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.”
Home.
As Bjorn lifted me, careful not to touch my hand, my eyes went to the building we stood before. A great hall. Though shaped the same as any other home, this structure was twice the height of any I’d ever seen, the planks forming the walls carved with runes and knotwork, and the twin doors large enough to allow five men to enter abreast. As we stepped into the dim interior, my eyes skipped over a raised platform where two large chairs sat. Before them were tables flanking a stone hearth at least a dozen feet long. From the ceiling high above dangled interwoven racks of antlers decorated with silver, and a second level overlooked the common area.