Bjorn blinked, then gave a sharp shake of his head. “You’re grasping, Father. Seeing connections that don’t exist to explain that which cannot be explained.”
“The gods gifted us their stories so that we might understand our own lives.” Snorri gripped Bjorn’s shoulders. “The gods brought you back to me so that I might find Freya. And it seems the gods desire you to be the one to keep her life safe so that I might achieve all that has been foreseen. It is your destiny.”
A shiver ran over me as the wind swirled, snowflakes melting on my outstretched palm as I waited to see how Bjorn would respond. Only to have my stomach sink as he spat, “No. I’ll have no part of this.” He twisted on his heels and stormed away.
Silence stretched.
“He’ll come to see reason,” Snorri finally said. “The gods demand it. Now let us feast.”
I said nothing as I followed him and Ylva to the great hall, but in my mind was a truth that Snorri had forgotten: Bjorn was unfated, which meant that no matter what the Norns planned for him, his destiny was his own to weave.
After the servants swiftly repaired my dress, I was seated at the table on the dais to Snorri’s left, Ylva at his right. The clansmen and women filled the spaces of the many long benches, the tables loaded with trenchers of food and pitchers of mead. The hall itself was decorated with garlands, and through the smell of woodsmoke and cooking was the sharp scent of pine. The villagers came one after another to offer us their well-wishes, but for all they spoke kind words, the sideways looks they gave me were of mistrust and uncertainty.
It was hard to blame them.
I’d walked into their lives, burned and bloody, usurped their beloved lady’s husband, and then caused a ritual to turn into utter chaos. All because twenty years ago, some seer had spoken words to their lord that I had the power to unite the fractured clans of Skaland and make Snorri their king.
It felt like something out of a skald’s story, except I’d been raised to honor the gods and look for the signs they left us, so no part of me believed that the seer’s words were untrue. But that didn’t mean I didn’t have questions.
Exactly how was I intended to unite the people? What had the seer seen me doing that would accomplish such a feat?
Yes, I was a child of a god, possessed of magic, but Hlin was a minor god. Bjorn had the blood of Tyr in his veins, one of the most powerful gods. A god of war and a leader, but also a bringer of justice. It made sense for someone like Bjorn to do the deeds the seer had foretold, but instead his only role in the foretelling had been to provide the fire that would reveal my name.
Which…had happened.
It made me wonder if Snorri’s theory was true. Did the gods see Bjorn’s fate entwined with mine? Was he crucial to the seer’s foretelling coming to pass?
I lifted my right hand to bite at my fingernails, only to remember that I once again wore the gloves Ylva had given me. Though now I wasn’t certain whether her desire was to cover my scars or to cover the mangled tattoo on my right palm lest it stir up more conflict than it already had.
Conflict that had driven Bjorn away and kept him away all through the feast, for he clearly wanted no part of the future his father envisioned for him.
And given my own circumstances, I could understand that.
Nibbling on a piece of chicken, I again scanned the crowd for him, but my thoughts were interrupted by a soft voice.
“Freya?”
Standing before the dais was the beautiful woman who’d been with Snorri when I’d fought Bjorn. As pale of skin as I was myself, she wore a crimson gown of delicate wool that again revealed her ample cleavage, the fabric clinging to the full curves of her hips. Her light brown hair was loose tonight, falling in ringlets to her waist, the only weapon she wore a small seax fastened to her belt. Again, I was struck with a strange sense of distance from her. As though while she stood before me, seeing and hearing and smelling the festivities, she stood apart.
“We’ve not been properly introduced. My name is Steinunn,” the woman said. “I am Jarl Snorri’s skald.”
Only then did I notice the crimson tattoo of a harp on the side of her neck, the strings pulsing with each beat of her heart. Not just any skald, but a child of the gods as sure as I was myself, though her blood came from Bragi. I’d never witnessed a performance myself, but I’d been told that a skald’s song would grant visions that transported listeners into the story. I’d heard that they only served jarls and kings who could afford to keep them in fine form, which explained Steinunn’s rich attire, but I’d never heard Geir speak of her. “Have you served Snorri a long time?”