I can imagine and it sickens me. Now I wish I hadn’t insisted on these revelations, because Njål must think I can’t possibly love someone like him. A monster. A beast.
“It’s not your fault. You were a child when you came, and later you were a prisoner. It’s not a crime to survive. I regret that you had to hurt others, because your heart is gentle and the memories pain you. But I am not even slightly sorry that you withstood those trials. Can I be glad instead?”
He turns then. “Of what?”
“That you were here waiting for me to find you.”
“Oh gods, Amarrah.”
In two steps, he has me in his arms, and I hug him so tightly that if he was smaller or weaker, I might well break his ribs. He will never look like other men, but I adore him exactly as he is.
“Do you hate that I’m a witch? You must be wary of mystic powers.”
He lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug, not letting go of me. “I suspect only a witch could’ve saved me, and you would never hurt me.”
True, though I would burn down the world to protect him. Once we leave here, I’ll look for a mentor, someone to teach me how to use this power responsibly. But I doubt he’s ready to talk about our departure yet, and it’s best to winter within stout walls. I stretch up to kiss his chin.
“Do you have any clue why the ritual went wrong?” Idly I reach up to fondle his horns, and he lets me, deep in thought.
“Nothing certain. But . . . there were always legends in my family about how there might be frost giant blood in our line. And the baroness said something about an unusual reaction to the demon blood . . . I’m glad that I’m still me mostly, on the inside, instead of being used and discarded like a pair of old shoes.”
“Me too.”
“Do you have more questions?”
I nod, stroking his hair. “Just one. How did they end up like that?”
“They grew overconfident. With a beast like me on leash, who could stand against them? They brought a warlock in and used him as a jester. He fell in love with one of the ladies-in-waiting, and the baron . . . took her. To the bone room. The poor devil fought for the woman he loved to his last breath, and as he perished, he invoked a powerful curse.”
“Used his own life to fuel it,” I say with a shiver.
“You’d know about that more than me.”
“I wonder . . .” That magical curse might have been the adhesive, collecting the energy of those who died. It might be why I sensed a secondary force trying to guide me, though nothing so organized or intelligent as the baron and baroness.
“What?”
“I’ve sensed a presence here. It seemed to be helping me, pushing me in the right direction. Could that be related to the warlock who died? Do you remember his name?”
“Cradock,” he answers at once. “I think he’s still in the bone room.”
“We should help them all rest now.” Though I have no intention of living here forever, it still feels like the right thing to do.
The next day, Njål and I descend to the bone room. Quietly I absorb the scene, seeing it with different eyes—the woman in green being dragged from the party and the man in harlequin garb gazing at her as he died. Theirs is a love story without a happy ending, and in my heart, I want to believe Cradock guided me because he hoped for a different resolution to our tale. Thank you, I mouth.
Then I set to work with Njål as we haul the bones, terrible and grisly work. It’s warm enough that the snow is starting to melt. Outside the walls, we level the earth and build a cairn. Njål seems to find it exhilarating, working in the fresh air. For me, it’s merely exhausting, but I’m not sorry as we finish up at the end of the day.
“We should say a few words,” Njål murmurs. “Have funeral rites changed? They used to say a prayer to Frigga.”
Some things are the same, but it’s fun to tease him. “We all worship trees now. Please close your eyes as I recite the litany of the alder.”
He pauses, as if he’s waiting for me to begin, then his eyes narrow. “You’re making a game of me,” he accuses.
“A little. Feel free to speak the old prayer for the dead if you remember it.”
Njål declaims in a strange language, the one he uses sometimes during our private moments, and now that I hear more, I realize I can identify it, even if I can’t understand. Some of the words are similar because he’s speaking ancient Skyr, an older version of the tongue we currently speak. That’s how old he is. I knew that before, but this is a different sort of knowing.
Can I possibly be enough for someone with such vast experience?
Uneasy peace settles on Bitterburn thereafter, but I’m aware that we’re biding our time. He shouldn’t hide here for the rest of his days, but he’s a bit strange and secretive. It seems that he’s hiding something from me again. There’s so much I want us to see and do, together, but perhaps he fears how the world will treat him.
A separate concern—with the curse broken, our supplies don’t replenish, and we’ll run out of food sooner or later. Bart and Agatha are already making deep inroads on the hay left in the stable. We leave the portcullis open so they can rove for forage as the mountain thaws, but it’s a stopgap solution at best.
Eventually, as winter trudges toward spring, at dinner I bridge the subject that’s been weighing on me. “Would you consider leaving with me?”
“I want to,” he says slowly. “But how can I? I don’t want to be hounded
