A Fate Inked in Blood (Saga of the Unfated, #1)

“Because they do not know the power you bring,” she said. “They see only an insult to their beloved lady of Halsar.”

I’d have rolled my eyes at her ego except that while the people scowled at me, they smiled at Ylva, touching her as she passed and offering her praise for her strength. I wanted to snarl at them that it was their jarl who had made this choice, therefore it was their jarl who deserved their ire, but it would be a waste of breath. They wanted to blame me.

“Freya!” A familiar voice reached me, and I turned my head to find Ingrid standing between two buildings, a sword clutched in her hands. Her brown hair was sodden, her freckled face pink from the cold as she stepped toward me. For a heartbeat, I was certain that she’d come to tell me not to do it. To tell me that she and Geir would accept the permanent loss of his place in Snorri’s war band if it meant sparing me this union. To tell me—

The thought vanished as a pair of warriors drew their weapons and leapt between Ingrid and me.

“Stop,” I shouted, trying to intervene, but another warrior caught hold of my arm. “She’s my friend!”

“You cannot know that for certain,” Ylva snapped. “Now that your identity is known, friends may become enemies to achieve their own ends.”

I was tempted to snap back that she needed to be more selective in her friendships, but one of the men had Ingrid by the arm, the other right up in her face. Twisting, I kicked the man holding me in the knee, ignoring his shouts as I stormed toward my friend, mud splattering the skirt I’d tried so hard to keep clean. “Let her go! Now!”

The men made no move to unhand Ingrid. I wasn’t certain if it was because they didn’t recognize my authority or if they believed that Ingrid, who was timid as a mouse and could barely wield a cooking knife without cutting herself, was truly a threat.

“Let the woman go.”

I tensed at Bjorn’s voice, for I’d not realized he’d been part of the procession. Though I was glad he was when the warrior holding Ingrid immediately complied with his order.

“It is not your place to involve yourself, Bjorn,” Ylva snapped. “Already Freya has been injured while in your care.”

Leaning against a wall, Bjorn disregarded the comment and said, “If Freya says this woman is a friend, then you should believe her, Ylva. Or do you not trust the woman you’re about to share your husband with?”

Ylva’s face purpled. “She’s naive. She—”

“Is a widowed woman, not a child, so you should not treat her as one.” Bjorn lifted one shoulder. “Though…she is about to wed a man old enough to be her father, so perhaps it is fair.”

“Bjorn, you need—”

Ignoring Ylva, he turned to Ingrid. “What’s your name?”

“Ingrid.” My friend looked ready to piss herself from fear, and I hated that. Hated that she’d come all this way to speak to me, only to be treated in such a manner.

“The Ingrid that Geir is so desperate to wed that he threw his own sister to the wolves?” Bjorn snorted in disgust. “You could do better than that spineless piece of weasel shit.”

It was my turn to snarl, “Bjorn, don’t be an arse!” but he paid me no more mind than he had Ylva as he said, “You aren’t here to harm Freya, are you, Ingrid?”

A tear ran down my friend’s face and she snuffled out a “No. I’d never hurt Freya.”

“I didn’t think so.” Hooking his thumbs in his belt, Bjorn looked to me. “Say what needs saying, Freya, but be quick about it.”

Giving him a withering glare for his comment about my brother, I elbowed my way past the warriors, drawing Ingrid enough away to give a semblance of privacy. “What are you doing here?” I asked, trying to ignore the lingering hope that Ingrid came bearing salvation.

“I came to thank you.” She wiped the tears from her face. “Geir told me everything. What you’ve agreed to and why. What you did. That you did it to spare us. From the bottom of my heart, thank you, Freya.”

My stomach gave a slight twist of discomfort as my foolish hope turned to ash and I looked away from her. Nothing she could have said would have dissuaded me from this course of action. Yet it still stung that she hadn’t offered any protest. Still hurt that she wasn’t willing to suffer a blow to her future to spare mine. The fact that I wouldn’t have accepted didn’t matter; what would have mattered was that she cared enough about me to offer.

She cares, I silently chided myself. She’s just afraid. “Is Geir all right?”

Ingrid gave a tight nod. “He would’ve come if he could, only the pain is bad. But your mother says it was a clean break and will heal well with time and rest.” She tentatively held out the sword. “Geir sent this. It was your father’s.”

My chin quivered as a rush of emotion raced through me, for this was the weapon that Geir would have gifted Ingrid when they were wed, and she was giving it to me to wield. Not the sacrifice I’d foolishly hoped for, but it still meant all the world to me that they’d wanted me to have it. Unsheathing it, I smiled to see that it had been polished and sharpened. “Thank you.”

Ingrid whispered, “I’m sure the jarl will be honored to wield it.”

My smile immediately fell away. Not a gift for me, but a gift for Snorri.

When I’d wed Vragi, I’d given him my grandfather’s sword, polished to a high shine, whereas the one he’d given me was a rusted blade pilfered from the grave of a distant cousin, so poorly made that the hilt broke off in the middle of the ceremony.

Logically I knew that my family needed to provide a blade for me to gift Snorri, but did it have to be this one? This was the last piece of my father that existed. It was precious to me, which both Ingrid and Geir knew, yet they were giving it to Snorri to earn his favor. The urge to tell her to take it back filled my core. Instead I shoved it into its sheath.

“Freya,” Ylva said loudly. “You may speak to her afterward. The jarl should not be waiting on you.”

The desire to twist around and scream at Ylva to shut her mouth nearly overwhelmed me, but I managed to keep my anger in check, instead leaning close to Ingrid. “Don’t stay. It isn’t safe. Get home and warn everyone to stay away unless the jarl summons them, understood? Out of sight, out of mind.”

The snowflakes melting on her face mixed with her tears, but Ingrid nodded. “Congratulations, Freya. I know you didn’t ask for this match, but I think you will find more happiness in it than you would have with Vragi. You will get to be a warrior, like you always dreamed. And you’ll be able to use your magic.”

I blinked, something about the way she said the last, without shock or hesitation, triggering a realization. “You knew.”

Ingrid bit her lip, then nodded. “Geir told me some years ago. I think…I think keeping the secret weighed upon him.” Her expression grew earnest. “But I didn’t tell anyone, Freya. I swear it.”

Weighed upon him? My chest hollowed and I looked at the mud between us. For most of my life, I’d hidden my magic, my heritage, which meant keeping it from everyone I’d ever known. Never once had I told, because I’d understood intrinsically that it wouldn’t just be me who would be hurt if my secret got out, it would be my family. “It doesn’t much matter now.”

Ingrid hugged me tightly, my one hand trapped between us, the hilt of the sword digging into my breastbone painfully. “This is a gift from the gods, Freya. You must look at it as such.”

I didn’t trust myself to say anything, so instead I only nodded and turned back to those waiting. Ylva scowled at me, but Bjorn’s gaze was on Ingrid, who was splashing away through the mud. “I take it back,” he said. “She does not deserve better than your brother.”

“What do you know?” I muttered, not bothering to hike up my skirts again, for the hems were already stained gray and dripping.

“Very little,” he said. “But I’m neither deaf nor blind, so I saw how she spun your sacrifice into a gift from the gods so that she need not feel guilt over it. You are well rid of her.”