“Perhaps it is you, King, who has been disrespectful,” she said. “Eirik is your chosen successor, not one of your hounds. And if this is how you would treat your favorite son, I shudder to think how you treat the rest of them.”
She left without waiting for either of them to respond and went to find Eirik.
* * *
—
GUNNHILD FOLLOWED HIM TO the stables, where she saw him leap onto a horse and ride bareback in the direction of the woods.
“Damn,” she said. And then, to one of the stable hands: “Saddle one for me, please.” While Eirik was obviously a skilled rider, she was the opposite. But she’d never catch him on foot.
The horse that was brought out for her looked as excited about being ridden as she felt about riding it. She waved the stable hands away when they tried to help her up onto the saddle; instead she used a fence as a foothold as she clambered onto the creature’s back.
It launched straight into a gallop the moment she flicked the reins, and she found herself barely able to steer it toward the path leading into the trees. People leapt out of the way, dropping baskets of food and laundry and whatever else they’d been carrying, squawking in outrage as she passed by.
“Sorry!” Gunnhild called, but her voice was lost to the wind as she flew down the path and through the pasture. Soon she was among the trees, enveloped by the warm, comforting hues of the autumn foliage around her.
She saw movement ahead and pulled hard on the reins, causing her mount to halt with an irritated whinny. Eirik had steered his horse down a deer path that Gunnhild would most definitely have missed if she weren’t tracking him, and she guided her own horse down it. When she got to where his horse was tied to a tree, she slid gracelessly off her own and tied it up as well. Eirik was nowhere in sight, but the path was there, though narrower now.
She followed it until it opened up into a clearing, in the center of which lay a grove of silver birch trees; their leaves were green yet, and Gunnhild could not help but notice how still the woods felt here, how peaceful. No animal noises, not even the rustling of underbrush save for that caused by her own steps. She stopped to stare, then took a hesitant step forward, leaves crunching underfoot.
Eirik sat on a stump just inside the clearing, facing the birch grove.
“Go away,” he said without turning around.
“What is this place?” she asked breathlessly. “I don’t—oh.”
In the centermost tree of the grove there was a hollow, and inside the hollow was a weathered effigy of Freyja. It looked much different than Heid’s old statue, but it felt the same.
“Ah,” Gunnhild whispered. “I wondered why she wasn’t in the workshop.”
The small wooden figure wore a cloak of feathers and her famous necklace, both attributes intricately, lovingly carved. Stashed around the idol was an assortment of feathers, beads, brass trinkets, and coins that looked to be from distant lands.
“I come here to be alone,” Eirik said grumpily without getting up, and she could feel his eyes on her as she stepped past him to examine the shrine. “But it looks like others visit, too—those amber beads weren’t here last time.”
“Hush for a moment,” she said without rancor. “I wish to make an offering.”
She could sense the retort on his tongue—You’re the one disturbing me—but he said nothing, which worried her. He must be feeling lower than she’d thought. But she didn’t question it. There would be time for that later.
Gunnhild took the small knife from her belt, pricked her pinkie finger without so much as a wince, and allowed her blood to drip onto the top of the figure. Watched it run down through the grooves of Freyja’s hair and necklace and cloak until it reached the statue’s flat base. She closed her eyes.
Lend me the strength to deal with my new in-laws and my husband, and to defeat Thorbjorg and avenge Heid, one of your most dedicated devotees, she prayed. You may consider Thorbjorg just as much your daughter as I am, but if blood and terror and greatness are in my future, then I will at least dedicate the blood to you.
Let it sate you. Let it result in more bodies in your hall, a bigger army for when you battle your foes at Ragnarok.
If I am to be the cause of much death, then let that death serve you.
And let it begin with Thorbjorg’s.
When she opened her eyes, she turned around to see that Eirik had stood, and he was looking at her with minor concern. She smirked. “Have you forgotten how Freyja receives half the battle-slain in her own hall? My goddess enjoys her flowers and baubles as much as the next, but sometimes she prefers blood.”
Eirik folded his arms and raised his eyebrows. “The duality of woman?”
“You’re catching on.” Gunnhild gestured around them. “Whose place is this? Whose statue?”
For a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer, would stalk away to go brood somewhere else, but he surprised her.
“I wish I knew,” Eirik said, looking up at the unseasonably green canopy of birch leaves. “My mother used to bring me here when the seeresses passed through. I was so small when she died, and those are the only memories I have of her.”
“You mentioned your father put some of his other wives aside for her,” Gunnhild said, not quite knowing what else to say. “She must’ve been quite a woman for him to do something like that.”
“She was the daughter of a Danish king, so if I had to guess, I’d say her father worked it into their marriage terms.” He gave her the ghost of a smile. “She moved to Alreksstadir after the wedding. She was here for only a short time before she died, but she was popular. So if you ever hear people speak of Queen Ragnhild—that was her.”
“So she lived on this estate, too?” Gunnhild asked. “With Queen Gyda? And there were no bitter feelings?”
“Queen Gyda wasn’t one of the wives my father divorced in order to marry her, so no.”
“But that’s why there are two separate bedchambers?”
“Yes. The one we’re staying in once belonged to my mother. As did this grove. She had a special interest in the workings of witches. Not that it saved her in the end.” He looked away. “But every time I’m here, I come to this place at least once. My father ordered that it remain untouched in my mother’s memory.”
“I see,” Gunnhild said. That was rather more sentimental than she would’ve expected from King Harald, but then again, this was a man who’d accused his wife of witchcraft when he’d fallen too deeply in love with her. It was little wonder that Eirik seemed just as scared of his own feelings. Gunnhild figured it must run in the family.
“It still feels like my mother here,” Eirik said, gesturing at the still, empty air around them. “Maybe she’s one of the fylgjur now, one of the fate spirits looking out for our family line. I suppose it’s comforting, in a way, to think of my foremothers keeping watch while my forefathers feast in Valhalla.”
Gunnhild suppressed a shudder. “They say you see your fylgja when something terrible is about to happen. If that’s true, I have even more reason to hope I never see my mother again.” She shifted. “Ever since I was a child, it’s troubled me that only people who die in battle can hope for a glorious afterlife with the gods. Ending up with Hel or Ran always sounded terribly dull—that can’t be what most women expect, can it? I quite like the idea of becoming a fylgja instead when I die.”