“I’m surprised to see you here.” Bjorn’s light tone belied the tension radiating from him. “It’s a long journey from Nordeland to Fjalltindr. And a dangerous one.”
“I felt the urge to prove my devotion to the gods,” Harald answered. “I don’t want Thor to look upon me with disfavor when I take to the seas this summer.”
The tall woman with him gave a soft snort of amusement, and the mead in my stomach soured. Taking to the seas in the summer meant raiding, and Skaland was Nordeland’s nearest target.
Though Bjorn had to know that, he said, “Planning a journey? The seashore is most relaxing in the warmer months.”
The king gave a small smile, then shrugged, the motion made elegant by his long, lean frame. Indeed, if not for my instinctual distaste for him, I’d have thought him more than passingly attractive with his high cheekbones
and golden-brown hair, which hung in loose waves to his shoulders, his short beard secured by a gold clip. “We shall see what the Norns have in store for us. Already there have been surprising developments.”
His eyes, which were the palest of grays, latched onto mine, and I knew he meant me. I was the surprising development. Despite Bjorn killing his spy, King Harald knew who I was and what I represented. A fact that was confirmed as he said, “You are the shield maiden, yes? What is your name?”
There seemed little point in denying my identity. “Freya, Erik’s daughter.”
“I’m surprised you remain alive,” he said. “Many seek your death, for they do not wish to see Skaland with a king, and even less to swear allegiance to Snorri. Though I see they have all failed to kill you as they swore to do.”
Bjorn shifted restlessly next to me, and I wondered if he was considering the same thing as I was: whether Harald counted himself among those who wished my death. Weapons might not be allowed within Fjalltindr but that wouldn’t stop his men from ambushing us outside the borders.
“A bit of foresight would have told those who sought Freya’s death that there was another path to be taken,” Bjorn answered. “One worth the risks, given the gods have spoken of a future that has not yet come to pass.”
The twisted phrasing felt strange in my ears, but the king responded before I could give it more thought.
“It’s true, then, the whispers racing through Fjalltindr? She vanquished the draug from the tunnels?” Harald didn’t wait for an answer, only tilted his head and asked, “How? They cannot be slain with a mortal weapon and Hlin’s shield only protects.”
“It seems she is favored by more than just Hlin.”
Given Tyr had once been content to burn half the skin off my hand, that was definitely not the case. But if convincing those set on killing me that I was favored by all the gods would dissuade them from putting seaxes in my heart, I’d be more than happy to scream the lie day and night. My honor had its limits.
One of the king’s eyebrows rose. “Interesting.”
The thud of many feet on steps filtered up from behind us, and I half turned to find Snorri and Ylva approaching, warriors behind them.
“Jarl Snorri. Or is it King Snorri now?” King Harald smiled widely, though it held little warmth. “It has been an age. I was only just catching up with Bjorn. We miss his presence and would give a great deal to have him back in Nordeland.”
A chill raced across my skin.
“Harald.” Snorri stepped next to Bjorn’s elbow, not addressing the king’s comment as he said, “I see you’ve met my new wife.”
Harald’s eyes darkened and I realized that Snorri had answered the king’s threat. If the foretelling came to pass and Skaland united under one king, not only would we be able to repel Nordeland’s raids, we would have the strength to raid Nordeland itself.
“Yes. Freyaaaa,” the king answered, showing no sign of being cowed as he drew out my name. “As beautiful as she is formidable. May she bear you many children, as well as a crown, my old friend.”
Snorri crossed his arms, jaw tight.
“I’d say that it must be pleasing to have found the shield maiden of your prophecy, yet the rumor is that she has cost you far more than she’s earned,” the king said. “Halsar attacked, men lost to Gnut, more lost along the way to Fjalltindr. I’d be concerned that I’d misinterpreted Saga’s words.”
“We are here to give our offering to the gods,” Snorri interrupted. “Not for idle chatter with our enemies.”
“Enemies is such a strong word. Especially given we were once friends and allies.”
“Once,” Snorri snarled. “Then you murdered my seer and stole my son from me. Kept him as your thrall!”
A flash of emotion passed across the king’s face but his smile swiftly returned. “As a hostage, whom I raised as though he were my own son in honor of our friendship,” the king corrected. “And what choice did I have? Though I was innocent, you blamed me for Saga’s death to all who’d listen, using it to create support among your people for raiding my shores. If I’d
not kept Bjorn at my side, those raids would have come to fruition. You’d have slaughtered my people, and it would’ve been war.”
“It will be war.” Snorri stepped nose-to-nose with the king. “You can no longer use my son to defend yourself, Harald. Soon he will stand across from you on the field of battle with the shield maiden at his side, and Nordeland will bleed as Skaland has all these long years you denied it a king. Before the gods”—he gestured violently at the statues—“I swear it will be so!”
I bit the insides of my cheeks. Not only did Snorri wish to become king of our people, but he also intended to wield Skaland like a weapon against the man whom he seemed to blame for delaying his destiny.
My pulse raced as visions of sailing across the strait to make war against Nordeland filled my eyes, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. Part of me reveled in the idea of striking back against the man who’d kept Bjorn from his family to achieve his own ends.
