I lifted my right hand to bite at my fingernails, only to remember that I once again wore the gloves Ylva had given me. Though now I wasn’t certain whether her desire was to cover my scars or to cover the mangled tattoo on my right palm lest it stir up more conflict than it already had.
Conflict that had driven Bjorn away and kept him away all through the feast, for he clearly wanted no part of the future his father envisioned for him.
And given my own circumstances, I could understand that.
Nibbling on a piece of chicken, I again scanned the crowd for him, but my thoughts were interrupted by a soft voice.
“Freya?”
Standing before the dais was the beautiful woman who’d been with Snorri when I’d fought Bjorn. As pale of skin as I was myself, she wore a crimson gown of delicate wool that again revealed her ample cleavage, the fabric clinging to the full curves of her hips. Her light brown hair was loose tonight, falling in ringlets to her waist, the only weapon she wore a small seax fastened to her belt. Again, I was struck with a strange sense of distance from her. As though while she stood before me, seeing and hearing and smelling the festivities, she stood apart.
“We’ve not been properly introduced. My name is Steinunn,” the woman said. “I am Jarl Snorri’s skald.”
Only then did I notice the crimson tattoo of a harp on the side of her neck, the strings pulsing with each beat of her heart. Not just any skald, but a child of the gods as sure as I was myself, though her blood came from Bragi. I’d never witnessed a performance myself, but I’d been told that a skald’s song would grant visions that transported listeners into the story. I’d heard that they only served jarls and kings who could afford to keep them in fine form, which explained Steinunn’s rich attire, but I’d never heard Geir speak of her. “Have you served Snorri a long time?”
Steinunn shook her head. “No. I came to join him when I heard of the seer’s foretelling that he would become king. To chronicle such a tale in a song will bring me great honor and fame, and I…” She trailed off, hesitating before shaking her head. “There was no reason to remain where I was.”
There was a story in that hesitation, but before I could press, the skald swiftly said, “The jarl wishes me to speak to you so that I might hear your story of your inking. I am composing a ballad to spread your fame.”
Glancing sideways, I saw Snorri and Ylva embroiled in a conversation with two men, neither paying me an ounce of attention. “You weren’t there?”
“I was,” the skald answered. “I saw what everyone else saw. Yet I know that was not all that transpired. If you tell me your story, I will sing it and all who hear will know the truth of the moment.”
My own screams echoed in my head along with the remembered agony of being torn apart, my beating heart exposed. Shivering, I shook my head. “It was a mercy no one saw.”
“Ylva saw something, which makes sense as it was her ritual. Yet Bjorn also saw.” Steinunn tilted her head. “It will make a better story if I might sing of what fate he was so desperate to spare you from.”
“Then ask him.” I was being rude, but this felt like being accosted by a village gossip who you knew would share everything you said with anyone who would listen.
Steinunn gave me a rueful smile. “I’d as soon get water from a stone as stories from Bjorn.”
I opened my mouth to tell her to expect the same from me, but the doors to the great hall chose that moment to swing inward, Bjorn appearing in a swirl of wind and snow. Many shouted his name in greeting, and he laughed, accepting a drink before sitting across the table from some of Snorri’s other warriors.
“Perhaps later,” I said to Steinunn, though I barely noticed her nodding and retreating into the feast as a pretty redhead sat next to Bjorn. She said something to him, her lips pressed against his ear, and whatever it was made him laugh, the deep sound reaching me even over the din. Encouraged, the redhead slipped an arm around his neck, her other hand toying with the front of his shirt.
A flicker of annoyance made my toes curl, and I took several mouthfuls of mead to drown it. But the sensation refused to be banished. After what had occurred during the ritual, why did he think it was acceptable to carry on like nothing had happened? Like he hadn’t watched me ripped in two and then risked releasing calamity by breaking the circle of runic magic to help me?
Like his destiny wasn’t entwined with mine?
Chewing on the insides of my cheeks, I tried to look everywhere but at them, but my eyes kept jumping back to Bjorn and the redhead, sourness filling my stomach. The sourness of jealousy, which I had no right to feel. Yet it was too easy to remember when I’d been the recipient of his flirtation and, irrational as it was, I hated that our moment was obviously a regular occurrence for him.
Men who look like him constantly have women flirting with them, I told myself. Bjorn likely puts as much thought into flirtation as he does to breathing, both are so common to him.
Rational thought after rational thought marched through my head, but they did as much good as spitting into the wind as my temper flared hotter with each passing second. I took another large mouthful of my drink, alcohol buzzing loudly in my veins and drowning good sense.
He obviously thought he could forget about everything that had happened. That he could go on with his life exactly as he wanted while I was stuck married to Snorri, my every breath under scrutiny and control, and my family’s well-being held over my head if I so much as considered a wrong move. Yet Bjorn could just say no and never suffer an ounce of consequence for doing so.
“I don’t think so,” I muttered. Though I knew it was the drink talking, I rose from my chair and circled the table, making my way down into the chaos. People moved to make space for me, giving me nods of wary respect, and someone pressed a full cup into my hand. I took a long swallow to drown what remained of my sagacity, if I possessed any at all, then squeezed between the two warriors sitting across from Bjorn. “I need a word, Bjorn. In private.”
He pulled his attention from the redhead long enough to say, “Save your words for tomorrow. Preferably later in the day because I don’t plan to get much sleep tonight.”
The redhead giggled and I scowled, heat rising to my face. My first instinct was to leave. Well, not my first…my first was to toss the contents of my cup in his face and then leave. “I wish to discuss Snorri’s theory. Either you speak to me alone or you speak to me in front of everyone. Your choice.”
Eyebrows rose on all within earshot, several chuckling as though I were nothing more than a silly girl who’d had too much to drink and would regret it tomorrow. I refused to acknowledge that they might be right.
“There is nothing to discuss.” Bjorn smirked at the redhead, and I curbed the urge to bounce my cup off the side of his head. “You’ll learn soon enough, but my father is remarkably adept at twisting stories and myths so that they support his way of thinking. If a bird shits on his head, he’ll find a story to spin to make it seem a message from Odin himself. But sometimes, Freya, it’s just shit.”
As he said the last, he turned away from the redhead. His gaze latched on my balled-up fists. “Why are you wearing gloves in this heat?”
“Because of what lies beneath,” I snapped, feeling the attention of those around us. From their frowns, several appeared not to take kindly to Bjorn’s words about his father, though I doubted he cared. “You saw the scars. The tattoos. The gods clearly believe I needed a reminder that actions have consequences but that doesn’t mean I need to stare at the consequences all night.”
Bjorn’s eyes lifted from my hands to meet my stare. “I thought you had no regrets.”
“I don’t.” And I didn’t.
He rested his elbows on the table. “Then why are you hiding your hand?”