A beam of light stabbed me in the eyes, and I silently cursed Vragi for leaving the door open when he went outside to piss. Groaning,
I rolled away from the light, then froze as my cheek brushed over fur of unfamiliar texture.
Memory slammed into me: Vragi’s laughter as he betrayed me, Geir crawling on the ground, my hand consumed by the fire of a god, and pain… pain like nothing I’d experienced before.
Pain that was now…gone.
I sat up, the furs covering me falling away. My clothes were my own, marked with blood and bits of ash, stinking of sweat and fish, but that was the least of my concerns as I stared down at my hand.
It was still wrapped with moss, but the plant was now dry and dead. I tentatively touched the moss with my left hand, equal parts desperate and terrified to see what lay beneath.
“I told you the gods favored you,” a voice said, and I straightened to find Jarl Snorri standing next to the hangings separating the space from the rest of the hall. “They wished for you to be revealed by fire, not to be consumed by it.”
I wasn’t convinced that was true, given my circumstances, but I kept my mouth shut as he crossed over to the bed. Without asking, he pulled the moss free, bits of dead plant and ash falling onto the dark furs. My breath caught as I saw what lay beneath.
“Make a fist,” he ordered.
I dutifully did so, muscles and tendons obeying with minimal protest. “Ugly,” he said. “But strong enough to grip a weapon, and the seer said
nothing of you uniting Skaland with your looks.”
I tried and failed not to flinch, hunting for gratitude that I hadn’t lost use of my hand and finding it lacking. For I saw what Snorri saw. Scars. The skin was twisted and stretched, in some places pink and in others completely white. Turning it over revealed that Liv’s magic had replaced the skin that the fire had melted away, but it was thick and almost devoid of sensation. My eyes burned with tears, and I blinked rapidly, not wanting Snorri to see that his comment had stung. Not wanting anyone to know how vain I truly was.
Snorri retreated from the room and returned with a shield painted bright yellow and red. “Get up.” He held out the heavy wooden circle. “Prove that you can call Hlin’s magic when your life isn’t on the line.”
The floor was cold beneath my bare feet as I slid off the bed and accepted the shield, the muscles of my left arm straining to support it. “And if I can’t?”
Snorri eyed me silently. “Failure always has a price, Freya. But it isn’t always paid by the one who fails.”
A prickle of fear skittered down my back. With Geir injured, my family was at the mercy of Snorri’s men.
Swallowing hard, I hefted the shield and squared my shoulders. Please, I silently prayed. Please don’t abandon me now, Goddess. Then I parted my lips and invoked her name, “Hlin.”
A familiar silver glow streaked out of the fingertips of my left hand, covering the shield and rendering it nearly weightless. It illuminated the room, casting shadows off Snorri’s smiling face. Tentatively, he reached out to touch the shield, then trailed his fingers over the smooth surface of the magic.
I wished it would fling him back as it had Bjorn. Wished it would launch him with such violence as to shatter his body. But it did not.
“You’ll be a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield,” he breathed. “Steinunn has already begun her composition, and with her song, word of our strength will spread like wildfire. Soon all will swear oaths to me.”
“How?” I demanded. “How does my ability to protect myself in battle make such a huge difference?”
His eyes flared bright. “Because the seer told me it was so, which means the gods have seen it.”
Had seen me being used like a tool—and that sat poorly with me. “How can you be certain the seer meant you?”
His face darkened and I instantly regretted running my mouth; I was always saying the first things that came to my mind despite having suffered consequences for doing so time and again.
“Because the seer spoke the prophecy to Snorri, not anyone else, you idiot girl.” Ylva stepped around a hanging, coming toward us. “Disregard her ignorance, my love. She’s the daughter of a farmer. The wife of a fishmonger. This is probably the first time she’s been more than a few miles from the hovel her mother birthed her in.”
