From the tent at the other end of the camp, Sigrún screamed again.

Æthelflæd winced, as did all the others sitting around the campfire. She had ridden out of Walton, pushing poor Cisten to go as fast as he could, once all of their enemies had been put down or captured. Abbot Ealric had waited with a few of his men in an abandoned farmstead not far from the ancient Roman fort. He'd been anxious to hear about the outcome of the battle. The man had run out of the hovel just as Æthelflæd had arrived, Cisten panting and huffing from the effort.

"We have wounded!" she had cried, stopping him before he could place a word. "Follow me back to the camp. Please!"

Thankfully, the abbot and his brothers had followed her without question. He and another of his monks now tended to the grievous wound Sigrún had sustained on her left hand. When the abbot had first beheld the girl, writhing on her cot with her face frozen in an expression of agony, he had made the sign of the cross with a trembling hand. "God," he'd told Æthelflæd. "I don't think we can save her finger. We must…" The abbot had licked dry lips, summoning all of his strength to say, "We must cut it lest she risks losing her entire hand…"

Beside them Eivor and Hytham had stood in silent vigil. The huntress let out a curse; upon seeing Sigrún limping her way through Walton at the end of the battle, she had ignored her own wounds to rush toward the girl, carrying her back to the tent where the good abbot now tended to her injury. Hytham, for his part, had murmured something in Arabic, kneeling to Sigrún's side to hold her other hand. He'd remained there since, no doubt offering comfort during the gruesome process that would see her bereft of her finger.

Æthelflæd stirred her bowl of stew. The girl had been clinging to two particular objects when they had found her wandering the grounds of Walton; a silver medallion, which now rested in the pouch at Æthelflæd's waist—and the hilt of a broken sword. Against all odds, Sigrún had prevailed, finding not only the relic at the heart of this cursed quest, but another proof of the far reach of their enemies' power. Seaxwulf had been a member of the Order—and from the little she had heard from Sigrún it seemed he had been closely following their movements across East Anglia. Æthelflæd felt like the worst of fools; she'd thought herself clever, as clever as her cunning and calculating father, yet the Order had played her like a puppet. And Sigrún—and all who had since died at the blades of their enemies—had paid the price for that folly.

Æthelflæd took out the medallion Sigrún had pried off Seaxwulf's corpse, passing her thumb over the embossed image on the silver surface. Abbot Ealric had not recognized the name of its bearer; Æthelflæd suspected that Seaxwulf had been part of the splinter group led by the one called the Heritor.

Still, suspicions gnawed at Æthelflæd's heart, like worms swarming over an apple. Her own father had been the Great Maegester of the Order before his death—as had been her uncles and grandfather. Her family's history and the Order's sordid endeavours were twisted together like the roots of two trees that had grown too close together to be split apart. Two moons ago, she had told herself that Edward could not be involved in those backhanded schemes; he was simply too earnest, too proud of his own moral fortitude. He could not be part of the Order. Æthelflæd could simply not fathom it.

She sighed, tightening her grip on the silver medallion. From the other end of the camp came another scream—more muffled this time, sounding almost like a sob. Æthelflæd looked upward, at the sea of stars spreading above Walton. She shivered in the cold air, putting down her bowl of lukewarm stew to rub her hands together for warmth.

This was going to be a long night.

Sigrún drifted in and out of consciousness, dreams merging with reality until she could make no difference between the two. She was flying. She was falling. She was screaming and stabbing the sightless eye of a dead man, over and over again. She was being told, "Be strong, habibti, come back to us, come back to me." She was watching that man being carried away by shadows in a darkened forest while she cried out for him. She was being held in a strong grip, hearing a familiar voice calling her name and saying, "Don't you dare die on me, you idiot, you pure, utter fool, don't you dare."

She was witnessing the peaceful final moments of a woman she'd loved as a mother. She was careening backward into a grey void, all while a cold-eyed man watched, his silence more piercing than his stare. She was crying out, two decades and a half's worth of rage and resentment scraping at her throat, "This is the world that I want!"

And she heard, once again, the soft plea and the softer sobs of a man who'd once rejected God yet found himself asking for His grace and mercy, a man intoning a prayer in a language she did not understand. She heard him—and opened her eyes with a gasp.