But another part of me remembered how Bjorn had spoken of the kindness of the Nordelanders to him while he was a prisoner.
I glanced sideways at Bjorn, whose eyes were fixed on the ground rather than on the arguing men. Do something, I willed him. Say something.
But he barely seemed to be aware of the argument before him.
My anger flared to life because I hated seeing him behave this way, so entirely not himself. Being in the presence of the man who’d kept him prisoner should have him raging, but instead he was utterly still, eyes lowered. My anger found its way to my tongue. “Any man who uses a child to hide from battle is a coward who will never see Valhalla. It will be Hel who takes you in death, King.”
No sooner had the words been spoken than the ground beneath our feet quivered. Everyone in the hall started in alarm, except for Snorri, who laughed. “You see?” he said. “The gods are watching her and show their favor.”
“Indeed,” Harald replied. “She is even more formidable than I’d anticipated.” Stepping sideways out of our path, he added, “I will not stand between you and the gods, old friend.”
Snorri snorted, then caught hold of my arm and hauled me forward, everyone else following at our heels, including Bjorn. Yet once we’d all passed, Harald called out, “Bjorn. What befell Ragnhild?”
At mention of the spy, Bjorn stopped in his tracks and turned back. “She’s dead, although I suspect you know that.”
Harald inclined his head in agreement. “Who killed her?” Silence.
“What difference does it make?” Snorri demanded, stepping between Bjorn and Harald. “She spied on me and suffered the consequences.”
“No difference.” Harald lifted one shoulder, his gaze meeting mine. “Though yours was the last face she saw, Freya, and she died because of it. Come, Tora.”
Without another word, the king of Nordeland and the tall woman left the hall, leaving us alone with the statues of the gods.
“Harald is not our current concern,” Ylva said, shoving Snorri in the opposite direction. “Nor an immediate threat.”
“The woman with him is Tora, child of Thor,” he answered. “And he’ll have Skade with him as well, both of them deadly.”
I had no notion of who this Skade might be, but a child of Thor could call lightning, and that was terrifying enough.
If Ylva felt the same, she didn’t show it, only said, “Neither can use their magic within Fjalltindr, so they are an obstacle for a later hour. We must do what we came for. All your vows of war will mean nothing if Freya does not make her sacrifice and the gods turn on her for her failure.”
Snorri resisted, his eyes fixed on the door Harald had exited, but then he growled and extracted a handful of silver coins from his pocket, which he pressed into my hands. “Ask the gods for their favor.”
Ask them yourself was what I wanted to say, but instead I nodded and stepped toward the statues.
The hall had no floor, only raw bedrock through which a stream flowed, its branches creating islands on which statues sat. Piles of offerings rested at each god’s feet, and I stepped across the water to set a silver coin beneath Njord’s likeness.
Njord, I ask your forgiveness for…I hesitated, memories washing over me. Not memories of the way Vragi had treated me, but rather memories of how he’d used the magic Njord’s blood had gifted him. Remembered the whale he beached over and over again for sport. Remembered all the fish that had not filled bellies but rotted on beaches for his carelessness. He dishonored your gift.
I set another coin at the feet of the goddess I’d been named for, immediately thinking of my brother. Freyja, please grant Geir and Ingrid love and happiness. And many babies, I added, knowing that this was Ingrid’s wish.
With Bjorn, Snorri, and Ylva at my heels, I went from god to god, giving my offering and asking for the gods to favor those I loved. Those I knew to be in need. Those I knew to be deserving.
When I reached Loki, it was me I thought of. Loki was the trickster, his children gifted with his ability to transform themselves into the shapes of others to achieve their ends. Deceivers asked for his favor.
And with all the lies I was telling, I was a deceiver of the first order.
Loki, please…I trailed off, unwilling to ask him to grant me a liar’s tongue to better keep my deceptions alive, because while that was the role I had to play, it was not who I was in my heart. So instead I asked for nothing, only set a coin at his feet.
As I turned to the last god, the Allfather Odin, I heard Snorri say, “I can keep silent no more, Bjorn.”
No one had spoken while I’d given my offerings, so I slowed my step, curious about what Snorri might say while he thought me distracted.
“Why did you just stand there? Harald denied Skaland its king by keeping you his prisoner, and while I voiced the promise of vengeance, you cowered like a beaten dog.”
Anger flamed to life in my chest, but I bit my lip and kept silent.
“It was either do nothing or commit murder on the grounds of Fjalltindr,” Bjorn answered. “Be glad I checked my violence, Father.”
Snorri snorted, seemingly unconvinced. “Act like the weapon you are.
Put fear into the hearts of our enemies. Be worthy of Tyr’s fire.”
Snap back, I willed Bjorn. Put him in his place. But he only said, “Yes, Father.”
Scowling, I stepped over the pooled water to place a coin at Odin’s feet. “Odin,” I whispered. Allfather, if it is your will, please see Bjorn released from the burden of his past so that he might fight those who deserve his vengeance. Accept this offering on his behalf.
