A Queen for the Frost Giant (Legends of Rahasia Book 0)

Chapter Thirty-Four

            "It's bad luck for a bride to be walking all by her lonesome." Sigrid glances over, the babe tucked away in a sling on her back. Her red hair's tied firmly to the crown of her head, held back with pins of silver that I recognize as Ymir work. At least some concepts unite Idriolans, and one of those is a love for shiny things. "You should ride in the cart for a bit, Zoya."

It takes me a minute to remember that my name has been changed to Zoya for the purpose of our deceit. I'm so exhausted from travel though that everything aches. Every step sends a shockwave through my numb, creaking legs. I can feel every ripple in my muscle, every blister on my foot from the damp of sweat, the cold of ice.

I look around to Quinn, Leif, and Fell, all trudging alongside the cart. Quinn takes turns with Amos to pull the cart at the lead. Lord Kazmer switches out with Bran to support the cart from behind. The Hreindyri family are more hesitant about letting Fell help. I can see the mistrust in their eyes when they take in his unnatural looking rose eyes, the sparkle at his fingertips where the air seems to bend towards him, the seiðr running in his blood.

"My companions walk, so should I." I nod a little towards Sigrid, "but I thank you for the suggestion."

"Nonsense," Sigrid leans towards me, nodding towards Bran, who now that I look at him, only looks a year or two older than me. He's got streaks of his mother's redder hair, but none of his father's beard, just some bristles on his chin. "If your husband doesn't pull through with the boat wedding, we've been looking for a match for our Bran. He might not speak much, but he's strong."

Just then, Bran slips on a particularly icy patch of earth. He grins sheepishly at me, blushing up to the tips of his ears.

Sigrid purses her lips. "Anyways, go sit on the cart."

I can't refuse her kindness for much longer, so I clamber onto the cart, my knees scraping the knots of wood at the bottom. The wheels of the cart turn smoothly enough, and our path gives way to a slight downward incline, which makes it easier on Quinn, pulling ruthlessly at the front of the procession. She ties the arms of her furs about her waist, the muscles in her arms revealed beneath her leather armor. The axe gleams at her hip. I glance at the scars there, from so many battles.

If only I was strong as Quinn. I glance about the cart, at the boxes piled high and the belongings the family grabbed before fleeing the wreckage of Hreindyri. As such, I'm not. So, I'll have to find other ways to rule.

Like... nosiness.

The cart jostles a little as Bran slips in the road again. Lord Kazmer takes over for the poor boy, winking at me as he bends to push the cart from behind. "All tucked in, erm, Zoya?"

"Just fine, Kaz." I smirk as his dark eyes sparkle at me. He's growing a bit of a beard himself since we've been traveling so long, raven stubble running from his jawline to his cheeks. "Wait, your hair doesn't grow that shining platinum everywhere?"

He shakes his head, chewing nervously on his lower lip. "I experimented with some compounds at University, some powders that shouldn't have been mixed together. The dye took though, and I just sort of left my hair to its own devices. What can I say? I'm half Idriolan, and as such... we like shiny things." He giggles as he winks at me. I see now that his hair, tied back from his face with a leather cord, grows in dark at the roots. "What, do you think I should let it grow in normally?"

"It looks good either way." I want to say more, but Bran insists on taking over. He drapes a curtain down the back of the cart, so a few boxes prop up the edges as a sort of makeshift tent above me.

"Get some shut eye, Zoya!" Sigrid taps the end of the cart again. "There should be blankets in one of the boxes. Let the bride rest, that's what I always say."

I wonder if she truly hopes to become my mother-in-law.

Unnerved by this proposition, I start at the boxes that were jostled earlier by Bran's imbalances. My hands brush against glass beads, carved reindeer antlers, boxes filled with straw and salted meats. Finally, my fingertips find the hide of a deer, sewn painstakingly into a softer fur of some larger animal I can't place. I tug at the blanket, but the edge is caught on something.

I pull harder, careful not to disturb the makeshift tent structure shielding me from Bran's view.

Eventually, the blanket comes loose, but beneath it, the edge of the crate rings hollow. I peer over the side and find an encased section where multiple...

They look like faces.

No, not faces.

Masks...

I pull my hand back as I see them. The masks of beaten iron and leather. The eyeholes lined with dark dye, so the eyes appear bottomless in a fight. The tightly sewn edges, the smell...

Smell of blood.

I hurriedly unwrap the blanket and return everything to as close its proper place as possible. I tuck it to my chin, waiting for the procession to stop.

We need to get out of here... We need...

Just then, the blanket slips, and I stare directly into Bran's eyes. Recognition flickers there, a murkiness in his gaze. I attempt to smile, hoping I can charm him.

Dear gods, he saw everything.

Everything.

Hello adventurers. I'm attempting to get back into writing. I've found it difficult lately but hope to fall in love with these characters all over again.

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