I held my breath as Snorri silently considered my words, then he nodded and said, “You will tell her all at the soonest opportunity. As it is, I wished her here to sing the ballad of your birth in fire and your marking for all clans to hear, and now that must wait.”
“I’ll tell her everything,” I lied, because there were most definitely moments in the tunnels that the world did not need to know.
Snorri gave me a curt nod, turning once again to Bjorn, and Ylva shoved me behind a curtain. “Clothes off. With all my thralls dead to ensure you lived, you’ll have to bathe yourself. Do it swiftly.”
You killed them, not me, I wanted to say. Instead I remained silent, pulling off my chain-mail shirt and then the garments underneath, cringing at the stink of metal, sweat, and blood that clung to me. Boots and trousers joined the pile on the floor, and I hoped I’d have time to wash them before having to don them again, because the smell would only worsen.
A bucket of steaming water arrived, and I struggled to unravel my braids with one hand. My right had stiffened horribly, the tightness of my scars made worse by the bruising I’d gained punching the draug.
“Cursed, useless girl.” Ylva abandoned her own washing to help me. “Head in the bucket.”
She swiftly washed my hair before leaving me to scrub the filth from my body with a rag. From the bags, she extracted a simple dress, which she helped me into before dressing herself.
“What will happen tonight?” I asked, finally in the position to get answers to the questions I’d been avoiding thinking about. An enormous price had been paid to get me here for the ritual, yet I still had no notion of what would occur.
“All those who have traveled to Fjalltindr will make sacrifices to the gods,” Ylva said. “As will you.”
“That’s it?” Not that I was complaining. If killing a chicken was all that I had to do, I’d gladly do it.
“There is a celebration afterwards, but you will come back here where we can ensure your safety. The runes on the hall will protect you.” She went to the wall where a dozen masks hung on hooks and selected one fashioned to look like a raven, a long cape of black feathers hanging from it. She fit it on my head, and when I looked up, it was to see the sharp beak protruding above my forehead. With ash, she shadowed the skin around my eyes as though I were going to war. Fastening a mask with deer antlers on her own head, she said, “We sent a messenger back to Halsar after you separated from us. Even now, Ragnar will be coming with all haste with the rest of our fighting men to ensure we get back down this mountain alive.”
“They’ll be leaving Halsar undefended?”
“Yes.” Her gaze was frosty. “I hope you appreciate what is being done to keep you safe.”
All of that so that I could kill a chicken in front of a crowd of people.
As though hearing my thoughts, Ylva gripped my shoulders, staring unblinkingly at me from behind her mask. “You are a child of the gods, girl. You are one of the Unfated, which means everything you do has the power to alter your destiny, and the destinies of those around you, for good and ill.”
Not for the first time, I hated that fact. Longed to be fully mortal so that everything I’d ever do was already woven. For it felt like I was running down an unmapped path where I might easily lose my way, dragging myself and all those I cared for to our doom.
Ylva looked me up and down, her lips pinched tight. “We have no more time, so this will have to do.”
When we stepped out from behind the curtain, it was to find Snorri and Bjorn waiting unmasked and in silence, the tension between them high. Both had removed their mail, and Bjorn had scrubbed the blood from his face, revealing shadows beneath his green eyes. Exhausted, yet he moved unerringly to my elbow, his father giving him a nod of approval before stepping outside, where the warriors waited.
Snorri and Ylva led the group through the trees, hundreds of people moving in the same direction. Many men and women wore elaborate masks like my own, often accompanied by decorated hides or cloaks of feathers, which made it seem like a herd of beasts approaching the ritual.
Bjorn walked at my left, his eyes roving over any who drew near. A woman walked against the flow, her face concealed by a mask of raven feathers that blended into her dark hair. Bjorn tensed as she drew close and my own heart skittered, seeing threats at every turn. But she only murmured, “What path do you follow?”
I blinked, opening my mouth to answer her, but Bjorn caught my arm and drew me forward. “Seems like many have already indulged in mushroom tea.”