Read Online Dolor and Shadow by Angela Chrysler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Angela Chrysler
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coat as his blue eyes scanned the darkness.
He proceeded as cautiously now as he had then, each step landing him in the small stream that trickled its way deeper into the cave. A misplaced step caused him to favor his left leg. The wound that nearly cost him his life a month ago had not yet fully healed. When the faint glow of firelight reached him from around a sharp turn, relief relaxed him.
The scent of stew teased Olaf’s appetite when he turned the corner and ducked to enter the small, shallow room. Accessories, furniture, and décor dressed the limestone cave, making it into a proper home.
In the center of the room, a small fire crackled beneath a large soapstone pot fixed on an iron tri-stand. The Seidkona had shoved a table and chair against the cave wall along with barrels of food. Herbs and spices hung on a rack she positioned in place from the ceiling, although he couldn’t quite see how. Tapestries and hides dressed the walls to hide the jagged façade and warmed the feel of the room. The Seidkona had a handful of candles burning on the table between two empty wooden bowls.
A large hide hanging from the cave wall served as a door to what Olaf could only imagine was a second room as comfortable as the first. It was there he could hear her voice glide almost like a spell that fogged his mind and threatened to leave him senseless. He found himself fighting it to preserve his angst. He didn’t have to wait long for her voluptuous frame to emerge from that passage.
“You came back.” A pleased smile pulled the corner of her red lips. The firelight danced in her round, gold eyes and, for a moment, he forgot to answer.
“I did.”
She tilted her head and Olaf watched her long, black hair fall down her curves where his eyes lingered. He wasn’t sure if her song had stopped, but still found it hard to focus. The air was heavy with spell.
“Now you believe?” she asked.
Her question jogged his memory.
“You said my men would betray me…that I would be near death.”
A pleased smirk pulled the corner of her red lips.
“And you were,” she replied.
Olaf nodded. “I was.”
He recalled the raid a moon ago soon after he had challenged her skill. He still felt the laugh in his throat when she had warned him that his men would betray him. Not a day later, they turned on him and he barely escaped with a wounded leg. He almost lost the leg. An arrow had nicked the artery. That laugh now felt like bile stuck in his throat. He also recalled her other words of prophesy.
“You said that I would be a great king,” Olaf said.
“I said you would be renowned. Not great,” she answered, walking to the fire where the stew bubbled.
Olaf stepped closer and felt the spell-air thicken as he watched her bring the ladle to her lips.
“My father…”
She sipped.
“I know who your father was.” She sipped again, then stirred the stew. “And his father before him.” She hung the ladle on the lip of the cauldron and looked to Olaf’s blue eyes and long blond hair, so much like his father’s father. She looked at him as if she was seeing far more than a usurped king on a broken throne.
“I know who you are, son of Trygg, son of Olaf, son of Fairhair.”
Olaf stiffened and she smiled.
“Yes, I know about Fairhair and how he killed the great High King of Alfheim and Viken.”
Lodewuk. That elf had done well to ensure Alfheim remained under the rule of his kin, the Ljosalfar in Gunir.
“And now you wish to reclaim what once was yours,” the woman said.
“I wish to reclaim my father’s throne,” Olaf answered.
She grinned. “Liar.”
The spell-air thickened as she moved around the cauldron to stand closer to Olaf. Her head reached his shoulders. “You wish to know about your beloved. Your Geira.”
Olaf’s back straightened at the sound of his wife’s name.
“You wish to know what killed her,” the Seidkona said.
“She was young,” Olaf said, sharper than he had intended. He couldn’t
He proceeded as cautiously now as he had then, each step landing him in the small stream that trickled its way deeper into the cave. A misplaced step caused him to favor his left leg. The wound that nearly cost him his life a month ago had not yet fully healed. When the faint glow of firelight reached him from around a sharp turn, relief relaxed him.
The scent of stew teased Olaf’s appetite when he turned the corner and ducked to enter the small, shallow room. Accessories, furniture, and décor dressed the limestone cave, making it into a proper home.
In the center of the room, a small fire crackled beneath a large soapstone pot fixed on an iron tri-stand. The Seidkona had shoved a table and chair against the cave wall along with barrels of food. Herbs and spices hung on a rack she positioned in place from the ceiling, although he couldn’t quite see how. Tapestries and hides dressed the walls to hide the jagged façade and warmed the feel of the room. The Seidkona had a handful of candles burning on the table between two empty wooden bowls.
A large hide hanging from the cave wall served as a door to what Olaf could only imagine was a second room as comfortable as the first. It was there he could hear her voice glide almost like a spell that fogged his mind and threatened to leave him senseless. He found himself fighting it to preserve his angst. He didn’t have to wait long for her voluptuous frame to emerge from that passage.
“You came back.” A pleased smile pulled the corner of her red lips. The firelight danced in her round, gold eyes and, for a moment, he forgot to answer.
“I did.”
She tilted her head and Olaf watched her long, black hair fall down her curves where his eyes lingered. He wasn’t sure if her song had stopped, but still found it hard to focus. The air was heavy with spell.
“Now you believe?” she asked.
Her question jogged his memory.
“You said my men would betray me…that I would be near death.”
A pleased smirk pulled the corner of her red lips.
“And you were,” she replied.
Olaf nodded. “I was.”
He recalled the raid a moon ago soon after he had challenged her skill. He still felt the laugh in his throat when she had warned him that his men would betray him. Not a day later, they turned on him and he barely escaped with a wounded leg. He almost lost the leg. An arrow had nicked the artery. That laugh now felt like bile stuck in his throat. He also recalled her other words of prophesy.
“You said that I would be a great king,” Olaf said.
“I said you would be renowned. Not great,” she answered, walking to the fire where the stew bubbled.
Olaf stepped closer and felt the spell-air thicken as he watched her bring the ladle to her lips.
“My father…”
She sipped.
“I know who your father was.” She sipped again, then stirred the stew. “And his father before him.” She hung the ladle on the lip of the cauldron and looked to Olaf’s blue eyes and long blond hair, so much like his father’s father. She looked at him as if she was seeing far more than a usurped king on a broken throne.
“I know who you are, son of Trygg, son of Olaf, son of Fairhair.”
Olaf stiffened and she smiled.
“Yes, I know about Fairhair and how he killed the great High King of Alfheim and Viken.”
Lodewuk. That elf had done well to ensure Alfheim remained under the rule of his kin, the Ljosalfar in Gunir.
“And now you wish to reclaim what once was yours,” the woman said.
“I wish to reclaim my father’s throne,” Olaf answered.
She grinned. “Liar.”
The spell-air thickened as she moved around the cauldron to stand closer to Olaf. Her head reached his shoulders. “You wish to know about your beloved. Your Geira.”
Olaf’s back straightened at the sound of his wife’s name.
“You wish to know what killed her,” the Seidkona said.
“She was young,” Olaf said, sharper than he had intended. He couldn’t
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