Immediately, Sigrún began to cough, her throat feeling sore with disuse. As consciousness ebbed in, she became aware of two things; the throbbing pain in her left hand, pulsing with each tortuous beat of her heart.

And the slight pressure on her right hand: soft as a breath, comforting in its warmth.

Sigrún was lying on a cot in a rather large tent. The air was bracingly cold, and she was glad of the furs covering her body. A man was sitting beside her, silvery head bowed. As he heard her come to her senses, he sprang awake, blue eyes widening in shock. He gaped at her, raising a tentative hand to her cheek, and murmured, "Habibti? Oh, child, dear child!"

Before Sigrún could react, Hytham had gathered her in his arms. Sobs bubbled up her throat, and suddenly she was holding onto him as well, crying in earnest. Hytham stroked her hair, whispering words of comfort. Sigrún did not know how long she wept; time seemed to have lost all meaning. He was here, he was real and solid and warm, not a fleeting figure she only found in nightmares meant to torment her. "Hytham, Hytham," she sobbed. She could not say anything else—and truly, nothing else needed to be said.

He was here, and they were together, at last.

When finally her body had run out of tears, she pulled back—reluctantly—from Hytham's embrace. With a nervous laugh, Sigrún wiped her eyes. "Oh, but I am so glad that you are all right, Hytham. I'd thought—I'd feared the worst since you were taken!"

Hytham gave a grave nod. "I was taught how to handle such situations in the event I was captured by enemies. Still…" His eyes lost a bit of their light. Only then did Sigrún notice the bruises at his wrists and collarbone. She gasped in horror, hiding her mouth with her hand. "I did not break. I did not give them anything. But I had to make them believe I would, so they would keep me alive. So I held on. Against all odds. Yet I knew I would have to end my own life if I suspected I was about to break. My creed would have demanded such a sacrifice of me."

"That's horrible!" Sigrún whispered.

Hytham stared right into her eyes without flinching. "If I had spoken, then perhaps I would have put my brothers and sisters in danger. Perhaps I would have put Ravensthorpe—or you—in danger." He managed a weak smile, putting his hand at the nape of her neck. "But I am glad you came to rescue me, child. Perhaps I am weak, or selfish, to think so."

"Of course not! I would have come for you, Hytham, no matter what! Ever since you were captured, all I could think was how to save you!"

He let out a weak chuckle. "Why, you are very much like your aunt in that regard. When your father was taken, she would have moved mountains to pry him out of his captors' cruel hands. After all, she thought herself responsible for his capture."

Sigrún's heart beat faster. She recalled Seaxwulf's words, said so nonchalantly. One of our Paladins studied the topic. She conducted extensive… research upon your father. "He was abducted by members of the Order, wasn't he? They were the ones responsible for what happened to his arm…"

"Indeed…" Hytham said, sadly.

Sigrún had to inhale deeply before asking, "Why? Seaxwulf, he… he seemed to believe my father was special, that we were of an ancient bloodline, and…" Again, she sucked in a shaky breath. "What on earth did he mean by that? Who were these Ancients? What is my family's connection with them? And what is so significant about their—" She sat up so abruptly in her cot that her head swam for a moment. "Oh, God, Naegling! The hilt! Where is it, have they—"

"Peace, child," said Hytham. "I have it here, I've kept it safe while you were recovering."

Indeed, the broken hilt of Naegling was hanging from his belt. Without realizing it, Sigrún made to reach for the relic. With a slight frown, Hytham took it, placing the hilt in her outstretched hand. Naegling was warm against the skin of her palm, as if it had been left a long time under a sweltering sun. Her fingers absentmindedly traced the strange, spiral-like pattern on the hilt, and immediately her shoulders relaxed. Hytham's brows furrowed, but he said nothing.

"Will you tell me how you obtained the relic, then?" he said, after a sizable silence. "I'm sure it is a tale worth telling."

Sigrún breathed deeply, trying to settle her thoughts. The whole of her left arm burned with pain, starting from her hand, and yet she could not yet look at it; she did not think she could deal with what she would see. Instead, she opened her mouth, and out came the words like pebbles falling from a waterfall, a jumbled mess of a tale that made Sigrún think, wait, did all of this truly happen? Wasn't it simply a dream—a nightmare of a story made up by a silly girl who'd grown up loving sordid tales of the sort? Still, Hytham nodded and hummed in assent, his hand ever so warm over her shoulder.