A shiver passed over me, my skin prickling. But the sensation quickly passed, leaving me suddenly drained. I’d barely slept in days, climbed mountains infested with monsters, and fought battles with words and weapons. All I wanted was to curl up on a flat surface somewhere and not move until dawn tomorrow.
Except judging from the rhythmic drumming outside, sleep was not an option.
“The ritual is beginning,” Ylva said. “We must go prepare, and quickly.”
Surrounded by Snorri’s warriors, we went to a small hall that appeared to have been granted to Snorri for his use. We paused outside, Ylva using a stick of charcoal to draw runes on the door, the markings flaring bright and then seeming to sink into the wood when she was finished. “While we call this hall home, no one with ill intent to any of our party may enter,” she murmured. “Though it will not stop them from burning it down around our heads.”
“I’ll post guards,” Snorri said, then motioned for me to go inside.
The hall was simply furnished with many cots, and a fire burned in the hearth, but otherwise, it was empty.
“Where is Steinunn?” Snorri asked of Bjorn, genuine concern in his voice. “Did she fall?”
“It was too dangerous for her to come,” Bjorn answered. “I sent her back with your warrior. Told her to try to catch up to you.”
Snorri’s face darkened. “We saw no sign of her. She was supposed to travel with you for a reason, Bjorn.”
The gleam in Bjorn’s eye told me he was thinking of making this situation worse, so I said, “She resisted, only agreeing to part ways with us after I gave my word that I’d tell her all she wished to know. And it’s well
she didn’t make the climb, for she’d have surely fallen to the draug in the battle.” He seemed unappeased, so I added, “Steinunn herself told me her magic is more powerful when her song tells a story from the eyes of those who endure the trials, so it is best that it will be my story she sings without the influence of seeing the events herself.”
I held my breath as Snorri silently considered my words, then he nodded and said, “You will tell her all at the soonest opportunity. As it is, I wished her here to sing the ballad of your birth in fire and your marking for all clans to hear, and now that must wait.”
“I’ll tell her everything,” I lied, because there were most definitely moments in the tunnels that the world did not need to know.
Snorri gave me a curt nod, turning once again to Bjorn, and Ylva shoved me behind a curtain. “Clothes off. With all my thralls dead to ensure you lived, you’ll have to bathe yourself. Do it swiftly.”
You killed them, not me, I wanted to say. Instead I remained silent, pulling off my chain-mail shirt and then the garments underneath, cringing at the stink of metal, sweat, and blood that clung to me. Boots and trousers joined the pile on the floor, and I hoped I’d have time to wash them before having to don them again, because the smell would only worsen.
A bucket of steaming water arrived, and I struggled to unravel my braids with one hand. My right had stiffened horribly, the tightness of my scars made worse by the bruising I’d gained punching the draug.
“Cursed, useless girl.” Ylva abandoned her own washing to help me. “Head in the bucket.”
She swiftly washed my hair before leaving me to scrub the filth from my body with a rag. From the bags, she extracted a simple dress, which she helped me into before dressing herself.
“What will happen tonight?” I asked, finally in the position to get answers to the questions I’d been avoiding thinking about. An enormous price had been paid to get me here for the ritual, yet I still had no notion of what would occur.
“All those who have traveled to Fjalltindr will make sacrifices to the gods,” Ylva said. “As will you.”
“That’s it?” Not that I was complaining. If killing a chicken was all that I had to do, I’d gladly do it.
“There is a celebration afterwards, but you will come back here where we can ensure your safety. The runes on the hall will protect you.” She went to the wall where a dozen masks hung on hooks and selected one fashioned to look like a raven, a long cape of black feathers hanging from it. She fit it on my head, and when I looked up, it was to see the sharp beak protruding above my forehead. With ash, she shadowed the skin around my eyes as though I were going to war. Fastening a mask with deer antlers on her own head, she said, “We sent a messenger back to Halsar after you separated from us. Even now, Ragnar will be coming with all haste with the rest of our fighting men to ensure we get back down this mountain alive.”
“They’ll be leaving Halsar undefended?”
“Yes.” Her gaze was frosty. “I hope you appreciate what is being done to keep you safe.”
All of that so that I could kill a chicken in front of a crowd of people.
As though hearing my thoughts, Ylva gripped my shoulders, staring unblinkingly at me from behind her mask. “You are a child of the gods, girl. You are one of the Unfated, which means everything you do has the power to alter your destiny, and the destinies of those around you, for good and ill.”
Not for the first time, I hated that fact. Longed to be fully mortal so that everything I’d ever do was already woven. For it felt like I was running down an unmapped path where I might easily lose my way, dragging myself and all those I cared for to our doom.
Ylva looked me up and down, her lips pinched tight. “We have no more time, so this will have to do.”
When we stepped out from behind the curtain, it was to find Snorri and Bjorn waiting unmasked and in silence, the tension between them high. Both had removed their mail, and Bjorn had scrubbed the blood from his face, revealing shadows beneath his green eyes. Exhausted, yet he moved unerringly to my elbow, his father giving him a nod of approval before stepping outside, where the warriors waited.
Snorri and Ylva led the group through the trees, hundreds of people moving in the same direction. Many men and women wore elaborate masks like my own, often accompanied by decorated hides or cloaks of feathers, which made it seem like a herd of beasts approaching the ritual.
