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.
They took me past the tables to the rear of the space, which was separated from the room by thick hangings suspended from the level above. There were several cots there, and Bjorn steered me toward one of them.
With no small amount of relief, I lay down, the furs beneath me thick and soft, as were those Bjorn drew over me, though they did nothing to drive away the chill. I shivered and shook, most of the water from the cup he held to my mouth pouring down my chin rather than my throat. His hand curled around the base of my head, lifting it and holding me steady. I swallowed the water greedily, then slumped back. “Hurts.”
“I know.”
I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep my tears in check, not wanting to show any more weakness. “How could you know? It doesn’t burn you.” My tone was more bitter than I intended.
“Tyr’s fire doesn’t, but ordinary fire does.” He turned, pulling up his shirt to reveal hard muscle, tattooed skin, and, across one shoulder blade, a twist of faded white scar unmarked by the black ink of his tattoos. “Set a cabin afire the first time I called the flame as a child. A burning beam fell on me. It’s not a pain you forget.”
It wasn’t.
This was the sort of pain that lived in memory.
I watched as he settled on a stool next to the bed. He bent to examine my hand—which I was studiously not looking at—and I took the opportunity to run my eyes over his high cheekbones and strong jaw, his nose slightly crooked where I suspected it had once been broken. Stubble almost hid a dimple in his chin, and at this angle, I could see the edges of a crimson tattoo on the back of his neck, which would be the mark of his bloodline. His hair was a pure sort of black I’d rarely seen, the sunlight coming in from the opening in the roof turning strands of it blue rather than brown.
A piece had come loose from the tie at the back of his head, and it chose that moment to come untucked from behind his ear, falling across his cheek. Instinctively I lifted my right hand to brush it away, but the motion sent a stab of agony up my arm.
My right hand.
The hand I used for everything, and I might lose it. Fear of that more than the pain itself sent a hot tear trickling down my cheek, and I squeezed my eyes shut. When I opened them, it was to find Bjorn regarding me intently, his expression unreadable. “Was it worth it?” he asked.
The memory of my brother crawling after Vragi, desperate to stop him, filled my mind’s eye. If I hadn’t acted, Vragi would have taken Ingrid just for spite, destroyed her, then cast her aside. Or more likely, once he was able to walk, Geir would have killed Vragi and then been executed for murder by Snorri. Now, at least, they’d have a chance. If it cost me my hand, so be it. “Yes.”
Bjorn made a low humming sound, then nodded. “Thought you might say that.”
Silence stretched between us, and in it, the pain worsened. Desperate to knock it back, I said, “You let me go. Why?”
“What makes you say that? You’ve got a hard skull—my chin still aches.” He’d returned to his examination of my injuries. “You got away from me.”
“Liar,” I whispered, agony making me bold. If there was ever a chance to ask hard questions, now was the time.
Bjorn went entirely still, then turned his head, sunlight causing his green eyes to glow. “Vragi was a piece of shit who betrayed his own wife for wealth. Didn’t seem right to deny you your vengeance, though I thought you’d attack him with your fists, not…” He trailed off, making a face. “I underestimated how intensely you hated him.”
I had hated him, but searching for the emotion now, I found nothing. Felt nothing, despite having murdered my own husband in cold blood. The absence of reaction, good or bad, within me was unnerving and I swallowed hard.
The scrape of shoes on the wooden floor caught our attention. Bjorn stood as a small, fair-skinned woman with a halo of crimson curls appeared, Ylva at her heels. “Liv.”
“Why is it that if there is trouble, you are always at the center of it, Bjorn?”
“Always is an exaggeration.” He grinned at her, all good looks, white teeth, and sparkling eyes—a look I imagined got him out of a fair bit of said trouble, but the small woman only snorted. “Go flirt with someone who’s interested, you wool-brained creature. I’ve neither time nor interest in your nonsense.”
I huffed out a laugh, and the woman turned her soft brown eyes on me and smiled. “If you can laugh, then you’re not in the grave just yet.” She set her satchel next to the bed, then sat on the stool Bjorn had vacated, gently removing the cloth covering my hand.
“She grabbed my axe in a fit of murderous rage.” Bjorn leaned against the wall, then winked at me. “I would not anger her if I were you. Or if you do, don’t turn your back on her.”
“And yet you’ll probably not take your own advice.” Liv made a soft sound, then shook her head and my heart sank even as my fear bloomed bright. She asked, “What’s your name?”
“Never mind her name, will she keep the hand?” Ylva pushed around Bjorn to bend over the bed, making a face at my wound. “She is the shield maiden we’ve been searching for. She will make Snorri king of Skaland, but only if she isn’t rendered useless by her own foolish choices.”
Liv stiffened, glancing to Bjorn for confirmation, but I barely noticed the exchange. Useless. My eyes burned and I blinked rapidly, every dream I’d ever had going up in smoke. “My name is Freya, Erik’s daughter.”
“Pray to Hlin, Freya. For it is in the hands of the gods as to whether you will recover.” Liv looked to Ylva. “Make an offering to Eir. A goat should suffice, but you must do it yourself.”
Ylva’s lip curled, but she said nothing, only nodded and left, shouting at the servants beyond.
“That should keep her busy for a time.” Liv dug into her satchel, extracting a small jar of honey as well as a handful of what looked like moss, setting them on a table. “But first let us look to your pain.”
She put a yellow substance into a clay pot, then held a candle to it until it ignited. Leaning toward my face, she met my eyes. “Breathe deep,” she said, then blew the smoke toward me. I dutifully inhaled, then choked and coughed, sucking in more smoke as I did. Almost instantly, my muscles ceased their shivering and I slumped back against the furs.
“Better?” Liv asked.
I could still feel the burns, but they no longer made me want to scream. “Yes,” I murmured, sinking into a strange sense of euphoria. As though I were in my body…but not. “Is it your magic that I am feeling?” I knew little of the magic of the children of Eir, for they were rare and usually served jarls.
“No.” Liv smiled. “Just a flower with many uses.”
“Don’t get used to it, Freya Charhand. That flower has been the ruin of many,” Bjorn said, and my gaze drifted to his face, uncaring that I was unabashedly staring at him.
“It’s unnatural for someone to have such a beautiful face.”
One of his eyebrows rose. “I cannot tell if that was meant as a compliment or an insult.”