so, but she was taken to her tomb only days ago.”
The old woman nodded. “Yes, I saw the queen go by. Beautiful woman. Beautiful soul.”
“She was.”
“Are you so certain she’s dead?”
“You saw her yourself, you said.”
“Yes, but things are not always as they seem, are they, Camden?”
Caught off guard by his Eislandic name, he snapped his gaze to the old woman and found her watching him with unnerving intensity, her eyes bright in a face creased with age.
“How do you—? Who are you?”
“Merely an old woman offering you a choice.”
“What choice?”
“A choice of the paths that lie before you. You can set sail with the good captain, come across your old friend Hook on the seas, and be on your way home to reunite with your sister. Or…you can remain and discover the truth behind your beloved queen’s demise.” Her eyes twinkled with a depth that left him staring at her in fascination.
She rose from the bench. Her shadow did not match the gnarled crone, unbent with age and standing tall as it stretched across the ground. Long hair flowed behind it, interspersed with two braids.
A crown.
Her shadow wore a crown. He sucked in a deep breath.
“Are you an enchantress?”
“I am not.”
He pressed his lips together and studied her serene features, sensing only tranquility and matronly warmth. His next words coming at the end of a long silence. “What good would it do to remain if I cannot avenge her?”
“Whoever said that you cannot?”
He glanced away. “What could I possibly do to avenge her when I’m but a single man with no army?” He felt cowardly leaving, yet he knew Bryn wouldn’t want him to throw away his life in a fruitless endeavor. “He’d kill me as easily as he killed her.”
“Who said he successfully killed her?”
Sigurd jerked his head up, but the old woman was gone. “But—”
Her fading voice lingered in his ears, a whisper caressing over his skin. “The choice lies with you to become Camden once more, or embrace Sigurd and awaken your queen. I trust you’ll choose the wisest course.”
In hindsight, Sigurd cursed himself for not returning to the castle. Despite the risk, enlisting Lagertha’s aid would have made reaching the royal crypt an easier task, having never been there himself to know the way. He only knew the vague direction of the royal crypts and that they were spitting distance from the village of Akranes at the base of the northern mountain range.
Signs at intersections along the road gave him a general idea of which paths to take. One pointed left to the north, a marker of thirty miles beside the village name.
Months of lessons alongside the thrall-scholar, Liran, had taught Sigurd to read the Ridaeron language with the same fluency he enjoyed in his native tongue. He’d thrown himself into the task, desperate to understand everything spoken by his captors, learning at a dedicated speed that had fazed even the despicable king.
But the only person he’d wanted to impress had been Brynhildr. Her joy had thrilled him.
The path wound through a wooded grove of fragrant trees, reminding him of the silver forest in the heart of Eisland. A cerulean sky stretched above him, scattered with fluffy white clouds. The previous evening hadn’t been as kind, and he’d been soaked to the bone by the time he checked into an inn for the night. He’d been traveling for five days by horseback, likely to be lost if he hadn’t received vague directions from the innkeeper for the road to Akranes.
For a while, he and Geri traveled in silence. His head nodded against his chest, but the stallion trucked on, occasionally pivoting one of his pointed ears to the left. Sometimes to the right.
Geri snorted and picked up his pace, jostling his rider.
“What was that about?”
An uneasy feeling sent pins and needles down Sigurd’s spine, and his arms tingled. Any chance of catching a few minutes’ nap died.
Geri whinnied at him and snorted, tossing his head.