Page 73 of Soul of Fire

Arik sighed deeply, his eyes cast on the wooden beams of the ceiling. “I wasn’t completely honest with you, Kjære. About the girl my brother killed.”

I remained silent, my fingers tracing the staves in each compass. I had known there was more to the story about this girl, and part of me was afraid of what he would tell me. That he had loved her more than he could ever love me?

Without Baldur’s reassuring nudge against my mind, I felt strangely unanchored in this relationship. Did everyone whowasn’t drage feel this way—never knowing what their partner truly thought or felt? I wasn’t sure I could do it.

Arik’s jaw was tight as I looked up at him. “When I left for Ironholm, I wrote to her, but I wasn’t faithful. I knew we could never be together. I bedded an older Chaosborn woman—I told you about her—to try to forget. When Baldur bonded me, he made it clear that he was interested only in whoever would bond his mate. So I stopped writing.”

Arik shut his eyes, as if he couldn’t look at me while he told this tale. “When I returned to the Stormhold for the first time after becoming drage, she was with child. Edvard’s child.”

My stomach hollowed out as he continued. “He had forced himself on her—raped her. Repeatedly. Brutalized her body in ways I couldn’t begin to describe to you, Kjære. Edvard denied it, of course, and she was too terrified of my father’s wrath to name him as her attacker. But I couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t let Edvard go unpunished.”

“I shouldn’t have told my fucking father.” Arik shook his head, his eyes bleak. “I should have gotten her out in secret. Should have stolen her away or offered to wed her or something—anything—to keep her safe. As soon as I told my father, he had her locked away—for her safety, he claimed—and sent me back to Ironholm.”

“You told me she died.” I swallowed, not sure what comfortto offer.

“In childbirth. The babe too. And I wasn’t even fucking there when it happened.” His eyes finally met mine, cold and steely and miserable. “So the last ?gishjalmr is for me. To remind me that it was my fault she died. My inaction. My misplaced trust.”

I rose to my knees and took Arik’s face between my hands. Looking down at his strong features, I marveled a little that this man wasmine.

Ours,Idunn corrected sharply.

Ours, I agreed. I pressed a kiss to his jaw, brushing away the tear that gathered at the corner of one eye.

“I am yours, and you are mine,” I told him, pressing my brow to his. “Your dangers are mine. Your trials and burdens. Let me help you carry this one.” I sat up. “This girl—“

“Sif,” he interrupted, breathing shakily as if releasing a weight. “Her name was Sif.”

I nodded, begging the Hearthmother to make him hear me. Believe me. “Sif’s death was not your fault. I know you will never fully accept it. You have decided to carry the weight of guilt because you are a good and noble man.” I stoked my thumbs over his cheekbones, knowing in my soul that what I said was true. “But neither she nor the gods can fault you for her death. You were barely more than a boy, Arik.”

He sighed, rolling me to the side and pressing a chaste kiss to my brow. I saw something shutter behind his eyes like a wall slammingdown between us. “I was old enough to know better. I know better now. It’s why I don’t want you going back to Stormhold.”

I frowned. “What do you mean? The Book—“

“Fuck the fucking book,” he growled, his eyes flashing with fear. “We’ll find another way to get it.”

I realized with a start that I hadn’t told Arik yet about Idunn’s feeling. That something was wrong with the Book.

I sat up, preparing to argue with him, when a beam of light reflecting off some surface in the attic nearly blinded me. I hissed as I raised a hand to shade my eyes. “What the…”

I crawled across the furs to examine the reflective silver. The attic was too low for either of us to stand, and moving about required shuffling like a crab.

“Eisa, what—“

“The mirror.” It was a tarnished old thing, propped against the wall of the attic, and perhaps half my height. The frame had once been painted gold or bronze. Carvings of flowers and vines were chipped away in places, revealing moldy wood beneath. The surface glinted oddly, as if it was liquid rather than solid glass.

I frowned, examining the frame, and felt the blood drain from my face. “Arik, look.”

He shuffled toward me, instantly on alert.

I pointed, my finger shaking slightly, to the rune carved in the top of the mirror’s frame. The same symbol as the diamond scar on my chest.

“Sigrid’s note,” he murmured, rubbing his hand around the frame until he found the second symbol—a pointed R. He pulled his hand back to reveal a fine layer of sawdust, as if the symbols had been carved into the wood recently.

I traced the frame, finding the M, then the two vertical line symbols, exactly as Sigrid had drawn them.

Arik frowned, pressing his hand to the distorted glass.

I had to muffle my shriek as his hand went straight through the mirror.