Bjorn walked at my left, his eyes roving over any who drew near. A woman walked against the flow, her face concealed by a mask of raven feathers that blended into her dark hair. Bjorn tensed as she drew close and my own heart skittered, seeing threats at every turn. But she only murmured, “What path do you follow?”
I blinked, opening my mouth to answer her, but Bjorn caught my arm and drew me forward. “Seems like many have already indulged in mushroom tea.”
Frowning, I cast a backward glance at the woman, but she’d already disappeared into the trees, so I turned my eyes to where torches glowed, illuminating a gathering of hundreds of people standing before a large flat rock. Drummers pounded the same rhythm they had before, low and ominous, and through the tree foliage a full moon glowed overhead.
As though they’d been waiting for our arrival, the drums increased their intensity, and the gothar appeared carrying bowls of liquid, offering mouthfuls to every individual they passed. One approached our group, but the warriors all shook their heads, declining the offering.
“You will drink,” Ylva said to me under her breath as both Snorri and Bjorn declined. “The tea will bring you closer to the gods.”
The last thing I wanted to do was drink the contents of the bowl. Even from here, I could smell the earthy musk of mushrooms, and I’d not lived such a sheltered life as to be unaware of what would happen if I drank.
The gothi smiled and lifted the bowl to my lips. I pretended to drink, but Ylva wasn’t fooled. “You think they can’t see?” she hissed. “You think they don’t know?”
I highly doubted the gods gave a shit whether I consumed mushroom tea or not, but I wouldn’t put it past Ylva to hold me down and force the entire bowl down my throat, so I took a tiny mouthful. Ylva declined to drink, and
Bjorn gave a soft laugh at my scowl. “May the tea show you sweet visions, Born-in-Fire.”
Fuck.
I had no interest in seeing things, but short of sticking my fingers down my throat and vomiting in front of everyone, there wasn’t much to be done.
Peering between the heads of those taller than me, I watched a man lift a goat onto the altar, the creature showing little awareness, and therefore little concern, about its impending death. The drums grew louder, the man’s words to the gods drowned out by the noise. A blade made of white bone caught the moonlight and blood sprayed, the animal slumping as its lifeblood flowed into carved channels and dripped into waiting basins. A gothi dipped his hand in it, using it to mark the faces of those who’d offered the sacrifice. Blood dripped down foreheads and cheeks, and I swore I heard the droplets hit the ground despite distance making that impossible.
A shiver ran over me, the air charged in a way I’d never felt before. As if deeds done and words spoken in this place meant more than they did anywhere else. As though we truly were closer to the gods.
Discomfited, I stopped watching, focusing instead on the bald head of a man a few paces before me.
But the sensation didn’t lessen.
The air grew thick, smelling of thunder and rain. My skin crawled as the feeling intensified, and I broke my gaze from the bald head to glance at my companions. All were watching the altar, but as my eyes skipped over Bjorn, he rubbed his bare forearms, the dusting of dark hair on them lifting as though he were cold.
Bjorn never got cold.
What was going on?
Those around us who’d consumed the tea gaped at the sacrifice on the altar with strange, unblinking stares. I focused inward to see if my tiny mouthful of tea had taken effect.
Would I know? Would I be able to tell if what I was seeing was real or hallucination?
Glancing back to the ritual revealed that several more sacrifices had been made during my distraction. All around me, men and women bore streaks of blood the gothar had smeared across their faces. The coppery smell filled my nose.
Bump, bump.
My heart rate escalated, matching the rhythm of the drums, the world around me pulsing.
Bump, bump.
“It is time,” Ylva whispered into my ear. “Do not fail.”
One of Snorri’s warriors walked up to the altar. Except it wasn’t a chicken he held in his hand, but rather a rope attached to a bull, and I swallowed hard, feeling a hand press against my back. The crowd ahead of me parted, the people swaying in rhythm to the drums as I approached.
Or were they standing still?
Each time I looked at the crowd, I saw something different. Wasn’t sure whether what I saw was real or whether the tea was making me see things.
Each step grew harder, my breath coming in rapid pants as it had when I was racing up the mountain, but I drew no closer to the altar. I broke into a run, then stumbled, suddenly on top of the rock, reaching a hand out to the bull to touch its warm hide.
It shivered, turning its large head to stare at me, eyes like black pits. A gothi pressed the knife into my hand.
I stared at the bone blade, the blood covering it swirling and moving like the tides of the sea, the smell choking me.
“I’ll hold him steady.”
Bjorn’s voice filled my ears. He had one hand on the lead, the other bracing one of the creature’s horns. The bull was old, his muzzle gray. He shifted uneasily, though whether it was from the smell of blood, the crowd, or some sixth sense that his end was near, I couldn’t say.
“Do you know how?”
Bjorn sounded distant, as though he stood a dozen feet away from me, not at my elbow.
“Yes.”
The gothi began shouting to the gods, offering the sacrifice, but it was hard to hear him as the wind rose. It caught and pulled at my clothes and the raven’s feathers I wore, the branches of the surrounding forest rustling against one another, the trees themselves creaking and groaning from the onslaught.
