Chapter 3 In Which I Prepare to Kill a King
Her hands still trembling, Freya crossed to the washbasin. She dampened a cloth and turned to me.
“We need to get you ready.” She glanced toward the door before meeting my gaze again. “The King expects his bride before midnight.”
I unbuttoned my damp wool dress and let it fall to the floor. As I stepped out of it, cold air brushed across my bare skin, sending a shiver through me.
Freya went still, her attention caught by the leather strap around my thigh.
“What is that?” Freya whispered, dropping the cloth into the basin with a splash. She lifted her head, horror spreading across her face.
“Are you mad? If the guards find that on you, they will throw you off the castle walls before you can scream.”
“The guards won’t find it,” I reached down to check the strap. “And neither will Vane. Not until it’s too late.”
She closed the distance between us. “You came here to kill him. The Scourge of the North.”
As Freya watched me warily, I expected her to run for the door, call the guards, or beg me to stop. Instead, she took a deep breath and sat on the stool by the vanity.
“He is a monster, it’s true,” She said softly, staring at the floor. “But he is a monster who has survived six assassination attempts since he took the throne. He sleeps with one eye open, southern girl. You won’t just walk in there and stick a dagger in his neck while he snores.”
“I have to try.”
Freya lifted her head, her expression grim.
“Then you have to make him forget he is a king under siege. Northern men are cold, but they are not made of stone. If you want to get close enough to strike, you cannot appear to be a soldier. You have to be the prize.”
She crossed to a cedar chest and pulled out a nightdress of fine ivory silk. It was simple, but the fabric caught the firelight.
“Sit.” She pointed to the stool.
I sat, and she drew a bone comb through the tangles in my auburn hair. Her touch was gentler than I expected.
She reached for a small clay vial, poured a few drops of sweet clove oil into her palms, and worked it through my hair before brushing the rest along my neck.
“The scent will draw him in,” Freya said. “Northern women smell of pine and woodsmoke. The South smells of summer orchards.”
She smoothed a loose strand of hair behind my shoulder.
“When you go to him, don’t show him your fear. He’ll expect you to fight him or shrink away. Don’t give him either. Let him think you’ve accepted what can’t be changed. Men who believe they’re in control stop watching so closely.”
She held my gaze.
“That’s when you strike.”
She pinned back the top of my hair, leaving the rest to fall over my shoulders. Then she handed me the silk nightdress. I pulled it over my head, the long skirt concealing the dagger strapped to my thigh.
Freya stepped back to study me. Whatever resentment she had shown when I first arrived had faded into quiet resolve.
“May your gods help you, Isolde.”
“Thank you, Freya.”
She led me from my chambers and through the drafty stone corridors. When we reached the great oak doors to the King’s chambers, two iron-clad guards stood at attention.
Freya met my gaze one last time, bowed her head, and turned back toward the servants’ quarters.
The guards drew back the iron bolt and pushed the doors open. I took a deep breath, pressed my hand against the hidden weight on my thigh, and stepped inside.
The door closed behind me.
The chamber was larger than I expected. A broad hearth burned against one wall, its fire pushing back the winter chill. Above the mantel hung the mounted head of a great white bear, its jaws frozen open in a silent snarl. The opposite wall held rows of swords, axes, and spears, each polished and carefully arranged. Faded wolf pelts covered the stone floor, and a massive bed draped in dark fur stood beneath a pair of narrow windows glazed with frost.
Of course he hunted beasts as well. Why stop at terrifying people when there were animals left to conquer?
I crossed to the fire and held my hands toward the flames, but my palms remained cold. Beneath my nightdress, the leather strap of the dagger dug into my skin.
Just get close, I told myself, my gaze settling on the embers. One clean strike to his throat. Then I can go home.
Behind me, Vane didn’t even acknowledge my presence. He sat at a wooden table near the corner with his back to me, the buckles of his armor clinking softly as he unfastened his breastplate. He tossed his sword belt onto a nearby bench, treating me as though I were nothing more than another piece of furniture.
Silence settled between us, broken only by the splash of wine filling two tin cups.
“You have not said a word to me since we crossed the border,” Vane said without turning around, his voice low and rough from the journey.
Neither have you. As if the silence had been mine alone.
A moment later, he rose with the cups and came to stand behind me. His shadow swallowed the firelight as he held one out.
I accepted it, our fingers brushing.
His hand was warm enough to chase the chill from my fingertips. The sensation lingered long after he withdrew.
The stories about Northern men had been true. They were built differently, their bodies holding onto heat even in the bitterest cold.
“I’m only admiring my new home, Your Majesty,” I said. “The North is colder than I expected.”
“The cold keeps people honest,” Vane said, taking a drink from his cup. “Or at least, it makes them too cold to lie well.”
He stepped in front of me, his broad frame cutting off the warmth of the hearth. A gloved hand caught my chin and tilted my head back until our gazes met. I stayed perfectly still.
Remembering Freya’s advice, I rested my hand against the rough wool of his coat, just above his heart. The scent of clove drifted between us, warmed by the fire.
Keep your attention on my face, I prayed, my heart pounding against my ribs. Don’t glance at my hand.
“Are you searching for honesty, Vane?” I asked, leaning in until I could feel the warmth of his breath. “Or are you hoping I’ll change my mind and beg you to let me go?”
His amber eyes held mine without a flicker of doubt. “I am waiting for you to pull the blade.”
