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

46. Sigvid

46

SIGVID

Year 97, 9th Era

Toftlund City, Salt Province

K ing Thord reclines in his study's desk chair. Uneven stacks of parchment and leather-bound tomes conceal even the hint of surface on his desk.

A warm goblet of mead goes untouched on one of his many bookshelves.

Has it sat there a day?

Three days?

He couldn't say.

He earmarked most books for Sigvid’s pursuit and protection of the Sacred Stones. His eldest son has become the apple of his eye in his quest to fulfill the calling of the gods.

If only he could learn to control his damn temper!

Dusk settles outside the window overlooking Frida’s luscious garden, expanding to the southern wall of Toftlund.

Consuming his mind is the longstanding match between Sigvid and Princess Avina Bloodstone. Whose nameday should have been the day they announced the union. Instead, his old friend, Ceowald, had gone two weeks without a peep.

“Can I bring you something to eat?” Frida appears framed at the door. Her perceptive gaze lands on the mead and then the empty desk before settling on his leather-bound journal propped in his lap. “Has he not responded to your letter?”

“My carriage is on standby should he continue spurning our agreement.”

Thord fists his knuckles at his side. Ceowald should have been his partner. Together, their children would unite Treland. Would Ceowald deny his daughter the most powerful alliance in the history of Treland?

“Father?” Thrain loiters in the doorway, clutching a square of parchment. “From King Ceowald.”

Thord rips the letter from his grasp, tearing off the wax seal of the Ridge Province and discarding it onto the floor.

“Out!” Frida shoos their youngest son away and follows him into the hall, leaving Thord once more alone.

He reads over the note repeatedly, crumbling the page in his fist each time he reads through.

Dearest Friend,

Please know my delay has not been out of disrespect for you or our lengthy friendship. I am writing to you with a clearer head regarding our children’s impending nuptials.

A better way forward may exist in the form of King Urien’s only child, who is seeking his third wife. Considering Avina’s bloodline as a Redwood from my late wife, it seems prudent that she should begin her Queenship in Timber. With the utmost respect to you, Thord, I hold strong reservations about the current arrangement.

Please, dear friend, join me for drinks in the Ridge within a week to discuss this further .

Yours in Friendship,

King Ceowald

December 21st, Year 100, 9th Era

Toftlund City, Salt Province

Smoke hangs heavily around Sigvid’s Blackwood study as he angrily puffs on his pipe. When he reaches for more tobacco, it is to find his pouch empty. The Salt Prince threateningly growls while he slams shut his father’s journal.

When she arrived at his home, Frida's first conversation was to pass along his father’s detailed memoir. Unsurprisingly, she had already poked her way through the pages and had her own insight into his father’s possible killer. He could always count on her to meddle in business that is not hers, even if it is for the better.

Thord’s penned words paint the missing piece of Sigvid’s future–to unify all three Sacred Stones and take the throne of Treland. Thrain’s interference means only one thing: he somehow learned about the marriage accord and Avina’s significance to the country.

Has he managed to scheme everything? And what role did Ceowald play besides likely killing Thord? Even Rendel’s head at the feet of Ceowald was about ensuring Sigvid never became King of Treland, but that Thrain will take control.

Fuck, I cannot worry about this right now. Not when I need to remove Avina from Thrain’s clutches before another fucking overreaching ass with a cock hurts her.

Sigvid learned his lesson after the Sacred Stone in the garden shed. He locks the journal away in the top drawer of his desk and then withdraws a rectangular box from underneath the desk.

“Sig?” Frida appears in the doorway wrapped in a white mink cloak. “Do you have a moment?”

He glances from the box to her. “Of course.” He gestures to an open seat.

“No, this will not take long.” She first closes the door before standing above his desk. “I understand you are a man and not a boy. Please indulge your old mother with some words of wisdom.”

He sighs, reclining in the chair.

“When Thord signed the marriage agreement with Ceowald, he did so believing he was honoring the gods' wishes. But everything changed when we watched the little princess grow.” She smiles in the same way she does when Avina is around.

