He wasn’t entirely wrong, but Bjorn’s words only made the hollowness in my core grow.
Alone, that was how I felt. As though I faced a great army, and all those I’d been so certain would be at my back had vanished. My eyes stung and I blinked rapidly to keep tears from forming, but a few still escaped, mixing with the melting snow running down my face as I walked toward the beach.
I’d not gone more than a handful of steps when Bjorn’s hand closed on my arm. “Ingrid’s cowardice does not diminish the honor of what you did.”
Swallowing, I met his emerald gaze as I said, “I regret nothing,” then pulled from his grip and carried on.
A crowd had gathered, Snorri standing apart with an ancient woman who I supposed was the matriarch who’d conduct the ceremony. My eyes drifted from them to the long stretch of dock, next to which sat several drakkar, the flags on their masts fluttering in the wind. They were huge, capable of holding at least a hundred warriors, and I allowed myself to imagine what it would be like to stand in one, the drummer beating a thundering rhythm as the oarsmen drove the drakkar into battle. What it would be like to leap into the water, shield up against a rain of arrows, racing onto a beach where the sword in my hand would clash against that of my enemies as armies collided. My fingers clenched on the hilt of my father’s weapon, my heart driving away the sluggish weight of grief in my veins and filling them with fire. For Ingrid had not been wrong that there was much to this new path I faced that sang to my soul.
And that, at least, was something to live for.
* * *
—
The ceremony was brief and lifeless, both Snorri and I saying what needed to be said, then exchanging blades, the one he gave to me newly forged and unsharpened, rendering it as devoid of sentiment as it was of edge. If he noticed or cared that the sword I gave him was my father’s, he didn’t show it. Yet the moment the ceremony was over, it was as though a bolt of Thor’s lightning struck, filling Snorri with an urgent energy as he turned me to face the crowd.
“Twenty years ago,” he shouted, “the seer spoke a prophecy of a shield maiden, a child of Hlin, born under the blood moon and destined to unite the people of Skaland beneath the rule of the one who controlled her fate. A prophecy that said her name would be born in the fire of the gods. For twenty years, I have searched for this maiden, hunted for the woman who’d unite our people against our common enemy, King Harald of Nordeland.”
The crowd shifted restlessly, several calling out curses at the king who ruled across the Northern Strait.
“Many of you have asked why I would wed this woman when I have a wife such as Ylva,” he continued. “Let me assure you, it is not for love or lust, but for you, my people! For this woman is the shield maiden, the child of Hlin, her name revealed in the fire of Tyr!”
He took the shield one of his warriors held out and offered it to me. My skin burned hot despite my dress being soaked with melted snow, and taking it in my grip, I whispered, “Hlin.”
Magic flared to life inside of me, rushing through my hand in a hot flood to cover the shield with silver light, glowing like a beacon. The crowd gasped and stepped back, their eyes wide at the sight of magic they’d only heard of in stories. Magic they didn’t understand, which explained their apprehension.
“She will bring us battle fame!” Snorri roared. “She will bring us wealth! She will bring us power! She will bring us victory and vengeance against the bastards of Nordeland! For with her in our shield wall, we will be favored by the gods themselves!”
The people of Halsar roared along with him, hands in the air, the wariness in their eyes replaced with delight at the promises of their lord. Promises he’d made but which I was supposed to deliver, though the gods only knew how.
My gaze skipped over the people who not an hour ago seemed ready to spit at my feet and who now screamed my name, then it landed on Bjorn. He’d stood with Ylva during the ceremony but had since moved to the rear of the crowd, his arms crossed and expression tight. As our eyes locked, the corner of his mouth quirked up in a half smile that appeared as forced as the one currently gracing my face, though I didn’t understand the source of his displeasure.
“She was born in fire,” Snorri shouted. “Now let her be marked by the blood of the god who made her.”
Before I could react, Ylva stepped behind me and tore the dress down the back. Gasping, I clutched the fabric to my breasts even as she said, “Kneel.”
“What are you doing?” I hissed, equal parts horrified and afraid.
“You have hidden your powers for too long,” she said. “Past time that you were marked so that all might know your lineage.”
The blood tattoo.
I should’ve known it was coming. Vragi’s tattoo had been on his thigh, a fish with crimson scales rendered in such detail it had looked real. A living tattoo gifted by ritual after his magic appeared. I should’ve been marked well over a decade ago, but that would have revealed what my father had been desperate to keep hidden.
Slowly, I lowered myself to my knees in the cold sand.
“Bare your flesh so you might receive Hlin’s mark,” Ylva demanded, and though I was loath to expose myself before a crowd, I pulled the dress down to my waist and removed my gloves, keeping one arm across my breasts. Forcing my eyes up from the sand revealed that no one was leering at me, every face solemn as they watched. I could feel Bjorn’s scrutiny but instead of meeting his gaze, I looked back to the sand, my heart a riot in my chest.
A drum began a slow beat, and Ylva walked in a circle around me, drawing runes in the sand. My heart thundered faster at the revelation that Ylva was a volva—a witch capable of using runic magic. Which made her far more powerful than I’d believed.
She chanted as she moved, calling out to the gods to witness this moment. As she finished the circle, the runes flared and the drum ceased, the hairs on my arms standing on end. A knife appeared in Ylva’s hand, and I tensed, for while she might need me, this woman held no warmth for me in her heart. “Hlin,” Ylva cried out, voice carrying on the wind as it swirled around us, creating a cyclone of snow. “I beseech you! If this child is worthy, claim her as your own, else still her heart so that she might wield your power no more!”
My heart skipped. I’d never seen this ritual performed. Vragi had undergone it as a young child long before I was born, so I didn’t know the words. Didn’t know that the ritual could end in death, for none of the stories ever spoke of a god rejecting their child. But everyone else was nodding, so it must be the truth.
A thrill of fear turned my already chilled skin to ice as she approached, knife glinting in the muted light. “Bare yourself, girl,” she said in a low voice. “Or find yourself judged unworthy.”
What if I was unworthy?
I’d hidden my magic, my heritage, all my life, which had to have angered the goddess who’d gifted her blood to me. I’d treated it as though I were ashamed.
But I wasn’t.
Taking a deep breath, I dropped my arm and lifted my face at the same time.
Though prudence demanded that I look elsewhere, my eyes locked with Bjorn’s. The snow billowed and swirled between us, and I clung to the strength in his gaze as the tip of Ylva’s knife pressed into the divot at the center of my collarbone.
She sliced downward, leaving a trail of fire from my throat to between my breasts, but I didn’t flinch. Didn’t break Bjorn’s stare as hot droplets of blood rolled down my skin. Didn’t so much as breathe as I waited to be judged.
And waited.
And waited.
My chin quivered, panic seeping into my veins, because if I was found unworthy, all of Snorri’s plans would be destroyed. What were the chances that he wouldn’t punish me in every way he possibly could, seeing me as the one to blame?