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

36. Avina

36

AVINA

November 24th, Year 100, 9th Era

Blackwood Inn, Salt Province

N o amount of studying the region could prepare Avina for the bone-chilling dry cold of the Salt Province in winter. Even with Sigvid’s firewood stash vast enough to heat the city, the fireplaces in Blackwood do little to warm the vaulted ceilings.

Growing up in the Ridge, where it was equally nippy, she still found relief in the cozy rooms, which were padded with thick rugs and even more comfortable blankets.

Thora gave up trying to keep warm despite piling under every fur pelt she could find beside the central hearth. Sometime in the early afternoon, she abandoned Avina to visit a friend’s house in the city.

Since Sigvid never stated when he will return home, Avina decides to explore the city alone.

She passes a mirror and adjusts the bodice of the ill-fitting turquoise gown she found in a random armoire. Tight sleeves and a slight bell to her skirt give her a regal look she has not seen in herself for weeks. The rugged look cast by her wool cloak, fur scarf, and gloves makes her feel like a true lady of Salt.

Her mind spirals off to chastise her appearance when Sigvid’s voice rings in her ears, praising her look in all things Salt. She sighs, attempting to wrangle her self-loathing.

Avina meanders into Toftlund, simply enjoying the ambiance. Lanterns swing from iron hooks, illuminating the busy streets.

Dusk quickly approaches, yet children still play, laughing while constructing ice homes along the sidewalk.

The woody, sweet scent of roasted almonds wafts through the air, filling her with a wave of contentment.

Of all the cities she has frequented, Toftlund is by far her favorite.

“Queen Avina!” A bright-eyed woman clutching a basket of colorful flowers jogs up to her, tripping over her curtsey. “Thank you, Your Highness. From the bottom of my heart, thank you!”

Avina is rendered speechless. Not even on the streets of the Ridge do citizens publicly address her, let alone thank her. “I’m sorry. Why are you thanking me?”

I feel foolish for asking. This woman will probably revoke her praise, thinking I am a moron.

A few winters older, the woman smiles widely just as a small child collides with her legs. “My son, here, has been sick most of the winter. And the trek for freshwater nearly killed me. You and Prince Sigvid returning our clean water saved us.”

Avina clutches her heart, unable to fully register this moment. Not only can she see the direct efforts of their work, but someone recognizes her and is happy about it!

Is this normal for rulers to experience?

“Is this your son?” Avina crouches down to the child wielding a wooden axe. “Hello, there.”

The child giggles before hiding behind his mother’s skirt. “My wife was a shieldmaiden, a Drengr of Lord Sigvid. She died in the war.”

Avina hastily stands. “I am so sorry for your loss.” Does the woman not realize who she is speaking to? “Is there anything I can do for you and your son?”

The woman waves her off. “The wife knew what she was getting into. Dumbass.” She shakes her head. “We manage with friends and family. ”

“Drengr!” The little boy yells, brandishing the toy axe in the air.

Avina looks expectantly at the woman, who sighs with a grin. “He wants to be a Drengr like his momma. Kjarton, tell Queen Avina what you want to be when you grow up.”

“I be Drengr! Drengr of Sigvid!”

Avina doesn’t need her cloak anymore. This woman and her son are all the spirit she needs this winter.

“Well, that is a brave endeavor, Kjarton.” Avina ruffles his hair. “I look forward to when you give your oath to Lord Sigvid.”

“I give oath to Sigvid!” He runs around them, slashing with his toy axe.

“Please, if there is anything I can ever do to help, let me know.” Avina isn’t sure why she is extending an infinite ‘I owe you’ to this woman, especially when she plans to return to Timber shortly.

“Perhaps yours and Lord Sigvid’s child can play with mine.” She laughs, and then her features retract at Avina’s sudden recoil and head shake.

“Oh, my, I just assumed…pardon me, Your Highness.” She clears her throat. “When you returned with his lordship to live with him… I am sorry, Your Highness, I misunderstood your relationship.”