As she neared the end of her story, Sigrún began to stumble upon her own words: Olaf and Gytha's dead bodies, lying in a pool of their own blood, the impossible vastness—and eerie silence—of the Vault, those strange, dreamlike visions of Eivor's life… all of these sights remained fresh in her memory, and yet she also felt like they had misted over in the fog clouding her mind. Hytham never questioned any part of her tale, never pushed whenever she grew nervous or fearful—and for this, she loved him more than she had ever loved him.

Only when she came to the end of her story did she chance a look to her left hand, lying limply by her side. The linens that had been wrapped around her fingers were stained by the rusty-red hue of old, dried blood. She managed to muster enough strength to croak out, "My hand. Is it…"

"I'm sorry, child," Hytham murmured. "We've had to—we couldn't save your finger."

"Right," she mumbled, all thought vacating her mind. Her finger. She'd just lost a finger. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to vomit. She did none of these things. Instead, she laughed weakly and said, "Now we match even more, don't we?"

Hytham gaped at her for a moment. Then he laughed as well, tears gathering at the corner of his eyes. "That we do, my sweet child! That we do!"

His smile dissipated, however, when Sigrún asked, "Why did you really bring me with you on this journey? Did you know that the Order were looking for someone like, well, me? Were you too afraid to leave me in Ravensthorpe without protection?"

Hytham sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. "No, I did not know they were seeking you. By Allah, but what a mess… Eivor and I, we both thought we had defanged this serpent. I was a fool to believe such a thing, and this mistake cost you dearly."

"Then, why? You could have brought anyone else! Birna, Eira, Ulfric, or anyone else in the village who could actually have fought back!"

"I said it before," he murmured. "I am a selfish man. My child, for the past two, three decades I've hid myself from the world while sending others, such as your aunt, to accomplish what should have been my duty." As she opened her mouth to speak, he raised one finger and added, "It was not simply because of my injury. I had grown complacent, listless… fearful. I don't want to make the same mistake as I did, habibti. I don't want you to lock yourself away from the world. I remember the joy in your eyes whenever I told you stories about my past travels, that bright look upon your face whenever I read you a book about distant lands, and I—I want you to do as I did in my youth, I want you to go and experience these things, these places, for yourself."

"You think," she began, taken aback by this answer, "you think I could do it?"

"You've already proved yourself more than capable." He smiled at her. "Surely you must have noticed, but… I've always thought of you as my own—the child I could never have because of my commitment to the Brotherhood. And Sigrún—I could not be prouder of the woman you've become."

Tears once again welled up in her eyes, and she readily accepted another embrace. When Hytham let go of Sigrún, his eyes were misty too.

He wiped them, giving a rueful laugh. Then, with less levity, he said, "Would you be opposed if I spoke to one of your companions? The young huntress, I mean. I would very much like to express my gratitude. She watched over you when I could not, after all."

"Of course!" Sigrún answered. "How is she? And Aelfswi—" She caught herself, thinking for a moment. A slight furrow formed between her brows. "That's not her real name, isn't it?"

"No," Hytham said, sombrely. "Perhaps you ought to have a chat with her as well."

Perhaps she did. Especially if Sigrún's suspicions proved correct. "I hope they were not hurt during the battle." She shivered at the thought of Olaf and Egil and Gytha. Who else had lost their lives to give Sigrún enough precious time to find and claim Naegling? She was almost too frightened to ask.

"Your friend Eivor was wounded, but I believe she's made a full recovery." Hytham chuckled. "Loyal as a hound, that one. As soon as she could stand on her own two feet, she's kept watch over the entrance of this tent. She's there right now, if I believe."

"She is?"

"The poor girl was very worried for you. We had to pry her away from your bedside while you recovered so someone could finally tend to her own injuries."

Sigrún felt some warmth gather in her cheeks. "That's—she did not have to do this."

