Eoin sprawled across the bench in the dimly lit pub, one booted foot braced against the table leg, the other stretched out in a lazy sprawl. He had been there since before noon, nursing a steady stream of drinks, although he wasn't quite drunk-just loose-limbed and comfortably warm. He hadn't bothered with propriety when dressing that morning. His shirt hung open at the throat, his hair in its usual state of dishevelment, unruly curls falling across his brow. He radiated the very picture of a man who had nowhere pressing to be and nothing in particular to do, which was, for the moment, true.

  He'd spent the earlier part of the day watching spring bullocks being mustered and castrated-a grim bit of business that, but one that had in a left-handed sort of way given him a flicker of satisfaction. If he had to be collared and made to dance to another man's tune, at least he had been spared the knife. The thought had amused him at the time. Now, as he tipped his tankard and drained the last of his ale, it only left him feeling vaguely resigned.

  A shadow fell across the table. Even before Torsten spoke, Eoin knew it was him. There was no mistaking the presence of the prince-regent. A whiff of fine soap, a whisper of fine wool, a hint of authority in the stance, and a little too much weight in the silence to be anyone else.

  "Eoin."

  Eoin sighed, letting his head loll back against the wall. "Your Highness," he drawled, not bothering to sit up. "To what do I owe the honour? Come to buy me another round? Or just here to remind me how gainfully employed I am in your service?"

  Torsten didn't rise to the bait. He sat on the bench across from Eoin, elbows braced on the table, and studied him. "I require your service today. I want you to fetch something for me. "

  Eoin drew a quick breath in through his nose, then huffed a short laugh. "Whatever could it be this time?" he asked, voice touched with mockery and fatigue. "A lost sock? Lost treasure? Secret wisdom?" He traced the edge of his tankard with a fingertip, "The hand of the fairest maiden in all the land?"

  "Hmm." Torsten said, flicking a crumb off the table. "Not quite. My fondest desire, actually is that you find Ingbord Feyrune for me, whatever she may about today, tell her I want her, and escort her to me at the keep. Do you think you could manage that?"

  Eoin reached for his tankard, found it empty, and let it thunk back onto the table. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then let out a slow, exaggerated breath. "You want me," he said "to go roaming about town, to fetch a woman to you?" He sighed, rolling his eyes heaven-ward. "Torsten, we know I'm your dog. Your errand boy. Your whore. Am I to assume that we have now added 'pimp' to my list of duties?"

  Torsten said nothing. He quirked his mouth and let the silence stretch. He held Eoin's gaze, steady, his expression unreadable. He didn't move; he didn't blink.

  Eoin felt his jaw tighten. He wasn't afraid of Torsten. But there were moments-rare ones-when the prince-regent's will pressed against him like a weight, reminding him who he was, what he was, and why he always, inevitably, did as he was told.

  Torsten set a handful of coins on the table, enough to cover Eoin's drinking that morning. "It is my wish that you that deliver my Magician to me. Kindly tell her that I require a Seeking. And Eoin? Tidy yourself first. Not only is the lady in question important to me, she is deserving of your respect in her own right".

  Eoin sighed, tipping his head back against the wall. "Ah, yes," he muttered, lazy and insolent, but the edge of defiance had dulled. "I leap to obey."

  Eoin met Torsten's eyes, something unreadable passing between them. Then, with a slow, deliberate stretch, he got to his feet, rolling his shoulders as though settling a weight. "Well, then," he muttered, raking a hand through his untidy hair. "I'd better go fetch the lady."

  Eoin took his time walking back to his quarters at the keep. The cobblestones were still damp from last night's rain, and the cold spring air carried the faint, briny scent of the sea. Hints of sulfur drifted on the chilly breeze, a constant reminder of the island's inner heat and restless heart.

  He passed a few merchants setting up their stalls, their voices carrying in the still morning air. Someone was sharpening a knife, the steady scrape of steel on stone a familiar sound. A few people gave him a wave or a smile of greeting, but where Eoin walked, most people averted their gaze.

  Eoin's room in the keep was small but serviceable, a place to sleep and store his things. Grumbling to himself, he shrugged off his shirt, filled the basin with water, and splashed his face, wiping away the lingering haze of ale and sleep. The water was shockingly cold, making him hiss and suck in a sharp breath. He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it back, then pulled on a clean dry shirt made from soft Eysian wool, leaving the laces at the neck undone, exposing his throat and a glimpse of chest. He paused, thinking perhaps to wear a jacket, but instead decided just to go and find the lady without extra care.

