The Beast of Salt (Saga of the Gods #1)

32. Avina

32

AVINA

November 10th, Year 100, 9th Era

Toftlund City, Salt Province

“ Y ou could have put in a little more effort, Sigvid.” Grim scoffs as he wears a proper Salt tunic and vest with trousers the color of steel.

The Salt Prince chuckles, his hand outstretched, holding Avina’s as she steps out of the carriage.

He insisted on wearing his light leather armor while in Thrain’s presence. The mixture of the armor and his unruly hair–threatening to untangle from his braid with a single breeze–gives him a wild, unhinged appearance.

Something Thora assured her before they left is normal for Uncle Sigvid.

“Your Highness.” Grim inclines his head as she steps onto the cobblestone street.

She grins at the attention.

“Stop addressing her as Queen whenever you see her.” Sigvid scolds.

Avina internally chuckles at his request despite his own diminutive name for her being ‘little Queen.’ She brushes the soft fabric of her velvet maroon gown, which flows down to her slippered feet. Gold embroidered knots swirl around her sleeves and bodice. Hidden between her breasts is the Ridge Sacred Stone.

“Did you find a place in town, or are you still staying at the Half-Goat Inn?” Sigvid questions Grim conversationally.

She focuses on Grim and does not notice Sigvid offering his arm. Blushing, she hesitantly slips her hands through.

When did he become charming?

“Still at the Goat.” Grim shrugs, seemingly unbothered by his current accommodations.

“You should stay at Blackwood,” she interrupts, “there are more than enough rooms.”

Sigvid glowers down at her with the force of a thousand suns. She is confident that the flash in his irises is the deepest warning he has ever given her.

“You live in an old inn.” She hisses.

“People do not dwell alongside me.”

“What am I? Or Thora?”

“That is different. Do not just offer my rooms.”

“Please, Grim,” she ignores his dumb thought process, “stay with us!”

Grim smirks. “I would like that.”

She grins smugly, noting that he sides with her.

Grim nods toward them and then enters the longhouse.

Avina crosses her arms. “You spared his life and broke him out of the Arena to let him live in a tavern?”

Sigvid glares. “I do not like when you use logic against me.”

She enters the longhouse with a smirk. The heat from the fire, bubbling laughter, and the smell of sizzling pork dazzle her senses. They barely step into the warmth when Slode materializes and thrusts drinking horns at them.

“Don’t worry, we dumped the awful mead from the Arena.” Slode chuckles and slides his hands into his trouser pockets. Even his closest friend opted for relaxed attire over armor.

Sigvid guzzles from his horn, “Ahh, Salt mead is the finest on these Endless Shores. My little Queen, you need to tickle your tastebuds with this.” He nudges her arm, sloshing amber liquid.“Slode, you are a good man for dumping that swill.”

“Thrain is asking about you,” Slode lowers his voice. “There’s some ambassador from Timber here, and he’s making our King uptight.”

Avina falters, and the lip of the horn presses against her mouth as the sweet liquid trickles onto her tongue.

Timber Province ambassador.

She backs away into one of the many longhouse doors for it to open again and for a group of giggling women to shove their way through. Her hand reaches instinctively for the sapphire stone nestled on her chest.

It’s safe. No one can see it.

She is still reeling from Sigvid’s explanation of her role as the Keeper of the Stones. Without a shadow of a doubt, she knows the significance of the Ridge Sacred Stone to herself, her people, and all of Treland. That reassurance spreads throughout her as if she is engulfed in a sea of tranquility.

“What are you doing?” Sigvid seizes her wrists, tugging her back inside. “Who is this ambassador?”

“Lord Ives.” The name is thrown from her mouth as if her body rejects the energy it took to speak it. “He was close friends with Rendel and Samson. He’s here to collect me.”

Samson needs me to become king. How did this issue stalk me to Timber?

Samson must have deduced that Sigvid kidnapped Avina in his escape and sent Ives to Salt to negotiate his kingship. Her hands shake so violently that she slops mead onto the floor.

“I will not allow him to take you,” he whispers. “Avina, look at me,” His hand grips her chin, and she twists her head to meet his gaze. “No one is taking you from Salt.”

She nods, nervously stroking her curls, unable to decide whether she is relieved or terrified by his promise.

Despite her runaway attempt before they reached Toftlund, she prefers remaining on a leash with the Salt Prince rather than being abused by the Manchineels.