“Bright and sweet,” she trails off, considering more to say yet thinking better of it. “She is your balance, my son. I see the peace she brings to you just as you draw her into the light. Except Thord’s worst nightmare has finally materialized. You and your brother uncovered Avie’s worth and now use it for your twisted motives.”

“Say what you mean, Mother.” He taps two fingers on the surface of his desk.

“Return her to Timber or marry her-”

“I think Thrain has that well in hand.” His flippant remark tastes bitter in his mouth.

If Mother knows her youngest son threatens her life by forcing Avina to marry him, she will be devastated.

Frida assesses him with a lack of amusement. “Your brother is as interested in marrying her as he is in drinking saltwater for the rest of his life. Your father foresaw your rise, my son. The gods favor you to take the throne, not Thrain. And Avie was born to be Queen.” She throws open the door.

“For the love of the gods, admit how you feel to the girl. She deserves better than the likes of either of you,” Frida leaves without another word.

When he enters their bedroom, Avina sits in the rocking chair, pulling on knee-high brown boots. She is adorned in a long-sleeved maroon Salt-style gown with curved knots embroidered along the seams. Upon his return with Nellie, he had the dress custom-made for her.

Anything to keep her out of those wretched Timber gowns.

He pauses in the doorway to appreciate the way she moves. Tiny muscles flinch in her brow and temples as her mind focuses intently on a thought. Atop her left hand is a tattoo of Nellie’s pawprint that he gave her after he added his new tallies.

He glances over his shoulder and remembers Thora has already left for the festival with Grim, and Bertie is still readying.

This is his chance.

Even before his mother’s ill-timed, well-mannered attempt to free Avina from his clutches. Dammit, she is right. Avina has become a tool between him and his brother.

“Avina…” his appearance lifts her features to a joyful expression.

What if I misjudged her feelings? What if she rejects me?

“I am almost prepared to leave.” She finishes tying the strings of her boots and leaps to her feet.

“Before we go, I want to give you something.” This is his second attempt to gift her these.

Excitement and apprehension flash across her scrunched face. “What is the occasion?”

“You needed these, and I wished to craft them for you.” Sigvid watches her feet dance slightly in excitement.

You are perfect.

He holds up the black box, and she gingerly takes it as if it might grow fangs. As she flops back into the rocker and the lid tears off, he questions whether anyone has ever given her anything thoughtful.

“Sigvid…” She is speechless, her fingertips tracing the polished steel of one of the axe heads.

It had taken a fair bit of time and work with the local blacksmith, but he finally finished the matching axes for Avina. He crafted them smaller than a standard hand axe to provide a lighter fit for her hands.

“I-I don’t know what to say.” Her deep blues are glassy as she stares transfixed on the cedar wood handles. She sets the box on the table, standing on her tiptoes, and throws her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Sigvid.”

You are welcome, Avina .

He squeezes her tightly, inhaling her fresh floral scent. “The axes remain on you at all times. I want you to have the means to defend yourself. ”

She kisses his bearded cheek before lowering to her feet.

He holds up one of her axe heads. “There is an etching there,” he taps, “‘Q.A.’”

“Did you make these for me?” She asks in a whisper.

“Handcrafted by me.”

Sigvid brushes her curls over her shoulder. A crooked grin grows at the smile that paints along her lips at his touch. “There has been something I have been wanting to tell you. My little Queen, I l-”

Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.

Sigvid's eye twitches. “Why am I constantly interrupted when I try to tell you this?” He growls, her eyes widening in surprise at his outburst. “I will be right back.”

His calloused hand caresses her soft cheek, wanting to throw out the words locked inside his soul. If he shares these words with anyone, it will be her. And it will be perfect.

The floor reverberates under his heavy steps as he stomps out of his room and down to the entryway.

Who the fuck is here?

He swings open one of the double doors to the porch, not caring to check the visitor's identity when he demands, “What?”

Slode stands in the doorway holding an unopened bottle of mead with a poorly wrapped bow tied around the neck. His beard resting near his belly button is shiny, clearly washed, brushed, and woven with rune beads. Unlike his usual braided rat nest, his hair lays straight along his back. Instead of a dirty tunic, he wears a fine shirt Sigvid has never seen before, sewn into the sleeves are twisting Salt knots.