  It was relatively easy to find people in Vardvik. It wasn't a large city by any means, and it sloped evenly downhill from keep to harbour. Eoin let his feet lead him downhill, trusting his natural instincts to lead him where he needed be. After a short walk, he stood in front a house and knew, without having been told that it was where he would find Ingbord, and that finding her would allow him to complete the prince's errand. The house was well placed, well-within town in sight of the keep, but far enough to the edges to afford space and privacy. Snug, small and well-built it was made of warm-colored bricks. A narrow garden lined the front, green shoots beginning to poke through the frosty soil.

  Eoin stepped over the low garden fence without using the gate, draping himself against the doorframe in a pose of careful ease. One long arm stretched overhead, fingers grazing the wood, while the other rested lightly at his hip. The picture of nonchalance. Deliberately unmoved.

  Then the door opened, and something inside him lurched. He had seen her before, of course. Many times. From across the court, at Torsten's side, moving through the streets with quiet command. She was no stranger to his sight. But this was the first time he stood before her. The first time her gaze landed on him directly, settling like the weight of a hand against his chest. It was only two people meeting at a doorway, and yet his pulse skittered against his ribs.

  He should have spoken first. That was how these things worked. A quip, a smirk, some easy, forgettable charm to set the tone. He had the words ready, but they died in his throat. Unwilling he found he was tracing her shape in a slow, five-fold study. Eyes, lips, breasts, belly, feet.

  She met his gaze first, cool and frank. But it wasn't her eyes that held him. It wasn't her body, not exactly. It was the weight of her, the quiet force of her existence, the way she filled the space between them with something impossible to name. Her gaze dragged down him, slow and deliberate, measuring and unhurried. From the tousled mess of his curls to the undone laces of his shirt, to the hint of dirt on his boots—she took him in as though cataloging him.

  He had done the same to her. Was still doing the same to her.

  To Eoin's senses, she smelled like silver-cold and bright. She breathed like spring, like the movement of a thaw after a long winter. And under it all, he swore he could taste the dawn, fleeting and fresh, gone before he could grasp it.

  He took a step back, a breath. And then, simply-

  "Ingbord Feyrune."

  "Eoin Brocker." She said at last, her voice smooth. "Relatively sober and at my door". And then "Well, don't you clean up nicely?" The words were neutral. Light, even. But there was something in her tone, some quiet amusement that unsettled him.

  Eoin forced himself to move, just a fraction. He let out a long, exaggerated breath, as if bored, as if she hadn't just stolen the air from his lungs. Then he tilted his head, let his mouth curve into a lazy smirk.

  "Torsten's orders," he drawled.

  Her eyes flicked over his boots. "Not completely."

  "Can't be helped." He leaned back against the doorframe. "Urgent orders. He wants you."

  She arched a brow. "Funny," she said slowly. "I might have said the same about you."

  He managed to keep his expression from shifting. He could feel the words, sharp at the back of his throat, but if he answered too quickly, too sharply, it would mean something.

  Instead, he huffed a quiet breath, something deliberately rueful, and shook his head. "Not like that," he said, letting the words settle, casual, easy. "You're summoned. I'm to escort you. He wants you in your capacity as Magician. Something-something about Seeking."

  She watched him, unreadable.

  "And he sent you, to tell me that?"

  Eoin exhaled, long-suffering, slipping back into the easy irreverence that had carried him through so much. "I am indeed his errand boy," he said, tipping his head in mock humility. "When Torsten commands, I must deliver."

  She tilted her head, considering. Then, with a nod, stepped back from the door.

  "Step inside then, Eoin. Its chilly out and you're hardly dressed for it. I'll be a moment to collect my things."

  Eoin hesitated.

  It was just a house. Just a doorway, a small step from the street to the stone floor inside. There was no reason for a flicker of memory to prickle down his scalp.

  Then she turned away and the moment broke.

  He stepped inside.

  Ingbord moved through the space without hesitation, crossing to a table where a knife and foodstuffs lay, evidence of a lunch interrupted. She tidied with quick, precise motions, then pulled a satchel from a hook, tucking a few small packets inside.

  "Hand me my cape, would you?" She huffed softly as she cast one last glance around the room, ensuring everything was in order. "Pity I'll miss lunch. Do you suppose Torsten will feed me at the keep?"

  Eoin lifted her cape and slung it gallantly around her shoulders, setting it just so.

  "I imagine," he said with great solemnity, "that Torsten is willing to give you anything you desire that is within his power to grant." His lips quirked. "Including supper."

  He shrugged, nonchalant. "He does keep a decent table."

  He hoisted her satchel for her, gestured toward the door, and let her pass first.