The Ridge Sacred Stone against her skin throbs as if it possesses a beating heart. Every pulse of the gem fills her chest with a heightened need to ensure its safety.

If Sigvid is her Guardian, would it not make sense to remain near him? To allow him to protect her and the stone?

“I will go and see what this Ives wants,” he growls. “Slode and I will take care of him.”

“Wait!” She drains the mead horn, stumbling in the process. “I want to join you.”

Ives’ unwanted presence is because of her. As Queen, she intends to acknowledge her displeasure. No longer can she be a passive voyeur in her life. Not when that method of existing has ruined so much already.

“Fine. But if I tell you to hide, you fucking hide, Avina.”

She walks beside him as they wind through the revelers. Through the throng, she spots King Thrain at a long, thin table on a dais, chatting away with Lord Ives. A decorative tie holds Ives’ long, thick hair at the nape of his neck. He wore no armor, only a flowing tunic and tight leather trousers.

She chuckles, attracting a side glance from Sigvid. Even Avina did not need to read a dozen books on the Salt Province to know that walking into Toftlund unarmed and undefended is monstrously stupid.

“Brother! Your Highness. Are you both not a sight for sore eyes.” The Salt King may have addressed them both, but he only has eyes for her.

As if the evening is not already uncomfortable enough.

Ives adjusts the long sleeves of his tunic. His focus falls on Avina as he greets her with a twisted smile that churns her stomach.

“Well, hello, Your Majesty.” Ives' voice is as unsettling as she remembered. “What a pleasant, reassuring surprise finding you here.”

Accounts of Ives’ terror reached Avina over the years, and she is not eager to exchange any semblance of pleasantries. Her only consolation is the beastly man at her side, who will rip him apart if he tries to take her by force.

“Lord Ives. I was unaware we are casting out lower-level lords to deliver messages.” She folds her arms over her chest, aware her shoulder rests against Sigvid’s arm. His heat offers a strange comfort to her.

Ives does not react. “Duke Samson is worried sick. After his fiancé disappears from the Treland Arena, he sends only his most trustworthy advisors to bring her home for the wedding.”

Avina’s mouth goes dry.

Is this farce actually happening?

Sigvid recoils. “Fucking hold on. Avina, are you engaged to Samson? Duke Samson Manchineel?”

Avina pales.

He doesn’t know.

Of course, the announcement occurred while he was in the Arena!

Since Avina is the key to the Timber throne, Samson will relentlessly hunt her to ensure the crown falls to him. Remaining as a ‘guest’ of Salt after their war would only disgrace Timber and their faux arrangement.

She searches for the exits, urged by the dizziness swirling in her mind. Anxiety the likes she has never known chokes her like a serpent coiling up her body.

Sigvid wouldn’t hand me over to Timber? Would he?

“Yes.” Ives’s smile is the work of nightmares. “Duke Samson will ascend the throne as King of Timber. He and the Council are rehearsing his coronation as we speak. And you, my lady, are also heir to the Ridge. The Council is thrilled to remind our people of the unity between our two provinces.”

Avina isn’t sure what comes over her. Maybe it is too much time with Sigvid or the nagging voice in her ear urging her to flee from the longhouse, but she reacts with fervent desperation.

She wraps her fingers around one of Sigvid’s blackwood axe handles and whips the weapon from his belt, wielding it in front of her with wild eyes.

“I never agreed to marry that monster. Samson lied to entrap me. I will not return to Scarwood, Ives!”

Ives laughs. He laughs hard, clutching Thrain’s shoulder while he cackles maniacally.

Thrain curls his lip in disgust at the man.

Eventually, he composes himself enough to speak. “There were rumors about your affair with the Salt Prince from the Arena. I assured Duke Samson the quiet Avina would never degrade herself with someone like him. Turns out the King is always right. ”

“Samson will never be King.” The axe's weight grows more comfortable, and she keeps the edge pointed at Ives. She backs away, forcing all of them to stand at arm’s length.

Sigvid may have saved her life, but his response to her engagement with Samson, with that sickening curl of his lip and upturned nose, says everything.

She is disgusting. A foul whore passed around from man to man seeking a crown to grace their heads.

What if he assumes Samson bedded her? A sour taste fills her mouth at the thought.

She is a foul wretch, a despicable creature to have saddled herself to a man like Samson, even by accident. What brief affection Sigvid may have held for his little Queen is likely gone.

Avina’s hope shatters, realizing the trouble it will cost to keep her around with a man like Samson pounding down the gates of Toftlund. The only consoling factor is that she will soon reunite with Nellie.

