Bjorn’s voice filled my ears. He had one hand on the lead, the other bracing one of the creature’s horns. The bull was old, his muzzle gray. He shifted uneasily, though whether it was from the smell of blood, the crowd, or some sixth sense that his end was near, I couldn’t say.
“Do you know how?”
Bjorn sounded distant, as though he stood a dozen feet away from me, not at my elbow.
“Yes.”
The gothi began shouting to the gods, offering the sacrifice, but it was hard to hear him as the wind rose. It caught and pulled at my clothes and the raven’s feathers I wore, the branches of the surrounding forest rustling against one another, the trees themselves creaking and groaning from the onslaught.
The gothi went silent, and Bjorn said, “Now, Freya.”
I tightened my grip on the knife. Above, lightning flashed, branches of light shattering the night before everything turned dark. The people turned their faces skyward in time to watch a mass of black birds descend, flying in chaotic circles even as the forest came alive with the sounds of creatures calling, their voices a cacophony of noise. The bull shifted restlessly and bellowed.
“Freya,” Bjorn hissed, “if he decides to bolt, I won’t be able to stop him.”
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t tear my eyes from the circling birds. Omens. Signs the gods watched, and I found myself uncertain whether this was an offering they wanted. But the specter had said that if I did not do this, my life would be forfeit.
Lightning arced across the sky. Once, twice, three times, the thunder deafening yet not loud enough to drown out the beat of the drums. The bull twisted, pulling against Bjorn’s grip even as the birds descended, wings brushing my face as they circled, the bull’s eyes rolling as it started to panic.
“Freya!”
If I failed, my family’s lives would be forfeit.
“Accept this offering,” I breathed, then pulled the knife across the bull’s jugular.
It lunged, dragging Bjorn with it, and then dropped to its knees, blood raining down to fill the channels, draining into a basin held by a gothi.
Everything went silent, even the drums, the ravens vanishing like smoke.
I quivered, watching as the bull slumped, its side going still with death.
No one spoke. No one moved. No one seemed to even breathe.
The gothi reacted first, lifting the basin and dipping his fingers into the crimson contents. But it was the basin, not his hand, that I focused on, the blood swirling as though a maelstrom had settled into its depths.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Each droplet of blood that fell from the gothi’s hands resounded in my ears like rocks being dropped from far above. I jerked with each impact, the noise deafening.
The gothi reached for me, and it took every ounce of will I possessed not to recoil as he dragged his fingers across my face, the blood hot against my icy flesh.
A pulse of air struck me the moment his fingers left my skin, and my stomach dropped as though I were falling from a great height. Surrounding the crowd was a circle of hooded figures, each holding a torch that burned with silver fire.
I couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. “Bjorn,” I whispered, “I’m seeing things that aren’t there.”
“No.” His breath caught. “They are here.”
The gods were here.
Not one of them, but…but all of them. My eyes skipped from figure to figure, not certain if I was shocked or terrified or both. The air swirled, carrying with it a voice, neither male nor female, that whispered, “Freya Born-in-Fire, child of two bloods, we see you.”
Then the figures disappeared.
I stood rigid, unable to move even if I’d wanted to, because the gods…the gods had been here. And they’d come because of me.
What remained to be seen was whether that was for good or ill, as I still had little notion of what future they saw for me. Why they cared for the child of the most minor of their ranks.
Why me?
As though I possessed no more intelligence than the dead bull at my feet, I gaped at the crowd, wondering how many realized that this had been no tea-induced delusion. Too many, I decided, seeing eyes that stared at me with clarity. Snorri, Ylva, and their warriors, yes. But also King Harald, whose gaze was thoughtful as he stood with his slender arms crossed at the rear of the crowd, Tora still at his elbow.
My knees were weak, demanding that I sit, but thankfully Bjorn had enough wit to own the situation. Grabbing my bloody hand, which still gripped the bone knife, he lifted it high. “The gods are watching,” he roared. “Do not disappoint them in your revels!”