  Ingbord crossed the room, pulling up short on the threshold and turned back to pluck a small vial from one of the shelves, and uncorked it. The liquid inside was dark and thick. She tipped it back, swallowed, and grimaced.

  Eoin watched, unimpressed. "What was that?"

  "A precaution."

  "Against?"

  She smiled, but didn't answer. Instead, she grabbed her belt from the back of a chair, fastened it around her waist, and adjusted the small knife that hung from it.

  "Come along, then," she said, recrossing to the door. "Let's not keep our prince waiting."

  Eoin offered his arm as they stepped from Ingbord's house, the gesture almost courtly, although his posture undercut any real pretense of nobility. She considered it for only a moment before resting her hand lightly in the crook of his elbow. His warmth bled through the fine wool of his shirt, and she noted-without much thought-that he ran warmer than most men.

  The streets of Vardvik were narrow, winding their way up the hill toward the keep. One didn't walk through Vardvik, so much as one walked up it or down it depending on if you were going to the keep or the harbour, or places in between. Uphill, to the keep the walk was a steady incline, the kind that made a person mindful of their breath and be inclined to walk, not chatter. Ingbord had walked it many times before, in all seasons and in all weather, but something about this walk felt different. It took her a while to notice. At first, she simply enjoyed the crispness of the early spring air, the scent of salt and sulfur carried on the wind, the way the light softened the jagged stone buildings. But then-subtly, slowly-awareness crept in.

  At first, she thought little of it. A woman carrying a basket shifting aside, a passerby looking away—it was common enough. But the pattern held. No calls of greeting, no one acknowledging her passage. Not a single hand lifted in recognition. It wasn't avoidance. It was absence.

  Her brows knit slightly, but she said nothing. Perhaps it was merely Eoin's oily reputation, his presence alone enough to keep the good and decent townsfolk from looking too closely. He was Torsten's creature, after all. People knew what he was, and more than that, they likely guessed what he did for the prince-regent. If they averted their eyes, it was probably for their own comfort.

  Or, perhaps not. There was something vaguely unsettling and unseemly about Eoin. As they walked, she had a mild, admittedly not unpleasant feeling that she and Eoin were passing through a world not quite real. She pressed her lips together and glanced at Eoin, but he only walked quietly beside her, and unhurried, as if nothing were amiss.

  The climb to the keep was steady, the pathway curving up the rocky incline. Eysa's keep was a functional thing-built for necessity, not grandeur. There were no towering wooden gates, no spired turrets. Just thick stone walls, a stronghold that had stood against the wind and sea for generations.

  As they neared the gate, Ingbord let her hand slip from Eoin's arm, straightening slightly. If he noticed, he said nothing. A boy stood at the door-too young to be a proper guard, but old enough, barely, to bear a sword at his hip. He had the watchful, wary air of someone eager to prove himself.

  "State your business," the boy blurted, as though the whole keep didn't already know they were expected.

  "Ingbord Feyrune," she said levelly, "Here to see the prince-regent."

  Eoin gave a lazy salute. "And Eoin Brocker, but I imagine you don't need telling that."

  The boy's gaze flicked to Eoin, unreadable. Then, after a heartbeat too long, he stepped aside. "Magician! Brocker. You're expected."

  Eoin grinned, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "That we are."

  The boy pushed the doors open and they stepped inside to the dim corridor beyond. The air inside was warmer, scented with traces of damp and sulfur where the sea wind, and the volcano's breath moved through unseen cracks.

  Eoin led the way without hesitation, his pace unhurried but purposeful. He knew this place as intimately as he knew the man waiting for them-every turn, every stair, every draft that whispered through the halls. Ingbord followed, her own steps certain. Neither was she a stranger to these halls, having spent many hours in Torsten's company here.

  They passed the lesser chambers, the larger hall where Torsten held court in his uncle's name, and the rooms where Eysa's business was conducted daily-an ongoing dance of too little wealth and too much need. Here, the keep's heartbeat quieted, the hum of voices thinning until there was just the muffled sound of their footsteps against stone.

  Torsten's rooms were at the top of the keep, past the old guard station and behind a heavy iron-bound door. There were no guards stationed outside, no servants lingering in the corridor. Eoin stopped before it, pressing his palm flat against the wood, fingers briefly splayed as though feeling for something. Perhaps listening. Eoin glanced back toward Ingbord; his expression unreadable in the dimness.

  "I'll be loitering just outside the door," he said. "In the event you find the man inside wanting, you have only to call out for me." He rapped smartly, then pushed the door open, stepping aside for Ingbord to enter ahead of him.