"But she did. And I am all the more glad for it." Hytham stood up, making for the tent flap. As he had said, Eivor was standing outside, straight as a tree trunk, her dark cloak peppered with snowflakes. Still, as Hytham addressed her, the huntress blinked several times, looking at him in a daze. She had been about to doze off at her post, it seemed. Sigrún hid a laugh behind her hand.

Eivor all but rushed inside the moment she finally understood Hytham's words. "Are you all right?" she blurted out. "Aelfswith said they had to cut off one of your fingers, and—" Her face contorted into a scowl of rage, and she stomped at the ground. "That piece of sheep shit! I should have seen it coming, should have put an arrow in his throat the moment he took off with us!"

"Eivor, you couldn't know. He fooled us both…"

The huntress huffed out. "At least the bastard's dead. Those Order shitstains really are everywhere, aren't they? They've spread around like a fucking sickness. Gods, I'm never letting my guard down again. Bastards will have to think twice before they try to mess with me or mine."

"Sigrún is right," said Hytham, "you did all you could. And that is why I must thank you. For protecting Sigrún with your life, and for helping her in this endeavour. You had no obligation toward her, toward our cause, and yet you came to our aid. Thank you."

"Yes," said Sigrún, nodding. "Thank you, Eivor."

Hytham gave a bemused smile. "Your name is Eivor?"

To Sigrún's amusement, Eivor's cheeks tinged pink. "I was named after Sigrún's aunt," she muttered. "Eivor Wolf-Kissed saved my father's life before I was born. She helped him become king of East Anglia. Without her, I wouldn't even be here."

"I remember that story," Hytham said. "She had gone to East Anglia to seek justice after we'd been attacked by raiders who had settled in the region. King Oswald was your father, then?"

"He was," Eivor said, quietly.

"I've stopped believing in things such as fate or divine providence, but this…" Hytham chuckled, smiling at Eivor and Sigrún in turns. "This cannot simply be coincidence."

"I was in the right place at the right moment," Eivor said, with a sheepish shrug. "Nothing more, nothing less."

Hytham examined her for a moment. Eivor seemed to grow uncharacteristically self-conscious at the scrutiny, evading his gaze. Then he walked to the end of Sigrún's cot, where a small chest had been put on the ground. He rummaged through it, saying, "I was lucky my captors did not think to destroy this object. If they knew what it truly was, then I doubt they would have even left me alive." Rising to his feet, he handed something to Eivor—a leather bracer, around which were arranged metal components forming a complex interlocking pattern. It was beautiful—and the sight of it tugged at Sigrún's memories, almost as if she'd seen something similar before…

"What is it?" Eivor asked.

Hytham fiddled with a mechanism—and a blade suddenly protruded from the upper part of the bracer. "A Hidden blade," he explained, as Eivor and Sigrún gaped at him. "The signature weapon of my Brotherhood. As subtle as it is deadly. It can be used to kill enemies without alerting others to your presence."

"Why are you showing me this?"

"Because I would like for you to have it."

"What?" Eivor turned to look at Sigrún, who simply shook her head and shrugged. "I mean—why? I don't know you—and you don't know me. Why would you give such a precious heirloom to a stranger?"

"My mentor had to take but one look at your namesake before knowing she had what it took to wield it," said Hytham. "His intentions were… not entirely unselfish, but his intuition was right. It is a tool of death and destruction—but Eivor Varinsdóttir used it to protect her own people. And I believe you would do the same, Eivor Oswaldsdóttir. Am I wrong?"

"No, but… I still can't see why you'd trust me with something as important as this."

"It's simple," Hytham answered. "Sigrún trusts you—so I trust you as well." As she stared at him in shock, he moved to help Eivor put the bracer on her right arm. "Here, let me show you how it works…"

Eivor frowned as he tied the bracer around her arm. He had placed it so the blade would erupt near the lower part of her wrist. "That doesn't make sense to put it that way," she told him, bluntly. "It would be less risky if the blade came above my hand. I don't want any of my fingers getting chopped off by the damned thing…" Hytham looked at her so strangely that Sigrún had to contain her laughter. "What? It's true, and you know it."

Hytham met Sigrún's eyes. She could not stifle a smile. "Why, child," he said, "but it is not only a name that you share with Eivor. You've inherited her stubbornness as well!"

The third day after their assault on Walton, Sigrún had finally grown strong enough to stand, though for not very long.