Every one of those things was true, but I still bristled at the implication that they made me ignorant or stupid. My parents had taught me the history of our people and the stories of the gods, but more than that, they’d taught me what I needed to survive. I opened my mouth to demand if she could claim as much, but before I could, Ylva said, “Once you are wed, Snorri will control your fate, because he will control you. Which is why the wedding will be today.”
Today? Gods…I swallowed my dismay even as I watched Snorri’s jaw tighten. “We should wait for Frigg’s Day so as to ensure the union is
blessed,” he said.
Ylva huffed out a loud breath. “And risk someone else stealing her? You must claim her, husband. All of Skaland must know that the shield maiden is yours.”
As though I were a cow. Or a pig. Or worse, a brood mare, though given he had Bjorn for an heir, I doubted children were what he sought from me. Even if they were, there were ways other than lemons to prevent such things. But my skin still crawled at the thought of being bedded by this man.
Grit your teeth and bear it, I silently ordered myself. It’s not as though you’re some maid who has never been bedded. You endured Vragi. You can endure Snorri as well.
I had to, because my family depended on it.
Snorri exhaled a long breath, his gaze fixed on his wife. “This union is a slap to your face, my love. I wish there was another way, but the gods demand this of us.”
The declaration was unexpected, at least for me. I lowered my head, embarrassed to be caught in the midst of this conversation, for I sensed that Snorri’s sentiment was genuine.
Through my eyelashes, I watched Ylva’s face soften, and my discomfort grew as she drew toward her husband, kissing him passionately. My cheeks burned and I moved my gaze to the floor, fighting the desire to edge past them and escape this moment.
“You do this as much for me as for yourself.” Ylva’s voice was velvet soft. “It is only a matter of time until Harald crosses the strait, and we have not the strength to fight him. Skaland must be united, and it is the will of the gods that they will be united beneath your rule. It is a sacrifice to share your hand with another, but one I will gladly accept to protect our people from our enemies.”
My stomach twisted with unexpected guilt, because I’d not considered that either of them had a higher purpose.
“You are the greatest blessing the gods have bestowed upon me, Ylva,” Snorri murmured, and my cheeks heated as they embraced, their roaming
hands suggesting that if not for my presence, they’d be ridding themselves of their clothing. That they might anyway, my presence be damned. So I dropped the shield.
The second it left my grip, the magic disappeared, and it landed with a loud clatter against the floor, the pair jerking apart.
“Apologies,” I murmured. “I seem not to have fully recovered my strength.”
Snorri snorted, not fooled by the lie. Yet he stepped back from Ylva even as he said to her, “Prepare for the feast, my love. And prepare Freya to be my bride.”
—
The servants descended like a horde of raiders, stripping me of my clothing and pushing me into a bath so hot, it nearly scalded my skin. Though I was hardly used to being bathed by others, that wasn’t what consumed my thoughts as I was scrubbed with soap and polished with sand until my skin was nearly raw. It was that in the space of a day, my entire life had been turned upside down, the gods giving and taking in equal measure.
Seers did not lie.
They had the blood of Odin himself, and they spoke with the knowledge of the gods, though their prophecy was rarely clear until the events they foretold came to pass. So if the seer spoke these words directly to Snorri, they were the truth, in some fashion. It was possible that Snorri was lying, but…my gut told me his fervor was genuine.
Because it explained why my father had ordered me to keep my magic secret.
Children of the gods were created when one of the gods gifted a child a drop of their divine blood upon conception. In some instances, the gods were active participants in the sex, but it was not necessary—they need only be present for the act of creation. Which meant that while some parents might suspect the third party of their tryst had gifted them a child with
divine blood, some were entirely oblivious until the day the child’s magic appeared. The latter had been the case for me.