The gothi went silent, and Bjorn said, “Now, Freya.”
I tightened my grip on the knife. Above, lightning flashed, branches of light shattering the night before everything turned dark. The people turned their faces skyward in time to watch a mass of black birds descend, flying in chaotic circles even as the forest came alive with the sounds of creatures calling, their voices a cacophony of noise. The bull shifted restlessly and bellowed.
“Freya,” Bjorn hissed, “if he decides to bolt, I won’t be able to stop him.”
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t tear my eyes from the circling birds. Omens. Signs the gods watched, and I found myself uncertain whether this was an offering they wanted. But the specter had said that if I did not do this, my life would be forfeit.
Lightning arced across the sky. Once, twice, three times, the thunder deafening yet not loud enough to drown out the beat of the drums. The bull twisted, pulling against Bjorn’s grip even as the birds descended, wings brushing my face as they circled, the bull’s eyes rolling as it started to panic.
“Freya!”
If I failed, my family’s lives would be forfeit.
“Accept this offering,” I breathed, then pulled the knife across the bull’s jugular.
It lunged, dragging Bjorn with it, and then dropped to its knees, blood raining down to fill the channels, draining into a basin held by a gothi.
Everything went silent, even the drums, the ravens vanishing like smoke.
I quivered, watching as the bull slumped, its side going still with death. No one spoke. No one moved. No one seemed to even breathe.
The gothi reacted first, lifting the basin and dipping his fingers into the crimson contents. But it was the basin, not his hand, that I focused on, the blood swirling as though a maelstrom had settled into its depths.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Each droplet of blood that fell from the gothi’s hands resounded in my ears like rocks being dropped from far above. I jerked with each impact, the noise deafening.
The gothi reached for me, and it took every ounce of will I possessed not to recoil as he dragged his fingers across my face, the blood hot against my icy flesh.
A pulse of air struck me the moment his fingers left my skin, and my stomach dropped as though I were falling from a great height. Surrounding the crowd was a circle of hooded figures, each holding a torch that burned with silver fire.
I couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. “Bjorn,” I whispered, “I’m seeing things that aren’t there.”
“No.” His breath caught. “They are here.” The gods were here.
Not one of them, but…but all of them. My eyes skipped from figure to figure, not certain if I was shocked or terrified or both. The air swirled, carrying with it a voice, neither male nor female, that whispered, “Freya Born-in-Fire, child of two bloods, we see you.”
Then the figures disappeared.
I stood rigid, unable to move even if I’d wanted to, because the gods… the gods had been here. And they’d come because of me.
What remained to be seen was whether that was for good or ill, as I still had little notion of what future they saw for me. Why they cared for the child of the most minor of their ranks.
Why me?
As though I possessed no more intelligence than the dead bull at my feet, I gaped at the crowd, wondering how many realized that this had been
no tea-induced delusion. Too many, I decided, seeing eyes that stared at me with clarity. Snorri, Ylva, and their warriors, yes. But also King Harald, whose gaze was thoughtful as he stood with his slender arms crossed at the rear of the crowd, Tora still at his elbow.
My knees were weak, demanding that I sit, but thankfully Bjorn had enough wit to own the situation. Grabbing my bloody hand, which still gripped the bone knife, he lifted it high. “The gods are watching,” he roared. “Do not disappoint them in your revels!”
The crowd answered with a roar of approval, men and women dispersing into the trees to where bonfires burned and jugs of mead awaited.
“Are you all right?” Bjorn asked, his hands squeezing mine.
“I…I…” Twisting out of his grip, I barely made it to the edge of the altar before dropping to my knees to vomit. Bjorn pulled the raven mask off me, then held back my hair as I heaved for the second time today, the muscles in my stomach aching from the abuse.
Spitting, I turned to look at him. “Why? Why are they watching me?” Before he could speak, Snorri and Ylva were upon us.
“There can be no denying the foretelling now,” Snorri said. “We must get Freya back to the hall until reinforcements arrive, for she is prize enough that some might tempt the peace of Fjalltindr.”
Easing to my feet, I didn’t resist as Snorri led me past the dozens of bonfires, those surrounding them laughing and dancing as they ate and drank. We made our way to the hall Ylva had warded, warriors taking up posts around it as I was brought inside.
The moment I was through the doors, I broke away from Snorri. “I need to sleep.”
What I needed was to think, to ask questions, to understand what had happened. But days with little rest had more than caught up with me and I knew none of those things would happen without a few hours of unconsciousness. Thankfully no one argued, Snorri, Ylva, and Bjorn speaking in terse voices as I went to the curtained area where I’d dressed and used the basin of water to scrub the blood from my face.
Not bothering to take off the dress, I collapsed on a cot, using the last vestiges of my energy to pull the furs over my body.
Freya Born-in-Fire, child of two bloods, we see you.
The unearthly voices repeated in my head, and I shivered, rolling so that I was looking at the curtain. Through it, I could make out the shadows of the three.
“Now is the time to form alliances,” Snorri said. “Now, with the appearance of the gods and their validation of the prophecy fresh in their minds.”