To say that Æthelflæd was relieved would be putting it mildly. As of late, she often found herself thinking of those they had lost over the last two turns of the moon: poor Ecfrida in Theotford Forest, the victims of the Order's hired swords in Caestre, and now the better part of the armed escort who had helped them assault the fort at Walton. Æthelflæd had not expected that so much blood would be spilled—that so much death would be brought by her own hand—when she had first set out of Tamworth for this journey. Now she was weary, so weary; she longed for home and worried for her family.

How were Aelfwynn and the little ones, she kept wondering? Æthelflæd had absolute trust in her daughter—for a maiden who had only seen fifteen winters, Aelfwynn had often shown herself to be more resourceful and wise than many people twice her age—but she was still a child in many regards. She should not have been forced to care for an ageing father or two young children who had all but been abandoned by their own sire. She should not have found herself ruling over their household in Tamworth while Æthelflæd traipsed around England. Yes, sweet Aelfwynn deserved to have her mother by her side to teach her how to navigate those troubled waters.

As such, Æthelflæd had made her decision upon waking in the cold stillness of her tent. She had done all she could to thwart the Order's efforts in East Anglia. Now was the time for Æthelflæd to return to her family, to relieve poor Aelfwynn of the burdens that surely weighed so heavily upon her young shoulders.

In the morning, Abbot Ealric departed with his men; there was still much he had to do to help the inhabitants of Caestre prepare for the upcoming winter months. Æthelflæd and her companions were left with only a handful of allies, who soon began to worry over wasting time in Walton while their comrades were fighting with their king for East Anglia's future. After a while, Æthelflæd agreed to let them leave as well.

Not long after, Eivor asked that they meet inside the building where Sigrún had found the stolen grave goods of Sutton Hoo—and the entrance to that ancient Vault. It had been sealed shut since then; even Sigrún had found herself unable to open it again.

"Perhaps it is for the best," she had told Æthelflæd. "There was something… off-putting about the place."

"I see," Æthelflæd had said, carefully. Sigrún had acted in a cagey manner when she had interrogated the girl about her confrontation with Seaxwulf, deep in the belly of the earth. She kept holding on to Naegling as if she refused to be parted from it. Her behaviour was odd, but Æthelflæd knew Sigrún would shut like a clam if she pressed the issue. It was better to let the matter rest for now.

The girl sat across from Æthelflæd, the hilt lying over her lap in an odd show of hostility. Hytham was seated beside her, ever a silent, protective presence. Eivor paced the small space of the room, arms folded across her chest. Her green eyes often fixed Æthelflæd with a stare filled with suspicion.

"What is it that you wanted to discuss, Eivor?" Sigrún finally asked, breaking a tense silence.

"We need to decide on our next course of action," Eivor answered. She motioned at Sigrún—or, more precisely, at the hilt of Naegling—with her chin. "And what we're going to do with that… thing."

"We need to keep it out of the Order's hands, of course," Æthelflæd said. "From what I understand of the situation, Seaxwulf might have been part of the faction that broke away from the main group. Surely he had a leader to whom he had to answer."

"The Heritor," said Sigrún. "That's the title he used when referring to his closest ally."

"So the main faction of the Order is led by a man called the Legacy," summarized Hytham, "while the opposing side is led by this Heritor fellow."

Æthelflæd nodded, putting three silver medallions on the table. "We have come upon—and defeated—three members of the Order so far. Brother Ceadda, the Herald. Abbot Ealric, the Messenger. And Seaxwulf…"

"The Pathfinder," Sigrún completed, in a dull tone.

Eivor turned to face Hytham. "Why were they looking for Naegling, in the end? Was it just to open that Vault?"

"I don't know much about the subject," the man said with a sigh. "Apparently, the weapons and tools of the Ancients carry great power. I've read of swords bursting with light that blinds the foes of their bearers. Shrouds that can turn one invisible to the human eye. Apples that break the wills and minds of men. Truly, I've never put much stock in these wild tales, but now…" He bent over, running his hands through his hair. "It seems these strange stories have seeped into our reality, and I don't know what to make of this realization."

"Hm," said Eivor. "Then, there is only one thing we should do with that thrice-cursed blade."