  Torsten's chambers were warm, the grates opened fully to allow Eysa's volcanic heat to seep in. Beneath the keep, a labyrinth of vents and tunnels carried the island's lifeblood, spreading warmth without the need for fire. The air held a faint mineral tang, a quiet reminder of the molten depths flowing far below-restless, enduring, and always present.

  Torsten stood barefoot by a low table where a simple meal had been set. He looked up, his gaze landing on Ingbord as she entered, his smile was one of quick bright welcome-and something else - a quick flash of relief and a flush of heat softening the planes of his face.

  Ingbord lifted her chin, meeting his gaze, bold but playful. "You wanted me?"

  Torsten's mouth curled, just slightly, equally playful. "I do."

  It might have been the wind, or the volcano's breath moving about the keep. Or perhaps Eoin didn't quite stifle a sigh as he shut the door behind them. The latch clicked quietly into place, sealing them inside.

  Torsten smiled quickly as the heavy door clicked shut behind Eoin's smirking presence. "I do hope the escort made some effort to behave himself."

  She shook her head in amusement, eyeing the table. "I hope you have something nice for me, Torsten. I was just about to have lunch when I was pulled away, and magic is rather hungry work."

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  Torsten's smile deepened. "Cranky magicians are a menace only a fool would entertain. I think I understand the importance of keeping my Magician satisfied. Perhaps I can persuade you to forget lunch and have an early supper with me instead? It's not my intent for you to go wanting."

  Ingbord lips quirked at the double meaning but sat, accepting the offering. A light meal had been laid out-bread, cheese, slices of cured fish. He poured her a cup of weak ale and took a seat beside her, tearing off a piece of bread more to keep her company than out of real hunger.

  They spoke of small things-news from the harbor, the latest foolishness at court-conversation easy between them, laced with familiarity and affection. But she did not miss the way his fingers tapped idly against the table, the way his eyes flicked over the room, always coming back to her face. There was a purpose to this visit, and the space between them was growing thick with it. The room was growing warmer, and Torsten was growing restless.

  "You had Eoin fetch me to your chambers with instructions to tell me you wanted a Seeking," she said, setting her cup aside. "Let's not dally further." She stood, shrugging off her cloak and fixing Torsten with a level gaze.

  "You know my price. Are you prepared to pay it?"

  Torsten closed his eyes for a moment. "I do." A beat later, softer, "I am."

  It was not reluctance. He wanted the Seeking, yes, but he wanted her too-always had, always would. He was not unfamiliar with how a Seeking worked. The ritual stripped away the tenderness he craved, but not the desire. His body responded before she even touched him, before she stepped close and pressed against him, before she tugged at the laces of his tunic and slid her fingers over his belt. By the time he cupped the curve of her waist and pulled her tighter, he was more than ready to pay her price.

  She did not tease. This was not for love, whispered endearments or lingering caresses. This was for the Seeking, and she took him to his bed without hesitation, taking from him what was needed.

  He let her press him down, let her strip him bare. He lay back, arms above his head as she shed her own garments and straddled his hips. Her palms pressed flat against his chest as she murmured words in the old language-words of offering, of binding, of agreement. The same words she had asked of him moments before, spoken now in ritual. A gift of himself, freely given, in exchange for her Seeking. He nodded once, then felt her-hot and wet as she guided him inside. She breathed in sharply, adjusting, settling over him with a slow, deliberate motion.

  Torsten gritted his teeth, fingers flexing against her hips. He wanted to drag this out, to roll her beneath him and take his time, but she set the pace, and he let her. He closed his eyes, surrendering to it. To her. The rhythm she set was steady, unhurried, each roll of her hips drawing him closer, pulling him under. He gripped her thighs, his fingers pressing firm into her skin, but he did not try to control her. He let himself be taken, let himself give. And when she flexed around him, working him with that subtle, knowing pressure, it was too much. He gasped, his body tightening, and then pleasure overtook him, spilling through him in waves.

  Afterward, they lay together, the afternoon light slanting through the high windows. His chest rose and fell beneath her cheek, his skin hot where she rested, cooling rapidly everywhere else. She traced idle patterns against his ribs before murmuring, "Tell me what it is you seek."

  Torsten exhaled slowly. "It's a map."

  She lifted her head to look at him.

  "A map of Eysa and the waters around it, drawn in great detail. It marks the city of Vardvik, the smaller towns, the volcano, the best vents. About an arm's length wide and half as tall." He gestured the dimensions with his hands. "In the lower left-hand corner, southwest on the map, there is a blazing sun, inscribed in real gold. My grandfather, King Rolly, commissioned it from his Magician. Both he and the map have been missing for decades."