Had the gods validated the seer’s foretelling? All they’d said was that they were watching, which could mean anything.
“A matter of hours ago, these same men were trying to take Freya or kill her, and you think this is enough for them to accept your rule?” Bjorn snorted in disgust. “If anything, they will only try harder.”
“Which is why I must convince them of the imminent threat Harald presents to us all,” Snorri answered. “Alone, no clan can stand against him, but united? He will think twice about raiding our shores again. Especially once we turn to raiding his territories.”
“That is your intent, then?” Bjorn asked. “To move immediately against Harald with Freya in the center of your shield wall?”
Silence, then Snorri said, “Such a proposition should enthuse you, my son. Harald didn’t raise you out of the kindness of his heart. He hid you from us so as to deny me my destiny as king. To deny Skaland the strength it needed to stand against his raiders. You should be screaming for vengeance.”
“I do wish revenge,” Bjorn snapped back, the venom in his voice suggesting that he wished that revenge very much indeed. “But until quite recently, Freya’s days were spent gutting fish and keeping house. Yet you think magic and prophecy enough for her to lead your warriors into battle despite her knowing nothing of war. It seems an ideal way to get everyone killed.”
I winced, but given Bjorn was correct, taking insult seemed foolish.
“For once, Bjorn speaks reason.” Ylva’s voice startled me, as I’d half forgotten she was there. “You speak of warring against Harald when we’ve yet to form a single alliance with another jarl. Let us look to the first step before the second, lest we stumble.”
“Which is precisely what I proposed to do, yet instead I stand here listening to you two prattle!” Snorri made an aggrieved noise. “You remain here with Freya while I pursue conversation that will achieve our ends.”
“Take our warriors with you,” Ylva said. “You need a show of strength when you meet with the other jarls.”
“They need to remain to protect Freya.”
“The wards will prevent anyone from attempting to come in.” Snorri shook his head. “It’s too risky.”
“You need the jarls to believe you have the strength to deliver on what you have promised,” Ylva said. “Besides, Bjorn will be here with her.”
Snorri hesitated, then said, “Fine. Stay within the wards.”
His boots thudded against the wooden floor, and the curtain moved on the draft of air as he opened the door and departed.
“I need to sleep.” Bjorn’s tone was cool. “Wake me only if absolutely necessary.”
“I’ve never needed you for anything before, Bjorn.” Ylva’s voice was equally frosty. “And I think that unlikely to change over the next few hours.”
I heard the creak of Bjorn settling onto a cot and the room grew silent. As was typical of men, his breathing deepened with sleep while my mind continued to turn over events, refusing to calm enough for me to drift off.
Every time I closed my eyes, visions of the gods appearing filled my mind’s eye, that strange collective voice like thunder, Freya Born-in-Fire, child of two bloods, we see you. What had they meant? Child of two bloods was clear enough, for I had both mortal and divine blood in my veins, but so did every other child of the gods. What exactly did they see in me that was worth all of them stepping onto the mortal plane at once? What was it about me that was so special? How did they foresee me uniting a nation of
clans that raided and warred against one another year in and year out? Clans that did not want to be united.
Because Bjorn was right that I was no warrior of legend whose battle fame would awe and inspire warriors to follow me. Nor was I a gifted orator whose words had the power to convince even the most stubborn naysayers.
Why me? Why not Bjorn or someone like him?
And…and why did the gods care if Skaland was united at all? For as long as memory, we’d been divided, as were all the other nations who worshipped our gods, save Nordeland. What did the gods stand to gain in that changing? Why had they chosen me to do it?
And why, of all men, did they want Snorri to be king?
Someone stirred, and I recognized the soft tread of Ylva’s feet as she moved about the hall. Then the curtain blew inward.
I tensed at the draft, certain that my disloyal thoughts had summoned my
husband back, but when the air stilled, no one spoke.
Curious, I reached down and pulled up the edge of the curtain, taking in the darkened hall. Bjorn was stretched out on a cot, but otherwise the space was empty.
Ylva was gone.
She’s just stepped out to take a piss, I told myself. Go to sleep while you can, you idiot.
Rolling onto my back, I closed my eyes, focusing on the sound of Bjorn’s breathing. Except doing so caused me to think about him. Rolling onto my side again, I lifted the curtain, my breath hitching. He’d moved onto his stomach and, ever overheated, had kicked off the sleeping furs, which meant his naked back was revealed.
Go to sleep, Freya. Except tearing my gaze from the hard lines of his thick muscles required a stronger woman than I’d ever be. I followed the designs of his tattoos, remembering how he’d shivered when I’d touched the crimson one on the back of his neck. The tattoos on his shoulders and back were inky black, and I wondered how far down they continued after
they disappeared into the waist of his trousers, and what else I’d discover if I followed their path.
An ache formed between my thighs, and I bit my lip, part of me wanting to weep that I was doomed to be an unsatisfied wife and the other part wanting to rage that it was so. If the gods truly favored me, then they ought to have delivered an attractive man who knew how to pleasure a woman. Instead I’d first been given to one who treated me as equal parts servant and broodmare, and then one married to another woman—though in fairness, not having to endure Snorri’s touch was a mercy.
