Chapter One

Lord Guerin, man-at-arms to the King, had not bothered to wash the dirt and grit away from his face before striding confidently and proudly toward the center of the dining hall. His armor clanged as he walked, a sound that put Brynhild's teeth on edge. "A toast," he cried. Brynhild watched him steal a goblet from one of the younger soldiers, who happily obliged a revered warrior such as Guerin. "A toast to our liege lord and king!"

The room was bloated with guests, overfilled, and ripe with the pungent air of unwashed soldiers and the pretty maids who came to welcome them home.

Guerin held the cup high and the room erupted in yells and cheers. The sounds echoing off the walls like heartbeats. When he took the goblet away from his face the paleness of his beard came away red with wine. To Brynhild, all she could see was blood.

"To King Frederick," Guerin expanded, holding his arms wide. The sheen of the goblet like a sun, pointing high. The tide of the room hushed when he beckoned them to. "To King Frederick, on this, the first night home after his triumph against King Igor of Manorbriar. And to this night," he held his cup high again, "The greatest night of his reign."

The soldiers and courtiers mirrored Guerin's refrain and took up the same chorus of, "To the King! To the King!"

Queen Aurorette held her cup up high as well, Brynhild could see, and her lips echoed the same chant, but her voice was so quiet that only her husband could hear her. King Frederick held a hand to his chest, humbled by his wife's gesture, and nodded his head in approval.

It was Guerin who, after draining his cup, insisted that the musicians play on with their tunes, and told the young soldiers, previously grouped together at the edges of the hall, to sit and eat. Brynhild watched him bow one final time to Frederick before making his way to his family, seated in places of honor beside the King and Queen—his wife greeted him coolly, while his two younger daughters were affectionate and boisterous.

Brynhild had spent most of the early evening taking sanctuary inside the Queen's chambers, departing only when she heard the noise and bustle of preparation spilling increasingly closer to the closed door. She put the sleeping Princess back into her cradle, tucking the embroidered blanket tightly around the infant's body. The flutter of voices, from the maids, and the more esteemed ladies in waiting as well as the courtiers prompted Brynhild to scuttle to the large red tapestry hanging against the wall, and peeling it back like the skin of an onion, unlatching the hidden door obscured by it. As she closed the door behind her she could hear the sound of Bettia's voice as she entered the queen's chamber. Her words—something about the baby, the Princess Aurelia—made Brynhild's teeth grind and the hairs on the back of her neck stand tall. The child slept on in the oak basinet beside the Queen's bed. She would never harm that child.

The feast continued for hours, and Brynhild yawned exaggeratedly. She had taken her seat in the back of the hall, tasked with minding young Prince Oren, who was complaining loudly that he wanted more venison, even though he had already had four servings and the servants at the back of the hall were only allowed thin slices of umbel pie.

Brynhild was weary of him, everything from his whining voice to his mop of flaxen hair disturbed her. There was nothing of Frederick in him. She had thought to escape to the kitchens, and make her way through the back halls of the castle back up to her room, or if nothing else, find a serving of umbel pie, a dish made of deer entrails, and give it to the grumbling young Prince, but every time she made to depart, she felt Frederick's eyes on her, and his gaze seemed to insist that she stay.

"I want more!" Oren pouted. He smacked his hand onto the edge of his pewter plate, making a deafening clanking sound. The Prince was born four summers ago and he still acted like a vile toddler throwing a tantrum. His petulance curdled Brynhild's blood.

"You've had enough," she told him. There were eyes on her now, eyes of the crowd, eyes other than Fredericks and she burned with humiliation. "Try to be more like your father," she reasoned, crossing her arms. She could not hide the scowl dragging at her face. "King Frederick would not throw a tantrum as you have just done."

Oren purpled before her, and in a single motion he grabbed Brynhild by the hair and slapped her hard across the back. Her skin stung. She was so stunned that she didn't have time to reach out and grab him before he ran off, howling for his mother attention. Brynhild chased him, only the nearest guests, faces already flushed with wine, seemed bothered by the commotion of a crying child headed for the King and Queen.

"Mama!" Prince Oren hissed. His face was the color of mulberries and there were long moist tear tracks cutting down his cheeks. Brynhild watched as his mother, Queen Aurorette, opened her arms to him, letting him crawl onto her lap and rest his head into the crook of her velvety neck. He pointed a tiny finger, menacingly, at Brynhild. "That evil Brynhild is a witch; she won't let me have supper."

