by Bec McMaster
And then they were locked inside the antechamber alone.
Bryn scrubbed a hand across the back of her neck. “My letter was brief. Harald will come, if only to see what mischief his daughter has created. King Harald is no fool.”
Tormund finished surveying the room, clearly noting the lack of exits. The friendly smiles he proffered like sweetmeats didn’t hide the fact that he was a formidable opponent. There was a cunning mind behind that affable nature.
And when he finally spoke, he came at her from an angle she had never expected. “She called you Brightfeather.”
Bryn stilled.
“So did Solveig, now that I think back on it. And you nearly handed me my teeth the one time I called you that name. You have a Valkyrie sword. A key that belongs to one of the gods themselves. And not just any god, but the Trickster himself. Freyja’s cloak….” He finally turned those shrewd eyes upon her. “I’ve heard the stories. She had red hair. Hair the color of sunset over a pile of coins. She burned like a flame and wielded a sword that broke the dawn. Birthed on a battlefield, she was a legend among the shield maidens.”
Bryn cleared her throat, choking down the swell of emotion. She felt raw and vulnerable, and she didn’t like it. “What are you trying to say?”
He gave her a considering look. “I thought I split your lip when we were fighting that morning, but when I took your face in my hands, there was no wound there. Barely even a hint of blood.”
“Why don’t you say it?” I dare you.
“You’re Valkyrie.”
Not just Valkyrie, but the daughter of Kára. The daughter of a legend. And there was no longer any point in hiding it. “I was.”
The words were so quiet he strained closer to hear them.
Was. A lifetime of grief lingered in those words.
Even she could hear it.
“Brynhildr Brightfeather,” he whispered, shaking his head half in wonder. “Holy shit. Valkyrie are real?”
“You walk among dreki and you question the existence of the gods?”
“But you….” His mind was clearly racing. “They say she was the greatest of her kind, until she betrayed Odin and was struck with a sleep thorn and forced to marry. But she swore she would only marry a man who knew no fear, and thought herself safe until Sigurd came to find her—”
“Yes,” Bryn told him bitterly. “And then Sigurd tricks her into marrying Gunnar, after he forgets his vows to marry her himself. It’s a pretty story, Tormund, and it makes a lovely ballad. And then the ruthless Brunhild takes her vengeance upon all and causes the death of Sigurd, whereupon she stabs herself. Does that sound like something I would do?”
“Vengeance, perhaps. Stabbing yourself, no.” He cleared his throat. “You never married?”
“It’s just a story, Tormund,” she said. And nowhere near as hellish as the truth. “One written by a man somewhere who managed to make the greatest of the Valkyries little more than a pathetic snivel of a thing, doomed by her love of a man. Have you ever noticed how all the great female warriors of old are somehow always written to be less than the greatest heroes? Their love always destroys them. Or they are bested in combat, despite their prowess.” Her lip curled. “I’ve never even met a Sigurd. Nor have I ever met the man who can beat me in battle.”
Though clearly she’d made an impression upon someone.
Maybe some lonely warrior had seen her alight on a battlefield once, and take his dying brethren for Valhalla.
“It does seem that way, I’ll concede.” Tormund’s eyes met hers. “Why don’t you tell me the truth then? Your truth.”
The truth.
Her heart clenched like a hand gripped it. “The king will send for us shortly.”
“You owe me the truth, Bryn, if nothing else.”
“I owe you nothing.”
He merely stared at her, and somehow she found herself pacing.
“I was born on a battlefield to the shieldmaiden, Kára—the product of a liaison between her and a man I will not name. Everything else I have told you is true. She left me on his doorstep and my father raised me in the mortal world, though when it came time, I chose to fight my way through Odin’s tests to earn my sword and shield.
“The sword is my mother’s,” she whispered, staring at a tapestry on the wall that gleamed with a thousand stars. “My sister, Róta, yearned for the blade. She had been my mother’s apprentice before I arrived in Valhalla, and she hated me from the moment I first beat her in the tests.” Bryn swallowed. “There was a battle—our final test before we ascended to the ranks of the Valkyrie. My mother was choosing the best warriors when she was stabbed from behind. I held her in my arms as she breathed her last breath, before realizing that the sword in her back was one of my mine.” Bryn’s voice hardened. “That was when Róta told my sisters that I killed my mother.”
“And they believed her?”
Bryn turned away from the tapestry, swallowing the lump in her throat. It was this that hurt the most. Friends—sisters—turning away from her, horror and condemnation in their eyes. She had lost her mother with a single blow, but then she’d lost her entire world.
“Most did. A handful argued on my behalf. In order to prove myself, I challenged Róta to a duel in the name of Freyja. She managed to disarm me using a trick, and I had no choice but to take up my mother’s sword to defend myself. It should have been proof enough. A Valkyrie’s sword is blooded to her in battle. No hand can take it from hers unwillingly. If a murderer sought to take up the blade upon the Valkyrie’s death, then it would turn upon her at the first opportunity. The blade lit up, and some said it was a sign of Freyja’s mercy. But others argued that I shared Kára’s blood and the sword merely recognized it. There was enough doubt that I was offered exile instead of death, but the gates to Valhalla are closed to me forever.”