The truth had been revealed when I was seven and had shouted Hlin’s name while fighting with Geir. It was a game all children played despite it earning smacks from any adult in earshot for disrespecting the gods: Shout the name of one known to grant their blood and see if magic manifested. Geir and I had invoked Tyr and Thor and Freyja and countless other of the gods, but not once had I thought of Hlin. It had only been because the fight had gotten out of hand, my brother’s stick falling heavy on my tiny shield, that I’d grown desperate, calling the goddess’s name. The magic that came to my aid hadn’t thrown Geir the way it had Bjorn, but it had sent him sprawling.
And my father had witnessed it all.
Never in my life had I seen such a look of panic on his face as I did in that moment; the wideness of his eyes and the slackness of his open mouth were emblazoned on my memory. As was the way he had shaken me so hard my teeth rattled, his breath hot in my face as he shouted, “You never say her name again! Do you hear me? You never say her name!” Then he’d rounded on Geir, gripping my brother by the arms so hard it had left bruises. “You never tell anyone what happened this day! Your sister’s life depends on it!”
His reaction made more of an impact on me than the magic itself, and for a long time, fear of seeing my father angered had kept the goddess’s name from my lips and questions off my tongue. But time tempered my fear and fueled my curiosity. Children of the gods were rare, Vragi the only one I’d seen with my own eyes, but stories of deeds done by those with magic filled the air at every gathering. Those with god’s blood were fabled and honored, and I wanted to join their ranks. Wanted to fight in battles and have my victories sung about by skalds, but every time I gained the nerve to press my father about why my magic was to be hidden, he’d react with fury. Realizing that he’d give me no answers, it wasn’t long until I was sneaking out and experimenting, most often with Geir along with me.
Of course we got caught.
My father’s wrath had been a thing to behold, a terrible twist of anger and fear that no child wishes to see in their parent’s eyes as he’d again forbidden me to use my magic.
“Why must I hide it when no one else does?” I had demanded. “In every story about children of the gods, the gift of blood and magic is treated as an honor, but you act like I’ve been cursed. Tell me why!”
“Because you are Hlin’s child, Freya. The only one alive,” he replied. “And you were born under the blood moon. If anyone discovers this truth, you will be used. Used and fought over by powerful men until you are dead. Do you understand?” He had shouted the last part in my face. “If anyone finds out, your life will never be your own!”
He had refused to explain further why Hlin’s blood made me uniquely coveted among the children of the gods, yet I took him at his word with the blind faith of a child who trusted her father above all others. And, like a child, I hadn’t really listened.
My eyes stung because my father had known of the seer’s prophecy. He had once been one of Snorri’s trusted warriors, so he either witnessed the foretelling or had been told about it, which was why he knew what Snorri would do if my heritage were ever discovered. If only I had listened…
I would still be married to Vragi, facing a lifetime of drudgery and cruelty beneath my husband’s hand.
The Norns give, and the Norns take. “Does it hurt?”
I jumped at the servant’s question, my thoughts vanishing. She had been buffing the nails on my left hand and was now trimming what remained of the nails on my right. “Not like it did. Now it just aches, like an injury from years ago.”
My words must have eased her mind, for she gripped my hand more firmly, her brow furrowed as she cut away the blackened nail. “Is it true you wielded the Firehand’s axe to murder your own husband?”
Wielded was a strong word. “Yes.”
I waited for the admission to stir something in me—relief, guilt, anything. But as before, I felt nothing.
“I’m sure he deserved it.” The servant frowned, then asked, “But didn’t you know the axe would burn you?”
Had I known?
Logically, I suppose I had, but that wasn’t my concern. My concern was whether I could wrest it from Bjorn’s grip. Whether my aim would be true. “I needed a weapon, and it was the only one available.”
All the women paused to stare at me, but the one tending to my nails only giggled. “Worked out in your favor, I suppose. I’d suffer a scald to sit on Bjorn’s lap for a few hours.”