The Queen stroked her son's back comfortingly; gentle fingers twirling across the boys finely tailored jerkin like spider legs.

Frederick's attention had been grabbed by his son's howls. "What's all this?"

Frederick knelt to his son, eying him, then lifting his gaze to find Brynhild's stare. It was the first time she had met his gaze all evening. It felt like a century since she had last felt his warm stare against her face.

Their gaze was unbroken, his questioning look held longer than the looks he had given his son or his wife earlier. Byrnhild felt her body shutter. Her memories were like a wound, never truly healed.

"Sire, I—" she struggled, trying to explain. Her voice felt raw. She had not spoken to another living soul, with the exception of the infant Princess, in days. So many days that she had lost count. She waited, hoping that he would interrupt her, so she could watch his lips dance out the words, so she could watch the way his mouth formed them.

"It's alright," he said, standing, coming face to face with her. She could see, from her closeness now, that his red hair was overgrown. He had combed it back earlier but now it fell forward, unkept, across his face. His beard was not as rough as the other soldiers, but she could still see the brush of stubble across his chin and cheeks. There was a razer thin scar crisscrossing from his temple to his eyebrow, interrupting the growth of hair there. Frederick reached his hand out, clasping her lightly on the ball of her shoulder. Touching her as though she were a delicate bird.

He turned back to the Queen. "I think it's time that Oren retires to bed, don't you agree?"

"No, father. Please." Oren's grip on his mother tightened.

Queen Aurorette gave her husband a secretive grin. "Yes," she told her son. "I think your father is right." She pushed her son from her lap, her hands tight underneath the Princes armpits. Oren clung to her skirts, his wails increasing. Brynhild could feel the icy stares of the courtiers piercing into her back.

"Brynhild," the Queen beckoned. "Please take him to his chamber. And make sure he gets to sleep."

"I—" She wanted to object.

Frederick turned back to her. "I am glad to see you again, Brynhild." His voice was low and soft. "The last time we spoke," he floundered, exposing his hands upward, his posture somehow desperate and pleading. "Well, I had feared the worst. I was not myself. I can never truly express how grateful I am to you for…" He stopped himself, giving her the tiniest of smiles, an expression that made her shiver, before turning back to his wife. She watched him take Aurorette's hand, rubbing his callused thumb against her knuckles. He took his seat next to her, and he and the Queen seemed to retreat together into an intimacy of conversation that excluded Brynhild and the rest of the world.

She took Oren's hand forcibly, even as he tried in vain to squirm away from her. All around her the feast hall was erupting in clatter and drunkenness. She saw Bettia standing on the other side of the hall, her stare in Brynhild's direction was particularly dark as she dragged the Prince along behind her. Guerin's daughters—Lisbet and Gesine, were being ushered away from the raucousness that was taking over the revelers. Bettia was leading them away, just as she had once done to Brynhild and Frederick when they were young.

Staggered groups of soldiers had spilled out of the feast room into the hall. Brynhild could smell the ripeness of unwashed bodies and the earthy scents of wet mud. Because she had the Prince with her the crowds tended to part easily, giving her a wide enough birth that she didn't have to worry about strangers touching her. The brush of a shoulder or a hip against her body often times made her recoil.

The nearer they got to the living quarters the more she noticed that the shadowy alcoves hid pairs of lovers. She could hear the pants of a man close to succumbing to his passion and a few steps later she was startled by the moan of a young girl. Through a slit of moonlight, she could see a stockinged foot curl around the back of a man, knee bent tightly, as he hunched down over her.

Byrnhild had learned, when Oren was a baby, that no amount of soothing would get him to sleep when she needed, or wanted him to, and she knew with certainty that tonight would be no exception. As always, she kept her aumoniere, a small cloth purse tied to her belt, filled with herbs that she had concocted especially for Oren.

She undressed him, and he clawed at her with his dirty fingernails. "I hate you!" He spat, pulling her hair so hard that his fists filled with strands of her black hair.

She pushed him onto the bed, not caring if she was gentle.

"I hate you!" he told her again. "You're a witch."

