Filed to story: A Fate Inked In Blood Free
“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.
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?”