“No, no harm done. It certainly does appear we are in a courtship, doesn’t it?” She wraps a stray curl around her finger. “I will let you enjoy your evening.”

They exchange goodbyes, leaving Avina alone in the street, feeling the familiar clutches of darkness at her heart.

How would she classify her relationship with Sigvid? He uses her like a whore, yet still includes her in his life as if she is a friend or a partner. There is no courting, even if her stomach dances when he looks at or touches her. His words cloud her mind, and his crooked smile makes her forget how to breathe.

“Your Highness.” Grim nearly collides with Avina, who is not paying attention to her path.

She smirks, shaking her head at his insistence on referring to her by her title. “Good Evening, Grim. I am beyond shocked you’re not causing trouble somewhere with Sigvid,” she teases.

Grim’s laugh booms over the street. “He and Thrain had something to discuss about the Winter Solstice Sacred Stone Ceremony. Something official like that.”

Sigvid mentioned he would prepare for the ceremony in the evening when he relayed the events of his day, which didn’t involve Avina.

“How does it feel? To be this close to your revenge?” She can hardly contain her excitement.

Grim’s smile falters slightly. “When an evil rips the love of your life away, the thought of avenging her death elevates me straight to the gods.”

She had never loved anyone with every ounce of her soul—someone whose presence stirs a desire to be everything they need and more. “Why do I sense there’s a ‘but’ in there?” She pokes at him.

Grim is one of the most kind-hearted men she has ever met. Even with his reason for ending up in the Arena, she never understood why he beat himself up to such a degree.

“Evie surely would appreciate your efforts to bring Samson to justice.” Avina offers.

Grim shakes his head, and an air of defeat settles over him. “Evie wanted a good man through and through. She would never have faced such a disturbing fate if I had been better.”

The memory of Sigvid torturing Finn plays out in her mind. That was not love, but it was sure someone doing everything to keep her safe.

“Taking the good with the bad is part of love, I would like to think.” Avina offers. “Sometimes doing the right thing means making the choice others might view as wrong.”

Grim did not respond while a group of women singing Solstice Salt chants pass by.

“That is the difference. Evie wanted the beacon of morality. You don’t want the hero. I doubt you ever have. You want the villain who will tear down the world in your name.”

She swallows dryly. Grim’s words resound in her soul, bearing an uncomfortable truth. She knows what he is angling at, and she will not bite on the topic of Sigvid. “You are a good man, Grim. I think you need to acknowledge that once in a while.”

“It’s hard to accept parts of us. Even the pieces lying right on the surface.” His midnight eyes twinkle in the lights .

“You are annoyingly insightful.” She scoffs.

“I have been told that once or twice.” He chuckles and steps away, bowing. “Your Majesty, I am headed for reportedly the best grilled salmon south of Astria. Care to join me?”

She smiles but shakes her head. “I need to stable the animals for the evening. As always, it is a pleasure.” Avina meanders along the cobblestone, winding back toward the northern gate and Blackwood.

Somewhere along the way, she gets lost between the longhouse and her favorite bakery, Svala’s. Forgetting which gate she needs to exit, she ends up outside the walls on an earthen path, barely classified as a road.

She dons her hood over her wild curls as a light dusting of snow falls.

Where am I? Avina’s stomach growls low. I should have indulged in that sweet roll from Svala’s when I first entered Toftlund.

There are no tracks in the falling white powder, and by the time she second-guesses her decision to exit the city, she sees the guards locking the gate for the night. They extinguish the lanterns dangling from the shell-crushed wall, plunging the trail into darkness.

She could interrupt their work but doesn’t want to inconvenience them. Besides, Blackwood is out here in the forest of white blanketed trees. Thora will be back from her friend’s house and light the central fireplace. The floor-to-ceiling windows will turn the inn into a lighthouse of the woods.

Thanks, Sigvid, for forcing me up late last night. If he hadn’t allowed me to finish three times, I would have slapped him for forcing me into this perpetual lack of sleep.