Her gaze darts around the room, aware that the entire longhouse is watching the show unfold.

“Did your Salt Prince tell you his province is as poor as the dirt across the floorboards in this dilapidated building?” Ives hops over the table so he is within reach of the blackwood in her grip.

Tell me Samson does not already have access to the Timber gold. Does he plan to bribe me out of Salt?

“Samson sent me one hundred thousand gold coins in exchange for your return. I spoke with King Thrain, who certainly cannot deny that many coins will finance enough food for the entire province through the next year. Plus, rid the city of an unwanted guest in the same stroke.”

Avina’s head spins. Only the pulsating power of the Sacred Stone keeps her knees grounded.

Thrain and Sigvid have every right to exchange her for that amount of coin.

She only exists as the Prince’s whore.

Salt is notoriously impoverished, and she is an enemy prisoner. Their answer is clear. She would choose the same course of action for her people.

The stone’s life force pounds in Avina’s head like the thunder of a sea storm.

Accept your fate, Keeper. That throaty feminine voice from the garden shed whispers in her mind. Harness your might. Strike him down.

“I promise I will leave Salt, but it will not be to return to Timber.” She snarls, taking to heart the command of the mysterious female voice.

“Avina,” Sigvid’s grip on her upper arm is unyielding. She tugs against his hold, but he has her firmly in place. “You are staying here, in Salt, with me. Lord Ives will be leaving either in his carriage or a coffin.”

“Would you look at that? The Beast found a plaything.” Ives cracks his neck. “I guess I did win a lot of bets in the Arena.”

“Lord Ives,” Thrain throws himself over the table and claps him on the shoulder, “I have vintage Ridge wine in my home next door. Let's discuss this in less tense circumstances.”

“You are a good man, Thrain, but I will only leave the room with this woman.”

“I would rather die than return with you!” Avina is now shrieking, quieting the longhouse. Her knuckles whiten on the axe shaft, which she keeps outright as she spins—a bubble of space forms around her body.

“Let’s be clear,” he steps closer to her, “the Council is ready to crown a man in charge of Timber. I can bring you back warm or cold, and no one will bat an eye.”

“Jump into the Abyss, Ives!” She snips.

She glances at an expressionless Thrain standing behind Ives. A stark contrast to Sigvid’s murderous gaze, his other axe ready in hand. Rage fires in his eyes as he spins his axe and stalks toward Ives.

“You are leaving here in a coffin!”

Avina’s chest constricts, witnessing Sigvid’s preparation to protect her to the death. Her momentary distraction is all Lord Ives needs.

She screams when his arm tightens around her shoulders. With a jagged blade pressed against her throat, she freezes, her eyes focused on Sigvid, whose sudden pause is no doubt to search for a weakness in the Timber Lord.

Except she is closer.

“I can kill you now or at the gates of Timber.” Ives whispers in her ear. “Either way, Duke Samson wants your thick head on a silver platter. Once he discovered who you did in the Arena, I fear that sealed your fate, Majesty. You are nothing but a weak, fat whore.”

“Ah!” Avina feels the familiar trickle over her skin as the invisibility settles.

Ignoring the growth of her ability, she sinks the ebony blade into his shin. While he yowls, Avina dives away, only to flip around and see him on his back, tugging at the blackwood shaft. She kneels over him and punches him in the nose.

His hands flounder while she removes the ebony edge and embeds it in his chest.

Once, twice, five times.

For good measure, she screams and lets the blade fall from her grasp, splitting his face open.

Blood splatters her crimson dress.

She is hardly aware.

Her eyes stare unblinkingly at Ives’ still body. She expects screams or chaos. Instead, unnerving silence meets the murder of the Timber diplomat.

You have accepted your role, Keeper. That voice again. It must be the Goddess. The sacrifice for your seidr is complete. You restored the gifts of the Keeper and Guardian in Treland.

Avina shakes her head. She must be going insane.

“Avina.” There is apprehension wavering on the edge of her name.

“Queen Avina?” This time, she turns around to see the Thordsson brothers searching for her as if she vanished.

She lifts her arm, clutching the axe, and gasps. Her arm and the weapon are cast in a shimmery glow.

She has become invisible.

The Sacred Stone!

My Keeper abilities reacted to preserve the sapphire .

She focuses on releasing her seidr , and the invisibility rolls off her skin, much like stepping wet into the wind.