Anger swelled in my chest at the stupidity of her comment. At the idea that I’d willingly endured the most traumatic moment of my life for a chance to sit in a man’s lap. “It melted the skin off my palm. Turned my flesh to ash.” I spotted several flecks of that ash on the edge of the tub and bent my head to blow them in her face. “If you’re willing to do that much just to rub your arse against a man’s cock, you’re desperate indeed.”
I waited for the jab to land, craving the petty satisfaction of seeing her embarrassment, but the woman’s dark eyes only met mine with a smile. “Or maybe he’s that good in bed.”
The other women laughed, and despite knowing the comment was foolish, it was I who flushed. I who fell silent as they pulled me from the bath and set to combing out the long lengths of my hair, trimming the ends so that bits of white gold covered the floor.
I gritted my teeth as the servant woman began to braid, my hair drawn so tight that my scalp ached. Taking a deep breath, I tried to refocus on more pressing issues. But instead, my thoughts lingered on Bjorn.
More heat rose to my cheeks as I remembered the things I had said to him with Liv present, comparing him to the god of beauty like a girl who hadn’t yet had her first bleed, despite being a grown woman who had endured a year of marriage. Visions of my behavior replayed in my mind, my horror growing with each passing moment. Bad enough that we had our flirtation on the beach. At least then we had no notion of each other’s identity, but I had gone on to all but declare my lust for him in front of Liv, fully aware that I was intended to wed his father. It was no wonder he had been mortified. While it was tempting to blame Liv’s narcotics for my behavior, all they had done was loosen my tongue to speak the truth.
When I closed my eyes, the image of him emerging from the water filled my mind’s eye—all tattooed skin and muscle, not an ounce of spare flesh on him. Every bit a warrior, and that face… Mortals shouldn’t be allowed such beauty; it made fools of everyone else. His silver tongue only made it worse because even if he had been as ugly as a pig’s arse, Bjorn was bloody charming. Yes, he had very nearly killed me when we were forced to fight, but given that I was equally willing to put a sword through his heart, it seemed petty to hold it against him.
Stop it, Freya, I chided myself. Think about something else. Think of worms or night soil, or better yet, the fact you’re apparently destined to unite Skaland as his father’s wife. Think of anything but Bjorn.
I might as well have told myself to flap my arms and fly for all the good it did. Bjorn’s face, his body, and the ghostly echoes of his touch tormented my thoughts as the servants finished my braids and painted my eyes with kohl. The fantasies were only banished when they brought me the dress I was to wear. Finer than anything I had ever seen, the dress was thin white wool, the shoes butter-soft leather, and the jewelry… Not in all my life had I dreamed of wearing such wealth. My throat and wrists were wrapped with silver and gold, one of the women pushing needles through my earlobes so that I might wear the heavy earrings.
Then Ylva appeared, carrying a bridal crown.
It was made of twisted wires of gold and silver strung with pieces of polished amber, the same color as my eyes. Ylva herself fastened it to my braids with endless tiny pins. She turned me to face a round piece of polished metal so that I might see my appearance, the servants all smiling and laughing, pleased with their efforts.
“Finally,” Ylva breathed. “Finally, you look like a child of the gods.”
I stared at my reflection, feeling as though I was looking into the eyes of a stranger.
Ylva placed a mantle of gleaming white fur over my shoulders, my braids almost indistinguishable in color as she smoothed them over the expensive pelt. “Snorri will be pleased.” Then she snapped her fingers. “Gloves. She must be perfection.”
All eyes immediately turned to my right hand, and I fought the urge to hide my scarred fingers in the pocket of my dress, unsure which was worse—disgust or pity—only knowing that I hated both. So I voiced no objection when one of them handed me a pair of white wool gloves, feeling no sensation in my right palm as I pulled them on.
Numb.
The crack of Geir’s leg when Snorri broke it echoed in my head, and I flinched, knowing much worse could be done.
I needed to be numb. To do what needed to be done, say what needed to be said, and be what these people wanted me to be, because those I loved most depended on my compliance.
And I refused to fail them, no matter the cost.