It is hard to keep one’s wits when faced with a woman as beautiful as the sight of shore to a man who has been lost at sea.
Never in my life had anyone said such a thing to me, and I indulged myself by allowing the words to repeat again and again even as I remembered his touch on my hands. The intensity in his gaze as we’d stared into each other’s eyes. The heat and strength of him as he’d held me against the cold.
I wanted to feel all those things again.
It’s just lust, I snarled at myself. Deal with it and then go to sleep.
Dropping the curtain, I rolled onto my back and reached under the furs, drawing up the skirt of my dress. I slipped a hand inside my undergarments, no part of me surprised to find myself already wet. Closing my eyes, I traced a fingertip around the center of my pleasure, imagining what it would feel like to have Bjorn’s fingers between my thighs. His hands were so much bigger than mine, strong and calloused from use, but no less deft. So I imagined it was him, not me, stroking my sex. Slipping his fingers inside of me while his other hand cupped my breast.
Biting my lip to silence my moan, I reached down the neckline of my dress, finding my nipples hard and aching, wanting to be touched. Wanting to be sucked into his mouth.
I drifted further into my fantasy, feeling him slide my clothes from my body and settle in the cradle of my thighs, hardness pressing where my fingers currently sought climax. The thought of it nearly tipped me over the edge.
This was not dealing with my lust. It was making it worse.
I knew that. Knew fantasizing about Bjorn was only going to make me want him more, but I didn’t care.
Because I wanted. Wanted so many things, and it felt like I was fated to have none of them.
Release dangled just out of reach, and I plunged my fingers into my wetness, imagining it was his cock. Imagining how he’d fill me, my breathing growing ragged.
I was so close. So very close. My climax began to crest— And Bjorn stirred.
I jerked my hand out from between my legs, irrationally certain that he’d sensed what I was doing. My face turned molten as I waited for him to leap to my side of the curtain and accuse me of pleasuring myself with his name on my lips.
But instead, Bjorn walked on near-silent feet to the front of the hall, the curtain blowing across my face and then settling as he closed the door behind him, leaving me alone in the hall.
Blowing out a long breath, I waited for him to reenter. Seconds passed. Then minutes, and my unease as to where Ylva and Bjorn had gone grew and grew until I could sit still no longer.
So I climbed to my feet.
Easing the door open a crack, I peered out, fully expecting to find Bjorn leaning against the wall, or at the very least in sight.
But there was no one.
While the hall was warded with runes to protect any inside from those of ill intent, it still didn’t feel right that he’d leave me alone and unguarded, especially given that Snorri had instructed him to remain.
What was going on?
My unease deepened, and I opened the door enough to lean my head and shoulders out. In the distance, countless figures moved about between bonfires, but in the area near the hall, no one stirred.
Stay within the wards. Snorri’s warning echoed inside my head. I shut the door, then leaned against it, but my pulse didn’t slow. Ylva, I suspected,
had gone to find her husband, probably because she begrudged her exclusion from his conversation with the other jarls.
But where was Bjorn?
Fear soured my stomach as answers, each worse than the next, cycled through my head.
My life wasn’t the only one our enemies sought. King Harald had been more than clear that he’d try to take Bjorn prisoner again. What if he and his soldiers had been waiting outside? What if they’d waited for him to step out to take a piss and then cracked him over the head while he was watering a tree? What if they’d realized they couldn’t get past Ylva’s wards and decided to cut their losses with one prisoner? What if even now they were dragging him down the southern slopes of the mountain?
You need to stay in the hall, I told myself. It’s warded. Running around Fjalltindr by yourself is an idiot thing to do. Wait for Snorri to return.
Except that I had no idea when that would be. What if I sat here until morning while Bjorn was marched toward Nordeland?
I needed to get help before it was too late.
My cloak was draped over a bench, so I swiftly donned it as well as one of the antlered masks on the wall, praying that others enjoying the revels still wore theirs so that I might blend in. Then I stepped out into the night.
Moving through the trees, I searched the shadows, wanting to scream Bjorn’s name but knowing that to do so would bring unwanted attention. So instead I whispered, “Bjorn? Bjorn?” then out of desperation, “Ylva?”
Nothing.
I needed to find Snorri and the rest of the warriors. Needed to tell them what had happened so they could help in the hunt. But beyond knowing Snorri’s intent to meet with other jarls, I had no idea where to find him.
Stepping closer to the revels around the fires, I searched for familiar faces, realizing now why my parents had never brought me to Fjalltindr. Everywhere I looked, men and women staggered around, either drunk or intoxicated on other substances, and those who weren’t moving about were coupling in full view. Not only in pairs, but in groups of threes or fours or more, and if I hadn’t been in a full-blown panic, I would’ve gaped.
Such things pleased the gods, who delighted in the carnal. Yet I doubted the revelers were motivated by the gods, instead entirely consumed by their own pleasures. Which was good because it meant they paid no attention to me.
“Where the fuck are you, Snorri?” I whispered, though my heart was screaming, Where are you, Bjorn?