Bryn’s hand moved unerringly to take the hilt, before she realized it was no longer with her. “So that is the true story of your Brightfeather. She’s a myth, Tormund. And I am all that is left of her. Broken. Honorless. And nothing more than a mercenary.”
He scrubbed at his chin thoughtfully, but the words he chose took her by surprise. “Just how old are you?”
A breathless laugh escaped her. “That’s what you say? I tell you the entire bloody story, and you’re concerned with my age?”
“Curious. Not concerned.”
“I am old enough to know better than to dabble with a man I have no future with,” she told him.
“You keep using these words. ‘Dabble.’ And ‘fun.’” He took a step toward her, the scent of his soap sending a shiver through her. Too close. Too large. Too… much of everything she desired. “Does it make you feel safer to pretend what we share is nothing more than an attraction?”
She grounded herself, refusing to retreat. “What’s the alternative?”
“Forever,” he said promptly.
“There is no forever between us, Tormund. There is no future. There never has been. Solveig promised me the written confession of Róta if I delivered Marduk to her. The second she gives it to me, I am gone forever. It’s my only chance to clear my name and return home.
And while I may remember you as the man who almost tempted me toward romance, I will outlive you by centuries.”
He paused. “Her written confession…. Is that why you betrayed me?”
Curse him. Could he not hear what she was saying?
“Yes. A thousand times yes. You have a cousin who would give his life for you. You can afford to pick and choose the jobs you take. I don’t have someone to watch my back. I don’t have a family out there that I can sail home to one day. I’m a woman who can fight better than most men, and yet, every village I walk into, I have to prove myself all over again. You think me mercenary? I’ve spent over a hundred years on this mortal plane, trying to scrape together a life. And the one thing I have learned is this: I’m the only one I can rely upon. And I need to feed myself somehow. Considering my sword arm is the on
ly strength I own, you’ll forgive me if it’s what I use to survive.”
“It’s not the sword I have a problem with,” he snapped.
“No?” Bryn splayed her hand flat at the base of her throat, where the Sadu claw usually hung. “Perhaps you call it betrayal, but my loyalties were to Solveig and her clan. They’re the only ones who have ever shown me shelter or kindness. You were a stranger to me. A job.”
There. There was the heat in his dark eyes.
Tormund stepped closer, and she hated the fact she had to tip her chin up to meet his gaze. “Is that all I was?” he demanded in a husky voice.
The words tripped on her tongue.
Freyja help her, but she couldn’t say it.
Not while he was looking at her like this. Not with the heat of his body so close to hers. All it would take would be a simple movement to reach out and touch him.
And she wanted it so badly.
Bryn swallowed. Hard. “I am not the woman you think I am. Solveig offered me redemption. All I had to do was find the prince, and she would give me the chance to clear my name. You took one look at me and you decided I was something I wasn’t. You created a fantasy in your mind, and I am not responsible for the perceptions you made of me.”
“No? And what the hell did I imagine of you?” Anger vibrated through him.
“There’s no point—”
He captured her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Tell me the truth, damn you. I thought you glorious. You were reckless, and hard, and fierce. You were beautiful and fiery and though you try to hide it, kind. I thought you a woman I could finally hope to court. One I could—"
“You thought me a woman you could call your own,” she shot back.
“Yes.” His breath scoured her lips. “Yes, I thought you the woman I could finally call my own.” But the way he said it wasn’t the way she’d meant it. “Mine, Bryn. Mine to hold. Mine to cherish. Mine to love.”
He may as well have dumped a bucket of ice water over her head.
She broke away, breathing hard.
“Love is a yoke used by men to bind women into the traces they so desire,” she snapped, wrapping her arms around herself. “What did you imagine of me? That I would settle down with you at your farmstead and supply you with great, big, happy babies?” She shot him a glare. “I was born on a battlefield. They put a sword in my hand at the age of nine and told me to earn my birthright, for it would not be given to me. I swore an oath that no man would come between me and my god’s will. I gave up any yearning for a mortal future long ago, Tormund. You speak of a foreign land I cannot imagine, nor want any part of.”
Strangely, it seemed her words had done the opposite of what she desired.
He stared at her, and it was as though he finally understood the words she did not dare give voice to.
“My love,” he finally said, “would never be a chain. My love—when given—would be a gift. It would be my arms around you when you wanted to hide from the world. It would be my axe to guard you when you could not guard yourself. It would be a kiss to your forehead, to remind you that you are cherished.” He shook his head. “I would never stop you from doing what you loved. I would stand at your side and cheer you on, instead. If you wanted to storm Valhalla, then curse you, I’d pick up my axe and march at your side.
“I hunt dragons, Bryn. And while I may have grown up on a farmstead not very far from here, I don’t know if I can ever settle back down there. I’ve seen too much of the world now.”
It took the anger from her sails.
Worse, it painted guilt across her heart.
He was a good man. Too good for her. And all she would ever do was bring him ruin.
“It sounds like a pleasant dream,” she told him. “But one day, if I thought to fall for such a fantasy, I’m sure I’d wake up and realize that’s all it was. A dream. I’m not the woman for you. I can never be the kind of woman you yearn for.”
