Forged by Magic (Falling for Fables, #1)(18)
“Bit odd you know that about me.”
He huffed out a laugh. “You’re infamous, Daella.”
“Good to know the world is aware of all my amazing qualities,” I quipped, though something inside me felt unsettled by what he’d said. What, exactly, had Isveig spread about me? And how much of it was true? From what I’d heard so far, he’d definitely exaggerated when it came to my willingness to work for him. I should have expected as much. He wanted the world to think he had a half-orc under his thumb because she wanted to serve him, not because he’d stuck a deadly ice shard in her skin and threatened her.
I opened my mouth to say just that, but we took the corner and ran smack dab into at least two hundred people crowding the road ahead of us. Several tented stalls were stationed along the perimeter of a cobblestone square, merchants selling freshly baked breads, bouquets of flowers, and piping hot tea, even though it was a warm morning at the beginning of summer. Women strode by with ribbons trailing from their hair, and a harpist plucked a tune from where she’d set up in the center of the square, right next to a stone statue of Freya, who embodied the elemental magic running through the bones of the earth.
“The Old Gods,” I murmured. The ones my people had worshipped before the arrival of the ice giants, before Fafnir had been taken as part of the Grundstoff Empire, where they only worshipped one—Ullr, who Isveig insisted he was descended from. Not that many believed him, even his own followers.
“Are you surprised?” Rivelin asked, a step closer than I’d realized. At the sudden sound of his deep, husky voice, I almost squeaked.
“Did you really have to sneak up on me like that?”
“I’ve been standing here the whole time.”
“Not that close, you haven’t.” I pointed at the statue. “And yes, I am surprised. Your island is called Hearthaven, and this village is Wyndale. Those names sound more like something you’d find in the human continents across the Northern Ocean. They have different gods than the elves, the orcs, and the pixies do, although the humans who live in Fafnir now worship Ullr.”
He gave me an appraising glance. “Good catch. Humans were the first to settle here, ages ago. They named these islands and villages, but they did not bring their gods with them. The folk didn’t find the Isles until many years later.”
“Where are all the humans now?”
“Most developed wanderlust and left, though a handful remained. Their descendants are still here.”
I looked around at the crowd, indeed spotting a small number of humans amongst the folk. There were also plenty of elves, dwarves, pixies, fire demons, and shadow demons. Unease whispered through me at the sight of the horned creatures. They reminded me far too much of Isveig and his loyal court of giants, even if they were shorter of stature.
Swallowing, I tried to school my features into a mask of calm, but somehow Rivelin saw through it. “If you’re looking for one of Isveig’s ice giants, you’re out of luck. None of them have ever reached this place.”
“How disappointing.”
Suddenly, a hush went through the crowd, and a tall, golden-haired elf clad in a breezy purple gown clapped her hands. She moved to the center of the square as the harp’s song cut off and addressed the gathered residents—and visitors—of Wyndale with a beaming smile.
Rivelin leaned closer and whispered into my ear. “That’s Hofsa, Gregor’s mother.”
She looked like she could be as young as twenty with her smooth, clear skin and those bright sunlit eyes. And when she spoke, her voice was as soothing as the sound of a trickling stream. “Thank you, everyone, for gathering here at our annual opening ceremony to signify the beginning of our Midsummer Games!”
Cries of cheer spilled through the crammed market square. A pink-winged pixie beside me lifted a ribbon above her head, bouncing on her toes. From somewhere nearby, someone tossed rose petals into the air. They rained down, kissing my skin with a soft caress, so unlike the poisonous waters of the sky.
Hofsa waited a moment and let the cheers die down. And then she continued, “As always, fate will decide the lucky seven who will participate in this summer’s Games, all to win the coveted gift from our blessed island. If you’d like to put forth your name, please line up to give your blood to Freya.”
Blood? I glanced up at Rivelin, my stomach twisting.
Beneath my breath, I whispered, “You didn’t tell me I’d have to do this.”
“You don’t,” he said. “I’m the one participating. You’re just my assistant.”
Rivelin moved off through the crowd, following the others who wanted to volunteer. At least thirty hopefuls lined up to make the sacrifice, Rivelin sandwiched between a dwarf with a long braided beard and a shadow demon who somehow managed to sport a grumpier expression than even Rivelin.
There was little for me to do other than watch the procession. Each potential participant stepped up to the stone statue, cut their palm, and then spilled their blood on Freya’s bare feet. It didn’t take long for everyone to get through it, and soon, Rivelin started back to my side. Truth be told, I’d expected far more people to present themselves. Why would anyone want to turn down the chance to compete for a gift like that? It wasn’t as though the Games were dangerous. No fighting, no killing, no threat.
Rivelin squeezed through the crowd and stood beside me, edging a little closer when a few whispers went through the crowd. They’d finally noticed me, then—the outsider from the Grundstoff Empire. At least I wasn’t wearing my armor with Isveig’s sigil stamped into my shoulder. I imagined that would really get them talking.