  Ingbord nodded. "Sverri," she said, being well-acquainted with the sequence of Eysa's magicians. "Hmm. His magic allowed him to see details hidden from view. Do you know why Rolly would have commissioned such a thing?"

  "Rolly never told me his reasons," Torsten admitted. "I was only a boy when he told me the story of it. Both Sverri and the map had been missing for decades by then. But he was not a man who did things without purpose." His fingers trailed absently over Ingbord's bare shoulder. "Eysa is poor. It has always been poor. I think he hoped the map would show him the way to change that."

  He let that hang between them. "Perhaps he wanted to open new trade routes," Torsten continued, keeping his voice even. "Or maybe he just wanted to see Eysa as it truly is. A king should know the shape of his own land, shouldn't he?"

  He turned his head to meet her gaze, hoping it was enough truth to satisfy her.

  "Do you have anything that belonged to Rolly? Something personal, that was his?" asked Ingbord.

  In answer, Torsten pulled a ring off his finger and gave it to Ingbord. "This was Rolly's before it came to me."

  Ingbord brought the ring to her lips, tasting the bright gold with a quick flick of her tongue, then slipped it onto her own finger.

  She closed her eyes, focusing, drawing her awareness into the band.

  But the ring held nothing of Rolly. Only Torsten. A driving pulse. Echoes of longing, simmering, but never truly gone. A restless and frustrated energy pushing him forward. She caught recent flickers of his day- a sea breeze there, a moment of boredom there, the touch of her hand on his bare skin. But nothing older than him, nothing of the man who had worn the ring before.

  She opened her eyes. "I need something closer to him. More personal."

  Torsten hesitated, just for a moment. Then nodded. The furs shifted as he rose, unhurried and unselfconscious. The chamber was warm from the vents, and his skin still held the heat of their joining, gold in the afternoon light slanting through the high windows. He stretched briefly-just a shift of his shoulders, a flex of his back-and crossed the room with shameless ease.

  At his desk, he opened a carved wooden box and withdrew something small, dark, and smooth. He turned the polished stone over in his fingers as he carried it back to her, slipping back under the covers beside her once more.

  He pressed it into her palm. "Rolly carried it everywhere."

  She weighed it in her hand, feeling the dense, polished surface. Cool, despite the warmth of the room. Hematite. She brought it to her lips, the iron-slick taste of it spreading across her tongue before she closed her fingers around it and let herself sink into its echoes.

  The impression came quickly this time. Rolly. Sharp-minded, supicious and cagey. Thoughts like a locked chest, heavy and secretive. Ambition and thirst pressed hard into the weight of the stone. A longing for more, always more. A sense of discontent, flavoured with bitterness and desire for power.

  "Do you know what Sverri's price was?"

  "Allegedly, a hundred gold pieces."

  Both Ingbord's brows rose in rare surprise. "A hundred gold pieces. That's...staggering. Could Rolly have paid it?

  Torsten exhaled; tone dry. "Doubtful. I'd be hard-pressed to scrape together a hundred gold from the treasury today. I can't see how Rolly could have made good on the deal. And since I didn't inherit an empty treasury, I suspect Sverri never saw a single coin."

  "One last thing," Ingbord said, slipping from the bed in a liquid motion. She stretched her arms high above her head, preparing. Torsten watched her, still sprawled on the bed, his body heavy with satisfaction, but his pulse quickening again at the sight of her. She glowed with heat, standing tall in the aftermath of what she had taken-what he had given. Her magic was rising within her, poised to turn heat into power. She let out a centering breath, flexing her fingers slightly.

  "What makes you think your luck will be any better than Rolly's with this missing map of yours?"

  Torsten's lips curled. He exhaled, slow and knowing. "Unlike Rolly," he murmured, "I pay my magician."

  Ingbord reached for her knife resting on the bedside table and moved to the center of the chamber. She shut her eyes, letting the details of the map settle in her mind. Then, with slow, practiced movements, she knelt and traced an imaginary circle on the ground with the tip of the blade. She murmured more words in the old tongue, tracing graceful symbols in the air with her fingers.

  With the edge of her knife, Ingbord pressed a shallow cut into her thumb, just enough to bring a drop of bright and glistening blood to the surface. She brought her hand to her lips and licked the drop of blood away, swallowing the taste of iron, the final piece of fuel for the ritual.

  A hush fell over the chamber. The temperature dropped, subtle at first, then sharper, like a creeping frost. Torsten shivered but did not move. He had seen Ingbord Seek before. He trusted her, but it never failed to unsettle him, the way the air seemed to pull inward, the way the heat in the room was sucked away, leaving his fingers chilled and making frosty puffs of his breath.