A long nap in his oversized chair by the fireplace–with Nellie curled in her lap–sounds terrific.

Rising along the path is a giant circular mausoleum lit with iron braziers. However, the Salt people have never buried their dead in the kingdom's history. Their dead have always returned to the sea, where they believe they will descend into the halls of their Briny God.

The wind whistles through the trees and a nearby wolf howls. The pack echoes his call in a chorus of eerie barks and whines.

She increases her pace until she reaches the metal doors of the circular structure sealed to the elements. Shadows from the flickering lights of the braziers dance across a flat stone monument just outside the building.

It must be safer inside. Right?

Using all her strength, she wrenches open one of the doors and slides into the surprisingly heated space. Directly before her is a downward staircase with spiderwebs strung in the corners. The stale stench of decay sits in the air, and she can hear distant male voices below as she enters an orange glow.

Creepy voices or wolves? The mysterious voices will be less likely to turn me into a snack.

Small metal plaques on the walls surround Avina. Her curiosity drifts to the side, and she pursues the names. Not until she reaches King Thord Hilmirsson does she recognize one of the venerated nameplates.

Interesting. The mausoleum is not a burial plot but a recognition of life. Of past leaders? Yet, not all the names bear a title.

She is about to descend the stairs when she spots a massive square plaque on the far wall opposite the main doors. In large, bold letters, it reads:

GUARDIANS OF THE KEEPER

ENTOMBED IN THIS STONE CRYPT ARE THE ETERNAL MEMORIES OF THE MEN AND WOMEN WHO DEDICATED THEIR LIVES TO PROTECTING THE SACRED STONES AND THOSE WHO KEPT THEM. THEIR STEADFAST LOYALTY TO OUR GODS REPRESENTS THE FEALTY ALL THOSE IN TRELAND SHOULD STRIVE TOWARD.

The rounded room of names honoring the dead Guardians hits home like a slap to the face.

He will guard me until his dying breath.

Understanding sinks like a stone in her gut.

What if he had killed me in the war? What would have happened to him? Would people try to kill me for the stone?

Her life doesn’t feel worth that of a Guardian’s. How many Guardians defended their Keeper to the death ?

A burst of comprehension fills her mind as she realizes the value of strength and honor in the Salt Province—a realm that always puts forth Guardians. Even though Thord removed Sigvid from the path of Kingship, his fate held a darker, more meaningful passage in protecting the Sacred Stones.

And the Keeper.

Suddenly, she yearns for the toasty fires of Blackwood, curled in a soft blanket with a good book.

To pretend she isn’t a Keeper.

Deep down, she knows that she needs to ignore the budding feelings between her and Sigvid, but even returning to Timber will never wholly sever her ties with him.

The gods have woven their lives together in fate until one of them passes on to the lavish halls of the afterlife, leaving the other all alone.

She sighs as she descends the steps. Avina continues to hear the cryptic masculine tones rising from the deep. Thankfully, no corpses greet her when her boots hit the dirt floor.

Straight ahead is a short, rocky hallway with overflowing candles flickering in hollowed nooks.

The voices grow louder as she creeps along the narrow corridor.

Was that Sigvid’s voice I heard?

She quickens her pace until she deadends in a fire set in a stone pot bearing the nautilus shell of the Salt Province. To her immediate right is an arched stone door bearing a hefty lock and runes. On her left is an illuminated doorway, the source of the faint discussion inside.

Someone here should undoubtedly point me in the direction of home .

Avina steps inside, “Hello, I am hoping for help…to find…my way…home…” her voice trails off awkwardly. The scene she charges her way into raises every hair on her body, sending a shudder through her spine.

Standing huddled before her are three figures shrouded in midnight cloaks, gloves, and boots. It is not their formality or fondness for black attire that freezes the blood flowing through her veins. Each has a different skull mask, and all their attention is now on Avina.

“Sigvid?” She squeaks.