"Which would be…?" Æthelflæd began, not liking the dark look in her eyes.

"We bring it to my brother and his army. The West Saxons meant to steal an East Anglian relic from under our noses to use it against us. Let's use it against them instead."

A coldness filled the room at Eivor's words. Sigrún grew pale; she looked like she was about to be sick. Hytham's frown deepened, but he remained silent. Æthelflæd felt her heart hammering against her chest. Fighting hard to keep her voice steady, she let out, "No, this is much too dangerous. We don't know what that weapon might do."

"And?" Eivor's eyes narrowed. "Why do you care?"

"Eivor," began Sigrún, "is it really necessary—"

"I've a few more questions to ask," Eivor cut her off, advancing toward Æthelflæd with obvious hostile intent. The latter kept her expression carefully blank, even as the huntress loomed over her. "Why does he—" (And she cocked her head toward Hytham) "—calls you Æthelflæd, for one?"

"I was travelling under an assumed identity, for protection—"

"Protection against who? West Saxon soldiers? Members of the Order? Or someone else?"

"As I explained when I first met you, my father worked to ensure the downfall of the Order, and he's made many enemies—"

"As the previous Great Maegester?" Sigrún said, so softly. Still, there was something odd—something cold—within her blue eyes. "Or as the King of Wessex?"

For a moment, Eivor went slack, as if she could not properly understand what Sigrún had just said. Then, she was snarling in rage, hoisting Æthelflæd in one violent sweep by the collar. Sigrún and Hytham cried out, but the huntress seemed too lost in her fury to heed their words.

"You're that bastard's sister!" Eivor exclaimed. "You're Æthelflæd of Mercia!"

"I… I am," Æthelflæd managed, heart pounding in her ears. Eivor was surprisingly strong for one her size. And Æthelflæd knew the huntress had many manners of knives hidden on her person. She had to tread carefully. "But I'm not your enemy."

Eivor barked out a joyless laugh. "Really? Then who is that king currently butchering my people? Someone else's brother?"

"Eivor, put her down." Sigrún had also risen from her chair; Æthelflæd noted that she had not used her cane to stand. "Do it. Now."

"She's a fucking traitor," Eivor hissed. "We trusted her—and all this time she was working for that bastard Edward." She turned hate-filled eyes back to Æthelflæd. "I bet she was waiting for that one moment we'd all be looking away to steal Naegling and bring it back to her darling brother. So that piece of shit Edward can bury my brother into the ground instead."

"That is not—" Æthelflæd found it more and more difficult to breathe. "This isn't why—"

"EIVOR!" The sudden shout did not seem to have come out of Sigrún's mouth. It was too harsh, too hateful. "Put. Her. Down. Now."

Something flashed as she let out that last word, a bright golden gleam coming from her hand. Suddenly, Æthelflæd found herself kneeling—with Eivor falling to her knees next to her. The huntress had her mouth open, and her eyes were wide with fright. Æthelflæd felt as if a force had pushed her downward, constraining her mind with a simple command. Kneel. She trembled with revulsion, guts churning at this violation. Beside her, Eivor had grown very pale, beads of sweat forming on her brow.

Sigrún let out a long, weary sigh. Next to her, Hytham had also risen to his feet; he was holding out his hands in a soothing manner, uttering, "Sigrún…"

The girl made another despondent sound. "We will be continuing to work together, all of us," she said, firmly. "Eivor is right. This treasure belongs to East Anglia. It should be in the hands of her king—and so we will bring it to him."

"Sigrún," Hytham said, "are you sure?"

Sigrún once more fixed Æthelflæd with an unsettling stare. "I am. We will leave tomorrow, at dawn."

Hytham went to help her as she stumbled toward the steps, leading Sigrún outside, where he would no doubt guide her back to her cot so she could rest. After a while, Eivor followed, shooting Æthelflæd one last look of fury before she went.

Æthelflæd stood up, dusting off her dirty dress. Distantly, she remembered Æthelwold's words—and his laughter. In his own way, he had tried to warn her of the price she could pay for her treachery.

(My, but you truly are your father's daughter.)

Like King Aelfred before her, Æthelflæd had been too foolish—too proud—to heed this sensible piece of advice.

And now Edward was going to pay for that mistake.