  Ingbord breathed in deeply, feeling the power coil through her, wrapping around her limbs like an unseen current. Her breath slowed, her pupils blown wide as her vision blurred, then sharpened into something more. She was not in the room anymore. Not really. Her mind drifted outward, casting into the cold vastness of elsewhere.

  She sought.

  She drifted exhaled; through the ice-cold channels between waking and dream, her breath shallow, her mind unmoored. The Seeking pulled at her, fueled by the heat she had drawn into herself, stretching her thoughts across the island, over the sea, across leagues unknown, to a place she had never stood but now somehow knew.

  A sense of imagined heat pressing against her skin, thick and cloying, so unlike the bracing winds of Eysa. The air was rich with the scent of spice and sweat, roasted meats and perfumed oils. Around her, voices rose in a dozen tongues, bargaining, laughing, arguing.

  A market.

  A crush of bodies moved through the narrow, sun-drenched streets, bright silks catching the light, headwraps shielding faces from the almost painful brilliance of the sky. The sun here was sharp, relentless, its reflection bouncing off pale stone walls and gilded rooftops. Above it all, a banner fluttered-deep blue, scattered with stars.

  She turned. Within her rotating gaze she saw the span of a bridge arched high and graceful over a wide, sluggish river. Beyond that, a vast cathedral, towering, its spires stabbing skyward beyond the market where her Seeking was focused.

  She moved-was moved-like a zephyr through the stalls, past hanging tapestries, cages of shrieking birds, baskets of golden fruit.

  She cast her vision about, recording details of the unknown city she found herself in. The angle of the sun. A sign above a door. A graceful tree shading a fountain.

  Creeping tendrils of cold began to wind along her arms and cheeks. She clenched her fists to hold what heat she could in her hands, moving faster now, seeking within the alien marketplace.

  The scent of ink and old parchment curled into her lungs. A bookstall, half-shaded, its wares stacked in careless towers, scrolls tucked between thick, leather-bound tomes.

  "Unseen." she whispered, her breath a plume of frost. "Hidden? Lost?"

  There.

  A single roll of parchment, tightly bound, tucked behind a cracked wooden case.

  Gooseflesh bloomed on her arms and chest. "I know where it is," she whispered.

  And then, like the tide pulling back from shore, the vision faded and she plunged back into her achingly cold body in an ice-cold room in Torsten's rocky keep.

  Ingbord came back to herself in Torsten's bed. She lay there quietly, unmoving, with her eyes closed, feeling cold to her very bones, aware of Torsten's arms around her, wrapping her against the heat of his chest. The heat of his bare flesh pressed against her chilled back almost made the icy aftermath of a Seeking worthwhile. She pressed in closer, winding her legs around his to warm her thighs.

  "A sunny mainland city with spires and bridges. Blue banners and a wide, slow river pouring into the sea. That can only be Ilroya," she said, her eyes closed, still holding the bright, vivid picture in her mind's eye.

  She felt him nod against her shoulder.

  "How long would it take to get there?" she asked quietly.

  Torsten let out a slow, whistling breath. "There isn't a boat in Eysa capable of making the trip. I haven't got anything seaworthy enough to make that voyage. It would be a case of taking a rakkar to Othmark and from there hiring passage to Ilroya. Ten days to get to Othmark by rakkar, probably. Maybe another dozen to get to Ilroya by ship. A little longer coming back."

  "How much," she asked, still unmoving, "would it cost to hire passage from Othmark to Ilroya?"

  Torsten paused. "Perhaps seventy or eighty gold pieces," he said finally.

  She exhaled softly. "You haven't got a great deal more than that in all the treasury," she said softly.

  "I don't," he admitted.

  "It's an outrageous gamble, Torsten," she said. "It would be wagering everything you've got on Rolly's magical scrap of sheepskin." She rolled over and pressed her lips against the hollow of his throat. "Even so. You do need me to go and get that map for you, won't you?"

  His grip on her tightened. "Yes." His voice was low, reluctant. "I do."

  For a long moment, they just lay there.

  She cinched her arms tighter around him and pressed her face more deeply against his neck. "Do you remember the day I left Eysa for the mainland to go to study away?"

  Torsten let out a slow breath, his hand stilling against her back. "I do."

  "You were watching." It wasn't a question.

  "I was." His voice had a quiet, unreadable weight to it. "I saw you from the keep and watched you walk along the quay to the ship." He paused. "It was windy."

