“You should be.” He held my gaze, and I swore it was the only thing keeping me from screaming. “All the women in Halsar will curse your name if I lose half my fingers.”
I blinked, then comprehended what he meant. My teeth bared in a snarl over him making light of my pain. “Or perhaps they’ll praise me for sparing them your grasping hands.”
He grinned, his teeth bright white against his sun-browned skin. “You only think that because you haven’t heard of my reputation. After a day or two in Halsar you will know the truth of things.”
All I wanted was to scream and scream and scream, but I forced myself to say, “The truth women tell other women is not the same truth they tell men.”
His smile grew. “There can be only one truth. All else is falsity.”
I managed to choke out, “Exactly.”
He laughed, but his hold on my face and arm tightened. A second later, I understood why as someone’s hands touched my burns, the pain turning the world bright white, only Bjorn’s grip keeping me upright as I howled and sobbed.
“Easy, Freya.” His voice was low and soft. “The salve will take away the pain.”
I drew in a ragged breath.
“Bjorn,” someone muttered, “this is—”
“I know,” he interrupted. “We need to hurry.”
The urgency fueled my fear, but I needed to see. Needed to know how bad it was. “Let me look.”
His jaw tightened. “Freya…”
I pulled my chin from his grip and looked down. The skin of my wrist and hand was covered with a thick red paste, but not my palm. Because my palm…
The skin was gone.
I stared at the blackened mess of ash, gagged, then twisted and vomited, the world swimming.
“I warned you.” Bjorn wrapped a cloth around my burns, then stooped down, his arms going behind my knees and shoulders.
“I can walk,” I protested, though that might have been a lie.
Was definitely a lie.
“I’m sure you can.” He lifted me as though I weighed no more than a child, settling me against his chest. “But this will give you a better story for Steinunn to sing about. You always want a good story to go with your scars.”
“Freya!”
Geir was trying to crawl toward me, tears streaming down his face. “Why did you do it?” he wept. “Your hand is ruined!”
“It’s not ruined, you idiot,” Bjorn snapped. “And your mewling is not helpful.”
Geir’s eyes darkened. “It’s your fault, Firehand. It was your axe that did this to her.”
Through my dizziness and fear, my anger rose. “I did it to myself,” I said between my teeth. “I don’t regret it. Vragi would have ruined Ingrid’s life. And yours.”
“I’m your brother—I’m the one who is supposed to protect you.”
His words only fueled my anger. “If you think that’s the way of it, then you really haven’t been paying attention.”
“Get him on a horse and send him back to his mother,” Snorri snapped at his men. “And Geir, I don’t want to see your face until you learn to hold your tongue.”
The pain in my hand was easing, whatever concoction Bjorn smeared on it numbing me from elbow to fingertip. Yet instead of feeling better, I felt cold as ice, shivers taking over as Bjorn carried me to his horse. He lifted me onto the animal’s shoulders, then swiftly swung into the saddle, pulling me against him. My arse was pressed against his pelvis and his arm was wrapped around my middle, the proximity reminding me of my exchange with him on the beach. “I can ride alone.”
“Not enough horses.”
“Then behind,” I whispered. “I can ride behind you.”
He snorted, heeling the horse into a trot. “I just watched you put an axe in a man’s skull. You think I’m fool enough to put you at my back?”
“I don’t have a weapon.” The motion of the horse as it sped into a swift canter drove me against him with each stride. “I think you’re safe.”
Bjorn’s chest shook as he laughed. “I respectfully disagree, shield maiden. You’ve proven yourself opportunistic.”
In the face of the pain, I’d almost forgotten that the secret I’d hidden all my life was now revealed. There’d been moments I’d dreamed of screaming it to the world, of owning my heritage despite my father’s warnings. But now that it was known, I had to face the nightmare that would be my reality. “Don’t call me that.”
“You’re right,” he said. “It’s not original—I shall think of something better. Perhaps Freya Onehand. Or Freya Axethief. Or Freya ScorchedPalm.”
Selvegr appeared in the distance, but it was blurry, the buildings merging into one another in a grotesque smear. “I don’t like you.”
“Good. You shouldn’t.” His arm tightened around my waist as he urged the horse into a gallop. “The salve will make you tired. Might make you fall asleep. Don’t fight that mercy, Freya.”
“I won’t fall asleep.” I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Yet with every stride, drowsiness drew me down and down, away from the fear and the pain. The last thing I remembered before darkness claimed me was Bjorn’s voice in my ear. “I won’t let you fall.”
I woke to fog and pain and the sensation of being lowered. Panic rose in my chest, and I struggled to get away from the hands gripping me even as the world spun. “Let me go,” I mumbled, lashing out blindly as my heels struck the ground. “Let me go!”
“Easy, Freya,” a deep voice said from behind me. A voice I recognized, though when I turned to look at him, his face was a blur. “Bjorn?” His name stuck in my throat, my mouth dry as sand and my tongue thick.
“The salve is wearing off,” he said by way of answer. “You’ll see clearly soon enough, though you might wish otherwise when the pain returns.” He lifted his head. “Send someone to fetch Liv. Tell her it’s a burn.” He hesitated. “Tyr’s fire.”
“You heard him,” a woman’s voice shouted. “Go! Be swift about it.” Then in a tone as cold as frost, she added, “Why did you hurt her, you cursed fool? What good is a shield maiden with only one hand?”
“She only needs one to hold a shield.” Bjorn’s tone was light, but his fingers tightened where they gripped my waist.
I turned to see who’d speak so to the son of the jarl, my vision focusing enough to reveal a woman perhaps two dozen years my senior. Her long reddish-brown hair hung in loose curls that framed a lovely face, though my eyes went to the heavy gold earrings that glinted in the sun. Not just gold, but jewels, and I gaped at them in fascination.
“Is she dense as well as maimed?” the woman demanded, and my eyes snapped to hers. They were the palest of blues, with a thin rim of black around them. The color reminded me of frozen waterfalls in the dead of winter.
“A matter under debate,” Bjorn answered. “Freya, this is Ylva, Jarl Snorri’s wife and lady of Halsar.”
Didn’t that make her his mother?
“My lady.” I tried to incline my head in respect, but the motion sent a wave of dizziness over me, and if not for Bjorn’s support, I’d have staggered into her.
Ylva made a noise of disgust. “Where is my husband?”
“He rides slow, you know that. Where can I put Freya?”
Bjorn had been right about the pain. I could see clearly now, but each pulse of my blood seemed to ratchet the agony to a higher level. My skin was icy cold where it wasn’t burning, and I started to shiver anew. “I don’t feel well.”
“She looks like she’s dying,” Ylva said. “Where is Snorri?”
“On my heels, I’m sure.”
Nausea rolled up inside me, and I pulled from Bjorn’s grip to vomit, though all that came up was bile. The force of it drove me to my knees and would’ve seen my hand planted into the mud if Bjorn hadn’t grabbed my elbow, holding it high.
“Lovely.” Ylva huffed out a breath. “Bring her inside. Assuming she lives, this will be her home now.”