The door abruptly opened, revealing the drekling servant who had first welcomed them. “The king will see you now.”
Bryn hardened her heart.
“Love means nothing,” she told him in a broken whisper, seeing again that sword rise as her sister, Róta, appeared behind her mother’s back. “You could promise me your heart a thousand times and have it fall on deaf ears.” She pushed away from him and headed toward the door. “Give your love to someone else. I have no need of it.”
“What took you so long?” Haakon asked him tersely as Tormund slid into the hollow of snow at his side. Below them, the cave where Marduk was being kept yawned.
Nothing stirred.
“The king questioned me for several hours. They don’t call him Harald the Shrewd for no reason. He wants an audience with us tomorrow. I think we’re going to have to speak against Solveig.” Tormund scrubbed a tired hand over his face. “No movement?”
“Solveig hasn’t been back, and her guards remain vigilant.” Haakon’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure that’s the reason you were gone for so long?”
Sometimes, having a cousin who could see through you was like wearing a burr under your armor. “No. I spent most of the day wooing Bryn, and then we fell into bed together and composed several sonnets. We’re getting married in a month.”
Silence.
“I haven’t seen you so interested in a woman before.” Haakon returned his attention to the guards below them. “Why her?”
“Because she steals my breath every time I look at her,” he replied simply, then rolled onto his back and stared up at the stars. “Why Árdís?”
This time, he could feel his cousin’s eyes upon him. “Because she is loyal. And kind. And both frivolous and protective. She is furious when those she loves are threatened. She is stubborn. And frustrating. And absolutely fucking magnificent when roused.”
“I’m fairly certain those weren’t the names you called her when you realized she’d feigned her death.”
Haakon sat up. “Because when I am with her, the entire world ceases to exist. She is mine and I am hers until the day we depart this mortal coil. Because when I watched her spread her wings after so long beneath her mother’s wretchedly cruel yoke, I felt my heart lift. Because of the way she smiles when I put a hand on her belly and promise to gift her a child.”
“Mmm.” Tormund could just make out the Draco constellation glittering to the north. “I remember the first time you saw her. You could barely take your eyes off her. I used to jest that she’d cast a spell upon you, but then I saw the way she looked at you too. If there was a spell, then you were both ensorcelled.” The following words felt trapped in his mouth. “I’ve wanted that my whole life, and the only time I’ve ever felt even the remotest hint of it was when Bryn strode into my life and looked me dead in the eye. But it didn’t feel as though I was bespelled. It felt as though she kicked me in the chest. It felt as though she stole my breath. It felt as though she slayed me with a single look, and somehow my body is still moving, talking, but it is no longer mine to command, but hers.”
“But does she feel the same?”
“No.” The word was soft. “She doesn’t want my love.”
She’d made herself clear today.
“She betrayed us,” Haakon pointed out. “Perhaps it’s for the best.”
“And she helped us today,” Tormund replied. “Without her, I would never have gotten close to the king.”
And by her own tongue, she’d admitted that Solveig had promised her the world in exchange for delivery of Marduk. Bryn didn’t have her confession yet—to go against the princess thusly was to risk the very thing she longed for the most.
He had to believe it meant something.
Haakon suddenly grabbed his arm.
Below them the guards were stirring, all of them looking to the skies where a russet- colored dreki circled. There was nothing about its size or shape that indicated seniority, but the guards lowered their weapons as it landed, and several of them exchanged glances.
�
��I think the king has sent his messenger.” Tormund forced a smile, because it was the only way to hide his shattered heart. “This should be fun.”
“You have an odd sense of amusement.” Haakon pushed to his feet. “Let’s return to town. I need a hot meal and a good night’s sleep before we escort our precious prince safely home.”
“You think tomorrow is going to go that easily?”
Haakon sighed. “No. But if I say it loudly enough, perhaps one of the gods will be listening.”
Sixteen
The herald rapped his staff on the floor of the audience chamber as hundreds of dreki gathered to hear the king’s proclamation. “Silence!”
Tormund leaned his back against the wall, watching from the sidelines even though there was no sign of Bryn. He hadn’t dared hope, but now his heart fluttered like a dying moth.
She hadn’t come.
King Harald sank onto his massive throne, his dark eyes glittering as he surveyed the gathering. Two gorgeous women followed him to the throne and stood to each side of it, resting their hands on his shoulders.
There were three daughters, Tormund vaguely recalled hearing, though they bore no resemblance to their sister, the war marshal.
Beautiful. Intelligent. And fierce.
He could see it now. The blonde wore a radiant expression and an extravagant green gown that set off her beauty. She knew it too, her every movement designed to showcase her flawless figure.
The redhead seemed more composed, though she kept glancing toward the far door as though she expected a commotion at any second. Warier than her sister. Trying to read the room and perhaps her father too, as she glanced down at him.
And while his gaze lingered on her hair, it was the color of rust—not the bright orange flames that made his heart yearn.
“It seems there has been an interloper in our territory,” King Harald called, reclining at ease. “Bring forth the prince.”
Movement stirred.