  "Windy? You remember that it was windy that day?"

  He chuckled. "Your hair was untied. You hadn't pulled it back or put on a hat. You looked up, and your hair whipped around your face like tendrils of kelp." He waggled his finger to demonstrate. "You looked like you only decided that you would go at the very last minute, then ran to harbour only half-set. I recall you stopped to turn around three times, bent down to pick something up from the ground. Then you turned three times the other way, flew up the plank in a rush and were gone. "

  She smiled faintly against his skin. "You really did watch. It's an old superstition. You turn three times to the left to say goodbye to the home you're leaving. You take a handful of dirt or gravel"—she flexed her fingers slightly, as if feeling phantom stones in her palm—"so you always carry some of Eysa with you. Then you turn three times to the right, to you memorize the home you'll return to."

  Torsten was silent for a long time. Then he said, very quietly, "I watched until your ship was over the horizon and I couldn't see it anymore. I counted every day you were gone." He swallowed. "One thousand four hundred and fifty-four days."

  She closed her eyes, remembering. She had known. She had felt his eyes on her as she boarded the ship, as she left Eysa behind. She had looked back, squinting up at the keep's high balcony, and she had seen a dark figure standing there, barely more than a shadow against the stone.

  "I saw you," she admitted. "You waved goodbye."

  Torsten shifted, lifting his hand between them. He kissed his palm, then turned it toward her, fingers slowly curling into a fist as he brought his hand back to his chest.

  Ingbord swallowed hard.

  She knew that gesture too.

  Come back, come back safe, and return my kiss to me.

  She took his hand and pressed her lips against his knuckles, sealing the promise between them.

  For a long time, neither of them spoke.

  Then, quietly, Torsten asked, "Did you hate it?"

  She didn't need to ask what he meant.

  She exhaled, fingers flexing against his ribs.

  "I hated it."

  A small, pained noise caught in his throat. Not surprise. Just confirmation.

  "I was like a duck away from water. I was homesick every day. I missed home horribly. I missed you more. I counted the days backward—the days until I could come home. They say the mainland is all sunshine and flowers, but I hardly got to see it. Students at the university live like monks. We got up early, ate cold food in the dark, worked like churls at chores, studied until after dark, then dropped into bed hungry. I slept in a cold, hard little bed with no heat and no room for company. Not that many were even willing, anyway. I was a lumbering barbarian in a sturdy wool dress, while the other girls had silks and pink ribbons. They made fun of my accent. My boots. My lack of... culture. They mocked me for being too quiet. They mocked me for not being quiet enough. I never fit in. I was never quite right."

  Torsten's arms tightened around her. He didn't quite laugh, but something close to it. "Ingbord," he murmured. "Pretty feathers they may have had, but those silly little mainland girls could never be more than a clutch of waddling, quacking ducks."

  His fingers brushed her cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

  "A cygnet," he said, voice quiet, reverent. "That's what you were."

  She stilled.

  Her throat tightened.

  Even when she had felt lowest and loneliest, even when she had been across the sea, she had always known Torsten was thinking of her, and that he had always thought the best of her.

  Ingbord pressed closer, pressing her lips against his collarbone, against his pulse, against anything she could reach.

  Fifty days or more away. A trifle compared to the thousand and a half she had already endured.

  *********

  Eoin tipped his tankard, watching the amber liquid swirl before draining the last mouthful. The pub was dim inside, with bright patches of sunlight spilling in through the open door and windows. A cool breeze mingled with the warmth of the volcano's breath, wheezing through the large vent on the back wall. It was, all things considered, a rather pleasant place to drink oneself into oblivion.

  He lifted his empty tankard along with his eyebrows, casting a hopeful look toward Jorunn. She answered by setting a fresh one down in front of him with a faint sniff.

  "You'll eat something before I bring you another," she said.

  Eoin lifted the tankard and took a slow, deliberate sip, making a show of savoring it. "I didn't know I had a mother in you, Jorunn."

  "You don't," she said, but without any real malice. "You'd have better manners if you did."

  Eoin huffed a laugh, but it was hollow. Jorunn didn't linger. She had better things to do than watch him drink himself into a stupor. When she returned a while later, setting a plate of steamed crab cakes down in front of him, the fresh tankard was already half-empty, and Eoin was staring emptily into the distance.

  "Eat." She nudged him with her ample hip.

  Eoin blinked at her, bleary-eyed, and obediently ate a crab cake. "My thanks," he murmured, slurring only slightly. "These are... delicious."

  Jorunn's broad backside retreated, and Eoin watched with only dim interest before lowering his head onto his folded arms and closing his eyes.