The rhythmic beat of drums echoed through the air as I walked, though it did little to drown the moans of pleasure of the revelers as they sought release on the ground or against trees, some wearing masks and some not, all of them strangers. Perhaps Bjorn was among them. Perhaps he’d left the hall in order to find pleasurable pursuits, thinking that I’d have the wisdom to remain behind the wards. My stomach soured, but logic immediately chased away the idea. There was too much at stake for him to take that sort of risk.
Except that he had left the hall of his own volition. Which begged the question of why?
The question repeated to the beat of the drums, my stomach twisting even as my chest constricted, every breath a challenge.
I wove through the narrow paths, searching, but not a single familiar face appeared. Shivers stole over me, my arms and legs weak as I eyed the other sleeping halls, but guards stood in the perimeters around them, watching over the jarls and their families within.
What if everyone was dead? “They aren’t,” I whispered at my terror. “No one would dare kill them within the confines of Fjalltindr. It’s forbidden.”
I took a step down a path, then light from the Hall of the Gods caught my eye. Dozens of brilliant torches encircled the structure, and as I watched, a shadow passed in front of them.
Moving closer, I eventually made out the face of Tora. If she was here, then Harald surely was as well, and if he’d taken Bjorn, this would be where he had him. Tora stood with her arms crossed in front of the entrance, expression implacable. Though she was unarmed, and presumably her magic as curtailed as my own by the power of this place, she was still twice
my size, which meant I would not get past her by force without warning those inside.
Shit.
I circled the building, wishing the revelers would quit laughing and humping and banging on drums so I could bloody well hear, but knowing my people as I did, they’d be at it until dawn.
The only door was the one guarded by Tora, and there were no windows. Stepping over the stream that flowed beneath the building, I paused, because if the water that flowed around the statues inside could exit, that meant there was an opening. Picking my way upstream, I reached the outcropping on which the hall sat. Water trickled down the rock, making soft tinkling sounds.
Feeling for handholds, I climbed, cursing silently as the antlers on my mask scratched against the wood of the hall’s wall. The freezing water numbed my hands, but I barely noticed as I peered through the narrow opening through which the water flowed. Immediately, my eyes went to where Harald stood.
He was speaking but I couldn’t make out his words over the tinkle of water and the noise of the revels. Just as I couldn’t make out the face of the individual he was speaking to, for the person, or persons, were hidden from view by Loki’s statue. I searched the shadows for any sign of Bjorn, Ylva, Snorri, or the rest of our companions, but found nothing. So my eyes drew back to the king.
He was angry, gesticulating and pointing.
Who was he speaking to?
“Did you think there wouldn’t be a cost to this?” I caught some of his words during a lull in the drums and leaned forward. “…he’ll destroy everything you care about if…this is the only way you can be certain Snorri won’t…”
My heart broke into a gallop at Snorri’s name, and I silently shrieked at the revelers to be silent as they broke into song.
“A good mother protects her son…does what it takes to…”
Loud voices from the revels drowned out the rest, but Harald ceased gesticulating, focusing intently on the unseen speaker.
The singing stopped.
“Then that is our plan,” Harald said. “He trusts you. Go—” A loud shriek of laughter drowned out the rest of what Harald said before he turned and left the building, leaving whomever he’d been speaking to in the hall alone.
I needed to see who it was.
There wasn’t space to climb through the hole and into the hall, so I swiftly climbed back down, scuttling around the side of the building. I crouched in the shadows, waiting to see who’d emerge, but the door remained shut. Unease filled my chest, and I crept up to the door, quietly opening it.
Lanterns still burned inside the hall, illuminating the statues, but nothing stirred. Whoever had been in here with Harald was gone.
“Shit,” I snarled, twisting on my heels to scan the shadows, searching for a fleeing figure, but all I saw were people dancing around fires in the distance.
Who was it? Who had been conspiring with Harald? Was it someone I knew?
A good mother protects her son…Unease filled my chest, and I circled the revels, searching. It couldn’t be her. Couldn’t be…
Indecision froze me in place. Should I hunt for the spy? Continue my search for Bjorn? Attempt to find Snorri to warn him?
A group of revelers staggered past me, one nearly knocking me over, only to shout, “Join us!”
I ignored him as I righted myself, but when I looked up, it was to see a hooded woman walking toward the hall where I was supposed to be sleeping.
Where Bjorn was supposed to be sleeping.
A building protected only by the wards that she had cast, because she’d
ensured no guards stood watch. And she’d done so in order to meet with
Harald, because she was plotting with him to get rid of Bjorn to make way for Leif to inherit.
Ylva. I was sure of it.
My hands balled into fists as I watched her reach for the door, already relishing the shock that would fill her face when she realized neither Bjorn nor I was inside. When she realized her plan hadn’t worked.
Ylva’s hand closed over the latch, opening the door, but as she moved to cross the threshold it was as though one of the gods themselves had swung a mighty fist, launching her backward. She landed square on her arse, a half dozen paces back from the door.
I almost crowed with delight. Her own wards had worked against her, denying entrance to any who desired to harm our party. Denying her entrance.
My elation was short-lived, as hands closed on my arms, yanking me back into the trees.
