It started the moment she stepped out of the textile workshop that morning. She seemed to have impressed the guests at the disablot, for many wanted to introduce themselves and their families to the future queen, to compliment her on the power of the sacrifice the night before and comment on how they just knew that good fortune would come their way thanks to her. Now they knew her face, knew her name.
They saw her. They wanted to know her.
She wished she could be happier about it. Her smile was forced, her replies empty, and every name slipped out of her head the moment she turned to greet the next person.
At first the day dragged on, but before long she had to go back to the workshop and get ready for her wedding, which was to take place at dusk. Oddny had sewn another linen dress for her, identical to the one she’d worn to the ritual but with the cuffs, hem, and neckline adorned with stitches of pale blue wool thread.
Instead, Gunnhild opted to wear her ritual gown. The blood from the sacrifice the previous day had dried to the same dark copper red as her hair. When Oddny asked about the sudden change of mind regarding her wardrobe, Gunnhild lied and said she’d coordinated it with Eirik. But in truth she wanted to remind everyone who she was. Remind her enemies, remind those who doubted her—King Harald, Queen Gyda, Thorbjorg, Katla, even Olaf, and Halfdan, whom she’d yet to meet—exactly whom they were dealing with.
And that was not some waif in a pristine white gown, but a witch who was not afraid to spill blood if fate demanded it of her. Looking down at the stains as she combed out her hair, she was now more certain than ever that she was walking the path that was meant for her, both because of and despite Thorbjorg’s interference.
A path that, she was no longer able to deny, led straight to Eirik.
This was a truth she couldn’t have told Oddny even if she’d asked. Though Eirik hadn’t spoken to her since that day in the grove, and Gunnhild still wasn’t certain that he didn’t despise her, during the disablot she’d felt a shift—everyone else had been riveted by the sacrifice, but his eyes had been on her.
And she found that she wanted him to look. To recognize her for what she was. He, more than anyone else, needed to see her. Maybe then he would listen to her, too.
She finished combing her hair and stood, took the juniper crown that Ulla offered her, and placed it atop her head. Oddny stepped forward to ensure that it was straight.
And then it was time.
Gunnhild was struck by the deep red of the sunset as a dozen of the weavers, including Oddny and Ulla, escorted her to the temple. As they approached the people who’d gathered to witness the marriage ceremony—which would be taking place outside—the crowd hushed and parted for them.
When they reached the front of the assembly, she saw that a fire had been built outside the temple doors. The women broke off from her and only Gunnhild continued forward, though she almost stopped in her tracks when she realized she hadn’t lied to Oddny after all: Eirik stood before her in the very same plain tunic and pants he’d worn for the ritual, his hair pulled back at his nape and his beard trimmed, this neatness at odds with the dried blood on his clothes. He stared at her as though he was equally shaken that they’d separately made the same decision to forgo their finery for something even more powerful.
They were married by a priest of Frey, the ceremony cast in shades of blood by the setting sun. She didn’t dare look out onto the crowd. She couldn’t bring herself to care what any of them thought. Not anymore.
Her vision had narrowed until it encompassed only Eirik. It was as though they were the only people in the Nine Worlds. They didn’t speak, didn’t even touch until the priest bound their clasped forearms together in a lovely gold-threaded tablet-woven band Saeunn had made. He bestowed the gods’ blessings upon them as he tied it, all the while calling on Thor to consecrate the marriage, on Odin for the wisdom to guide their rule, on Frey and Freyja for fertility.
Gunnhild heard the priest as though from a distance. He passed Gunnhild a large, shallow cup full of golden mead, and with her free hand she took it and sipped.
You don’t have to like me. She held Eirik’s gaze over the rim as she lowered it, recalling Arinbjorn’s words from the day they’d met. But I’m your last hope, as you’re mine.
She passed him the cup and he took a drink as well. Then the priest took it and poured the rest of the mead into the fire before them as an offering to the gods. Everyone in the crowd cheered, save for a select few.
Gunnhild barely heard any of them.
Beneath the binding of the band, she squeezed Eirik’s arm and whispered, “Your enemies are my enemies.”
At once he recognized his own words from the day they’d bound themselves with blood nearly a moon ago, and a ghost of a grim, determined smile played at his lips. This wedding was for his family, the people, the gods. But these words were a reminder of the oath they’d already taken, a reminder for just the two of them.
“And your fate is my fate,” he said.
* * *
—
THE FEAST THAT FOLLOWED felt like a fever dream Gunnhild couldn’t wake from.
A table had replaced the altar stone atop the bloodstained dais, and Eirik and Gunnhild sat there under the statues of the gods. To their left sat King Harald in the high seat, with Thora and Hakon, and next to them, Queen Gyda ate in watchful silence.
Gunnhild took a long swig of grape wine from the large wooden cup she and Eirik shared: the same one from the ceremony, an elaborately carved dragon head sprouting from each side. The wine was a precious commodity imported from far to the south, brought out for this very special occasion. She was enjoying the drink perhaps too much.
Despite what she’d perceived as a positive development in their relationship during the wedding, Eirik had not spoken to her or shown her any affection since. She was beginning to think that it was merely a fluke, that he really did loathe her, and the wine wasn’t helping her mood. On top of that, the guests simply would not stop coming up to greet them, congratulate them, and occasionally present them with lavish gifts.
The more she drank, the less she felt. And she wished to feel nothing at all, so she kept drinking, which was very convenient, as the wine seemed to be in endless supply.
As yet another guest ended their long string of praise and blessedly returned to their seat, a servant approached the table and refilled the dragon-headed cup with wine. Gunnhild nabbed it just as Eirik went to pick it up.
He gave her a sharp look. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but I would also like to drink on my wedding day.”
Gunnhild waved the cup at him and wine sloshed over the rim. “Aha! He speaks! And here I’d thought you’d forgotten I was here—wait.” She squinted. “Are you biting your nails?”
He hid his hand in his lap and glowered at her. “A nervous habit from childhood. It comes back every now and then when I’m under duress.”
“Oh, you’re under duress, are you?”
“Yes,” Eirik said, reaching for the cup. “Give that here. You can have more later, when you’ve sobered up.”
She held it away from him. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
“I can tell you that you’re going to make a fool of yourself in front of my family if you keep drinking. Hand over the cup.”