The Liar's Key (The Red Queen's War #2)(27)

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The only good reason to let dawn find you awake is that the previous night’s wine has not yet run out, or that a demanding young woman is keeping you up. Or both. Being cold and wet and seasick was not a good reason, but it was mine.

The predawn glow revealed Beerentoppen hunched amid the marches of its smaller kin who crowded the coast. The faintest wisp of smoke marked it out, rising from a blunt peak. The range lay on the westmost tip of the jarldom of Bergen and from these shores we would head out into open seas for the final crossing to the continent.

I watched the mountains with deep mistrust while Tuttugu angled us toward the distant shore. Snorri slept as if the ocean swell were a cradle, looking so comfortable it made me want to kick him.

Snorri had told me that any child of the north knew Skilfar could be found at Beerentoppen. Come the freezing of the sea, ’til the spring thaw, Skilfar bides in Beeren’s Hall. Few though, even of the elders, snaggle-toothed and grey, perched upon their bench in the jarl’s hall, could tell you where upon the fire-mountain she might bide. Certainly Snorri appeared to have no idea. I glanced across at the big and shadowed lump of him and was considering where best to kick him when he looked up, saving me the effort.

As the sun rose across the southern shoulder of the distant volcano Baraqel walked along its rays. He strode over the sea, advancing when each wave caught the day’s sparkle. His great wings captured the light and seemed to ignite, the fire reflecting in each bronze scale of the armour that encompassed him. I tried to sink out of sight in the boat’s prow. I hadn’t thought I would still be able to see the angel, and not being in the habit of greeting the dawn with Snorri, I hadn’t put the assumption to the test.

“Snorri!” The valkyrie stood before us, feet upon the waves, looking down from a height little shorter than the Sea-Troll’s mast. I registered his voice with mild horror. Had Snorri been able to see Aslaug and hear everything I said to her? That would be awkward, and the bastard had never said a word about it . . .

“I need to find Skilfar.” Snorri sat up, holding the boat’s side. He hadn’t much time, Baraqel would be gone when the sun cleared the mountain. “Where is her cave?”

“The mountain is a place of both darkness and light.” Baraqel pointed back toward the Beerentoppen with his sword, the sunlight burning on bright steel. “It is fitting that you and . . .” Baraqel peered toward me and I lowered my head out of sight. “. . . he . . . are bound there together. Do not trust him though, this copper prince. The dark whore has his ear now and whispers poison. He will try to take the key from you before long. It must be destroyed, and quickly. Do not give him time or opportunity to work her will. Skilfar can do—”

“The key is mine and I will use it.”

“It will be stolen from you, Snorri, and by the worst of hands. You serve only the Dead King’s cause in this madness. Even if you evade his minions and find the door . . . nothing good can come through it. The Dead King—the very one who has worked these wrongs upon you—wants death’s door opened. His desire that it be opened is the sole reason your people, your wife, your children died. And now you seek to do that work for him. Who knows how many unborn are gathered on the far side waiting to come through in the moment that key turns in the lock?”

Snorri shook his head. “I will bring them back. Your repetition will not change this, Baraqel.”

“The breaking of day changes all things, Snorri. Nothing endures beyond the count of the sun. Pile a sufficient weight of mornings upon a thing and it will change. Even the rocks themselves will not outlast the morning.”

The sun now stood upon the Beerentoppen’s shoulder. In moments it would be clear.

“Where will I find Skilfar?”

“Her cave looks to the north, from the mountain’s waist.” And Baraqel fell into golden pieces, sparkling and dying on the waves, until in the end they were no more than the dancing of the morning’s light amid the waters.

I lifted my head to check the angel had really gone.

“He’s right about the key,” I said.

Tuttugu shot me a puzzled look.

Snorri snorted, shook his head, and set to trimming the sail. He took the tiller from Tuttugu and angled the Sea-Troll toward the base of the mountain. Before long gulls spotted the craft, circling about it on high, their cries added to the wind’s keening and the slap of waves. Snorri drew the deepest breath and smiled. Beneath a mackerel sky with the morning bright around him it seemed that even the most sorrow-laden man could know a moment’s peace.

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When we made shore later in the day Snorri and Tuttugu had to drag me out of the boat like a sack of provisions. Days of puking had left me dehydrated and weak as a newborn. I curled up on my cloak a few yards above the high tide line, determined never to move again. Black sand, streaked with unhealthy yellows, stretched down to the breakers. I poked half-heartedly at the stuff, coarse and intermixed with pieces of black rock made brittle by innumerable bubbles held within the stone.

“Volcanic.” Snorri set down the sack he’d carried from the boat and took a handful of the beach, working it through his fingers.

“I’ll guard the beach.” I patted the sand.

“Up you get, the walk will do you good.” Snorri reached for me.

I fell back with a wordless bleat of complaint, resting my head against the sand. I wanted to be back in Vermillion, far from the sea and somewhere a sight warmer than the godforsaken beach Snorri had chosen.