His oldest friend cleaned himself up into a respectable gentleman.

“Slode? You are… presentable.”

“Yes, uh,” a light crimson blush sweeps over Slode’s cheeks. “It’s the Solstice. I thought I’d look decent for a change.”

For the first time in thirty-three winters ? “Who did you do this for?”

Sigvid watched Slode stumble off the battlefield painted with blood and sweat and then take a whore to his bed. Never has Slode looked this nice for any Salt celebration. Dirt caked his clothes at his mother’s funeral .

“I said shut up, ass!” Slode shoves his way inside. “How about you tell me why a second rocker is on your deck? When did you have time to build that?”

“I do not know what you are talking-”

“Slode,” Slode mocks Sigvid’s voice. “We need to get rid of all these fucking seats. More than one ass is too many in my house.” Slode raises an eyebrow after his annoyingly spot-on imitation of Sigvid after he purchased Blackwood and went on a seating purge.

Sigvid scoffs. “I wanted another option to sit in.”

“No,” Slode chuckles, “you wanted to share moments with a certain golden-haired lady. Who, I might add, you’ve effectively moved in after swearing to live alone until the Briny God takes you.”

Damn, his memory.

He shakes his head, frustrated that Slode destroyed his moment with her. “I have known you since we were a few winters old, and I have never seen you appear this decent. Who is the lucky person?”

“It is well um…”

Bertie bobs around the corner, arm in arm with Avina. Both have content little smiles on their bright faces. Glinting in the sunlight trickling through the A-frame windows are the blades of the axes he crafted for her. One day, he will teach her how to wield them properly.

“Oh my!” Bertie clutches his face with both his hands when he sees Slode.

“Hello, Duke Bertram.” Slode extends the mead bottle to Bertie, who visibly melts under Slode’s stern gaze that, for once, softens.

“Please, I told you before, call me Bertie. But thank you.” Bertie bats his long dark eyelashes at Slode, who relaxes against a support beam, his muscles like carved stone. Black ink marks nearly every bit of Slode’s skin, including his neck and face. Seeing him look sheepish has Sigvid on the verge of laughing.

Avina’s eyes are saucers. He catches her looking from Slode to Bertie and back again before lifting to Sigvid’s gaze.

Mirroring her wide eyes, he shrugs, content that his oldest friend has found someone to make him happy, even if it is someone from the Ridge .

“Courting someone?” Sigvid slaps Slode’s back while Bertie retreats upstairs to drop the bottle in his room.

Slode slips his hands into his trouser pockets with a shrug. “Maybe I have a thing for smiles, toned muscles, and tousled hair. Why don’t you leave me alone, Sigvid!”

Avina snickers at his side. “You wanted to tell me something?” She whispers to Sigvid while Slode glances up the stairs where Bertie vanished.

Sigvid gives her a crooked smile, “I have been interrupted twice trying to tell you, and it will not happen a third time.”

I will find the right moment tonight.

“Look who it is.” Slode glowers through the front windows at the carriage, winding up the dirt path to Blackwood. “His royal asshole.”

“Fuck, I swear Thrain can sense when people are having a good time and then comes to ruin it.” Sigvid frowns, his anger ebbing into a looming crescendo with each step of his brother’s horses.

Bertie returns to the entryway just as the carriage halts by the front steps to Blackwood. “Is someone else joining us?”

Sigvid overhears Slode whispering to Bertie. Outside, his brother exits his carriage onto the snow-lined path wearing a black doublet stretched across his chest and matching tight pants. They all watch him ascend the stairs and knock lightly on the door.

Sigvid opens it with a scowl, revealing their small party clustered behind him.

“Brother!” Thrain lets himself inside, stepping around Sigvid. His orbs traverse the high beams of the central room, narrowing slightly at Slode and Bertie until they settle on Avina, with her arms crossed over her chest. “My Queen.”

He kisses both her cheeks, and Sigvid’s rage threatens to boil over.

No one but me has any business placing their lips on her body.

What would be the harm of putting my fist through his skull?