  Fucking Eysians.

  An Eysian could go his whole life without knowing a day's hunger. And if he did, all he had to do was mention it, and his fellow Eysians would trip over themselves escorting him to the nearest hearth and table—or just as likely, pull chunks of bread, cheese, or dried meat out of their pockets and thrust them into his hands.

  The whole forsaken island was covered in grass. Grass, grass, and more fucking grass as far as the eye could see. A man's eyeballs would practically fall out of his head in surprise if they happened to land on a tree. And the sheep—endless, shaggy, stupid sheep, except where there were cows. Big, fat, dumb cows. With horns. Not that they had any use for horns. Eysa didn't have anything bigger than a fox to trouble them.

  More than once, Eoin had seen Eysian herders singing to the cows. Singing. Their music was terrible, their songs were worse—long-winded, nasal epics of seafaring and battle, of raiding and adventure. As if they had any ships. As if they had any swords. They didn't even have enough metal at hand to construct a still.

  It was possible to get properly drunk on Eysa. But you really had to apply yourself to the task. Downing tankard after tankard of their piss-weak ale.

  Eysians had no fucking ships. Just tatty little reed boats they used for fishing or visiting other islands to—what else? —eat, drink their weak ale, and sing their horrible songs together.

  They had all the food, all the wool, all the clothes and songs a man could ever want.

  So long as that was all a man ever wanted.

  Fucking Eysians.

  An Eysian could go his whole life happily thinking his shirt was wondrous fine, his house wondrous warm, his wife wondrous cheerful, and his belly wondrous full, right up until the day he died.

  Other men might boast about the strength of their arm or the length of their prick—at least giving a man an opening to best him at wresting, or to seduce his wife. But an Eysian? He would boast about how succulent his roasted lamb was, or how fine his shirt was, or how tender his crab cakes were. And then—inevitably—he would insist that you eat the lamb, taste the crab cakes, wear the shirt. And damn it all, the lamb would be succulent, the crab cakes would be delicious, and the second-best shirt he lent you would be warm and fine and soft as silk.

  They lived their lives herding, farming, spinning, weaving, tailoring, fishing, cutting reeds, weaving boats, carving vents for their volcano, cooking, sharing, and singing. Until—inevitably—they died, and the rest of them would gather to sing their wretchedly long, nasal funeral songs and then hurl the body into their precious fucking volcano. And then—sadly gather for the inevitable feast.

  Fifteen long, dull, pointless years. During which, Eoin was certain he had seduced every seducible woman in Vardvik, and half the seducible men. If he wanted any novelty at all, he'd have to cast his net further afield, outside the city—maybe even outside Eysa itself.

  As if. Hoping to get off the island was pointless. He wasn't getting free of Eysa. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not in seventy years. He took another slow pull from his tankard, swallowed, and let his forehead drop against the worn wood of the table with a dull thud.

  He wished he had never heard of Ingbord Feyrune. Four long years he'd heard about her. Four long years of Torsten pining, of Torsten speaking her name with a quiet, aching reverence. Four years of listening to him go on and on about the strength of her heart, the magic in her breath, the comfort of her love. How he could gladly bear the weight of Eysa's crown if only Ingbord could be his queen. Ingbord, apparently, floated like a swan on the surface Torsten's every waking thought.

  And damn it, Eoin had listened. He should have tuned it out. Should have let the boy spill his longing into the dark and not let it settle inside him. But he had listened, hadn't he? And hadn't he gone and half fallen in love with her before he even laid eyes on her?

  Eoin was bound to Torsten as surely as if by key and collar. That was a weight Eoin had made uneasy peace with. But Ingbord? Ingbord was new layer of misery entirely. He wished to hell and back again that he'd never met her.

  And now? Now that he had? She had struck chords in his heart and rang them like bells. She tasted of a new dawn, stirred the breath of spring in his chest, and left the bright tang of cold silver hanging on his senses. He wanted her with a gnawing, aching hunger he could not shake.

  She was Eysa, right down to the marrow of her bones, down to the blood she used to fuel her magic. If she floated on Torsten's waking thoughts like a swan, then in his dreams, she must swim like a -

  Eoin set the tankard down with a resigned sigh.

  Like a siren.

  Eoin had been wrecked on Eysa's rocks once before. And now, with awful certainty he knew - he was going to be wrecked on them again.

  *********

  If you're enjoying this story - even just a little bit - please rate or review. This is my time writing anything and it took just about all my courage to post it. I'd love to know if anyone thinks my stuff is "good enough", and would welcom any feedback offered on my writing. }>

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