“Get her out of here, Sig!” Thrain yells. “I’ll deal with this.”

Murmuring fills the longhouse like a thick hive of buzzing .

Sigvid gently removes his axe from her hand, sliding it back into his belt loop. “I am proud of that kill, my little Queen,” he drops his voice, “Go to Thrain’s house. I will find you there.”

The gapes of the other partygoers follow her out one of the many doors and into the frigid coastal air. Thankfully, the night air is far less stifling than inside around that hearth. The icy wind slaps against her sweltering cheeks, and she makes no moves to shield herself.

She follows the alley until she ends on the street and enters Thrain’s house.

I just killed a man.

She committed a crime. She could be hung for her offense back in Timber!

Luckily, no one seems to be inside Thrain’s home.As she steps further into the heart of the house, the warmth of his crackling hearth bathes the entryway in immediate comfort.

The oppressive smell of pine fills the space, unlike Sigvid’s lodge, which bears the scent of his musk and crawling under a cozy blanket with a steaming mug of hot honey tea.

“Hello?” She announces herself, wondering if she will encounter one of his servants or one of the many bedfellows Sigvid claimed he kept.

No answer.

Avina’s shoulders slump with relief.

I killed a man.

Ives is no longer alive because of me. I should drown in guilt and sorrow for my soul. Yet, I feel nothing.

All of her emotions evaporated once the edge of the blade buried into his chest.

Why did I do that? Who have I become?

She wanders through Thrain’s space, noting his extravagant decor on the walls. One tapestry details the entire map of Salt in what appears to be a dazzling silver thread.

Feeling nosier by the minute, she creeps down a side hallway with several spare bedrooms. She peeks into the second one on her left and wonders which room belonged to Sigvid growing up. She cannot fathom the reality that he stood beside her against Ives. A rare warmth spreads throughout her gut.

She pokes her head into the last room on the right, where light from candelabras flickers around a central desk. Scrolls and parchment litter a counter to the side in neatly stacked piles, and a quill set in a vial of near-empty black ink comprise the desk.

Avina quickly glances over her shoulder to ensure she is alone before slipping into the study. Any mention of Thrain brought a heated fury from Sigvid, who insists his brother’s dealings are less than savory.

Even knowing Thrain’s Sacred Stone power, she still grapples with finding him trustworthy. A misplaced notion she is certain Sigvid would enjoy beating out of her. Alone in Thrain’s study, she is encouraged to uncover the truth either way.

Stacked on the side of the desk are ledgers detailing the state of the dry Salt coffers. She notes nothing out of the ordinary and is about to abandon her snooping when she sees a bit of parchment poking through the bottom drawer of his desk as if he had stuffed it away before hurrying out of the room.

She holds her breath as she kneels to the floor. Her fingertips trace the bronze handle before slowly pulling it out, revealing a worn, official document, a tiny wooden box, and a scrap of paper.

She begins with the box.

Inside is an elaborate gold ring with diamonds embedded. She shuts the box quickly and returns it.

The parchment is soft as if someone has crumbled the page frequently. She unfurls the paper and reads:

We have him. It’s your decision.

Avina numbs while questions swirl around her mind like a hurricane. Without thinking, she slides the note into a pocket of her gown.

The last document looks far too familiar for comfort.

Already, Avina suspects this will answer a mystery that has plagued her for nearly thirteen winters. She steadies her breath while reaching out to touch the archived record.

She closes her eyes and inhales softly, focusing on steadying her heart, which threatens to burst from her chest.

I have been waiting for this for almost half my life. Closure on the missing piece of the marriage accord. Why did this never come to pass?

She grips each end of the crumbly parchment. With a bite of her lip, her eyelids fly open, and she drinks in the Marriage Accord.

Instantly, her hand flies to her mouth, stifling a sob.

Embossed under hers and the prince’s name are the colorful seals of the Ridge and Salt Provinces. Along the bottom are the curly signatures of her father, King Ceowald, and the late King Thord. Except, this time, the name of her betrothed is visible along a thin black line.

She reread his name three times in disbelief.

We cannot have lived a life this entangled by fate! Does he know? Did he choose not to marry me? Is that why Father saddled me with Rendel’s abuse? Why does Thrain even have this?

“Avina?” Sigvid’s voice nearly shakes the house, summoning her back to his side.

Her heart nearly stops beating, and she fumbles, leaving the ring box where she found it but stealing her marriage contract with Prince Sigvid Thordsson.