“ We were about to head into town for the festival.” Their King’s sudden, unwelcome presence evaporates all signs of her earlier happiness.

“Your Highness, may I speak with you privately?” He holds out his hand, which she ignores—stomping onto the deck, her golden curls menacingly swish. Thrain steps to follow her outside. She slams the door in his face.

Thrain sighs, cracking his knuckles. “I didn’t realize the Queen had such a fire in her belly. I wonder what she is like under the sheets?” He dares to smirk at Sigvid.

“I suggest you rephrase your question,” Sigvid growls a low warning.

Thrain’s grin extends ear to ear. “Tell you what, brother, when I finish pumping my seed into her pussy, I’ll let you lick out the excess.”

Sigvid snarls in outrage.

I am going to rip his fucking throat out!

Before he can throttle his brother, a pair of hands restrain his arms, allowing Thrain to step onto the porch with Avina.

“What the fuck?” He whirls around on Slode as the door clicks shut. “I will end his fucking life! He cannot touch her again, or I will have him drawn and quartered!”

“Sig.” Slode’s tone is firm. “You asked for us to wait for him to hang himself. When he does, the Drengr will fucking take him down. He is baiting you, have some sense.”

Through the window on the side of the doorframe, Sigvid watches Thrain present Avina with an enormous glittering diamond ring. Her eyes narrow, and her lips move, forcing a quick reaction from his brother. Roughly, he steals her left hand and slides the ring onto her ring finger. He leans down and whispers something in her ear before sweeping out to his carriage.

Sigvid shoves his way out to Avina, stopping before he can protectively wrap his arms tightly around her soft body. He watches as she holds her left hand, examining the hideous ring.

She grumbles, almost spitting her venomous rage. “I could not have chosen a worse piece of jewelry had I done so blind and drunk.”

The one I crafted for you is stunning.

When he crafted her axes, he also designed a gorgeous silver band of sapphires to fit only her finger.

“....I heard they have free mead and smoked turkey legs.” Slode and Bertie emerge on the deck. In all his muscled glory, his closest friend delicately touches the Ridge Duke’s shoulder, who bears a light blush over his freshly shaven face.

“I am ready for free mead!” Bertie shoves his way down the steps of the front deck, followed closely by Slode.

“We will meet you there,” Avina yells after them, tugging Sigvid back inside and slamming the door.

“You alright?” Sigvid tilts his head, watching her fidget with the edge of her cloak.

“I, er, had an interesting discussion with Slode,” she mutters as if thinking better of it. “It was nothing.” Shaking her head, she throws open the front door.

“Speak,” he lays a hand on the wood grains, shutting the door, “what was your discussion?”

“You.” She strokes the door frame. “He said you never bed a woman sober, or take one into your bed, or… loved anyone. He said you didn’t love.”

“He is right about the first two.” He grumbles as he reaches for something in his pocket. Sigvid takes her jaw in his hand, forcing her to meet his stare. He removes her golden curl tied with a ribbon.

Avina’s lips part when he holds the hair out before her gaze. “Oh, gods. Is that?” She takes her curl between her fingers.

“Your hair, yes, it is.”

“But how? It wasn’t under your floorboard…oops.” Avina purses her lips into a thin line as her eyes widen in terror.

“You found the stash of my most prized possessions, huh?” He chuckles, not even remotely surprised at her discovery. “I keep this in my breast pocket. Except for when the damn Battlemaster burned your first curl, so I took another.”

She strokes her hair as if trying to find the cut strand. “I thought you tossed it aside as soon as you received it. After all, I sent it to distract you.”

He cages her in his arms against the wall. His cock stirs as her breasts heave under his closeness.

“I have kept everything you ever gave me.” Lavender and rose swarm his senses the nearer his nose nuzzles against her hair. “Avina, I wanted to tell you something.” He tucks a stray curl behind her ear and kisses the shell.

“I love… free mead. Come on!”

Avina’s mouth gapes, and her nostrils flare as if she would spit fire at him.

With a crooked smile poised on his lips, he grips her jaw, “There is a fine line between love and hate, my sweet little one.”