“Why must I hide it when no one else does?” I’d demanded. “In every story about children of the gods, the gift of blood and magic is treated as an honor, but you act as though I’ve been cursed. Tell me why!”
“Because you are Hlin’s child, Freya. The only one alive,” he said. “And you were born under the blood moon. If anyone discovers this truth, you will be used. Used and fought over by men with power until you are dead. Do you understand?” He’d shouted the last in my face. “If anyone learns, your life will never be your own!”
He’d refused further explanation of why Hlin’s blood made me uniquely coveted among the children of the gods, yet I’d taken him at his word with the blind faith of a child who trusted her father above all others. Yet, also like a child, I hadn’t fucking listened.
My eyes stung because my father had known of the seer’s prophecy. He’d once been one of Snorri’s trusted warriors, so he’d either witnessed the foretelling or been told about it, which was why he’d known what Snorri would do if my heritage were ever discovered. If only I’d listened…
I’d still be married to Vragi. Would be 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 vanquished. She’d been buffing the nails on my left hand and was now trimming what remained of the nails on my right hand. “Not like it did. Now it just aches like an injury years old.”
My words must have eased her mind, for her grip firmed on my hand, 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 trigger something in me. Relief. Guilt. Anything. Yet as before, I felt nothing.
“I’m sure he deserved it.” The servant frowned, then asked, “But didn’t you know that the axe would burn you?”
Had I known?
Logically, I suppose that I had, but that hadn’t been my concern. It had been whether I’d be able to wrest it from Bjorn’s grip. It had been 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 bent over 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 the chance to sit in a man’s lap. “It melted the skin off my palm. Turned my flesh to ash.” Spotting several flecks of said ash sitting on the edge of the tub, I bent my head and blew them in her face. “If you’re willing to do so much to rub your arse against a man’s cock, you’re desperate indeed.”
I waited for the jab to land, wanting the petty satisfaction of seeing her embarrassment, but the woman’s dark eyes only met mine with a smile. “Or he’s that good in bed.”
All the other women laughed, and despite knowing the comment was foolish, it was me who flushed. Me who fell silent as they drew 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 head ached. Taking a deep breath, I tried to turn my mind back to more pressing issues. But instead it lingered on Bjorn.
More heat rose to my cheeks as I remembered the things I’d said to him with Liv present, comparing him to the god of beauty like a girl who hadn’t had her first bleed, despite being a grown woman who’d endured a year of marriage. Visions of my behavior replayed through my mind, my horror growing with each passing moment. Bad enough that we’d had our flirtation on the beach. At least then we’d had no notion of each other’s identity, but then I’d 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’d been mortified. While it was tempting to blame Liv’s narcotics for my behavior, all they’d done was loosen my tongue of the truth.
When I closed my eyes, the vision of him coming out of the water filled my mind’s eye, all tattooed skin and muscle, not a spare ounce of flesh on him. Every bit a warrior, and that face…Mortals shouldn’t be allowed such beauty for it made fools of everyone else, his silver tongue making it all the worse because even if he’d been ugly as a pig’s arse, Bjorn was bloody charming. Yes, he’d very nearly killed me when we’d been forced to fight, but given that I’d been 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 my admonitions 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 only vanquished when they brought me the dress I was to wear. Finer than anything I’d 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 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 stared 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 moved to my right hand, and I fought the urge to hide my scarred fingers in the pocket of my dress, not sure what was worse, disgust or pity—only that I hated both. So I voiced no argument 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 Geir’s leg had made when Snorri had broken it filled my head and I flinched, because I knew so much worse could be done.
I needed to be numb. To do what needed to be done, to say the things that needed to be said, and to 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 how much it cost me.
It was snowing.
That was the first thing that struck me as I stepped out of the great hall. Snow in springtime was far from rare, but I couldn’t help but feel that the gray sky and flat light were fitting for the day. Fat flakes of white spiraled down, the narrow paths leading between homes thick with mud and slush, forcing me to hold my skirts up lest I arrive at the ceremony looking like I’d been wallowing with the pigs.
The people of Halsar came out of their homes to watch me pass, the expressions of those who met my gaze cold despite the fact all would be feasted tonight by their lord. “Your people do not seem to favor this marriage,” I said softly to Ylva, who walked at my left, her mouth drawn in an unsmiling line.