Brynhild didn't bother answering him. She did not care what this child thought of her. He had thrown his tunic off, discarding it without care, onto the cobbled floor. She didn't bother putting clothes onto him. With her palm inside her aumoniere, and her other hand holding his chest down as he squirmed, she pulled out a handful of herbs and dumped them onto the warm skin of his chest.

Oren coughed, stilling his protests, as Brynhild rubbed the concoction in large slow circles onto his chest. His nostrils filled with the aroma of her strange mixture, and Brynhild felt the fight leave him, first slowly, and then completely. He yawned, closing his eyes. His words were still spiteful toward her as he finally drifted off to sleep.

The fire in Oren's room had died down considerably, and after brushing the herbs from her palm with the hem of her skirt, she stoked the flames up again. The heat stung her face, but she welcomed the relief of feeling. Frederick knew where she was now. He would search her out. He would come.

She pushed aside the tapestry from the window and eyed the inky blackness of the night beyond the castle. She could see the winks of torchlight as the sentries maned their posts on the ramparts. Above her the sky was pinpricked with silvery stars, as though an embroidery needle had ripped through the sky. The earth was changing all around her and she could smell the damp sharpness of an incoming storm on the wind.

Somewhere, beyond the darkness, her father was buried, his body no more than bones in the sodden ground now. She circled her arms around her body, feeling the lump inside her abdomen, stroking the cloth of her dress above the mound and murmuring, comfortingly, to herself.

When the door to the Prince's chamber opened, making a low creaking sound, Byrnhild didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

Frederick's voice was startled when he called out her name.

"You came," she said turning. Relief washed over her. "I knew you would come."

He recovered himself, closing the door behind him, and spied the peacefulness of his son's sleeping expression. "He sleeps so deeply," Frederick commented. There was surprise in his voice, and awe.

It had been more than a year since he had seen his son. More than a year since the war started.

Brynhild held her hand out to him, but he did not notice, his gaze occupied with studying his son's sleeping face. Oren looked nothing like Frederick. He was the image of his mother, the Queen.

She slipped her hand up the taught stretch of his back, feeling the corded muscles ripple under her touch. "I've missed you." Her fingers brushed the side of his neck.

"No," Frederick said, sternly. He grabbed her hand and moved it carefully away from him. "I said 'never again,' Bryn."

Bryn. A memory, like a knife.

She grabbed his wrist, holding onto him tighter. "I don't believe you. I remember everything." She felt him starting to stagger away. Gritting her teeth, she pulled him closer to her, gripping his belt buckle until they were flush against each other. His red hair fell forward into his face again and she resisted the urge to push it back. She unhooked the belt, feeling his breath, warm and labored, against her face, and reached her hands inside his trousers, circling her hand around him. She felt him stiffen and take a shaky breath. Frederick's hands, already clutching her shoulders, held on tighter.

Her hand moved up and down on him. She stepped up onto the toes of her feet, putting her wet mouth against his jaw. "Don't you remember before?" Her voice was easy, contradicting the swell of his heavy breathing. "When we were younger?" He was lengthening in her hand. "Before you were married? Before she came here?"

He groaned, head tilting back, exposing the soft flesh of his neck.

"Before the war," Brynhild continued. Her words were met with another moan from him, this one coming from deep within his throat. She smiled. "You told me that you would always love me."

Frederick's eyes widened, and he pushed her away. "No!"

She didn't listen. Reaching out for him again.

"No!" He slapped her face, sending her staggering against the hard stone of the wall. She cupped her stinging face, unsure of what had really just happened.

Frederick looked back at his son, quickly, making sure he stayed asleep, then he marched toward her. Brynhild did not flinch. He grabbed the fleshy part of her upper arm and dragged her, forcibly, from his sons' room and back into the hallway.

Once the door was shut behind him, he said, "No more of this. You are no longer a child, Bryn, and I am no longer a boy." She softened a bit. She was still his Bryn. In their youths she had been nothing else.

"No," she countered, feeling as fiery has she once had. "You are a man." She came toward him again, but he was quick to push her away again. Her shoulder slammed against the rough stone.

"Never again!" he warned. "If you persist in this, you will be sent away. Bettia warned me, but I never thought… After all this time."

"Bettia?" She spat; the word as distasteful as worms on the tongue. "What does that whore have to do with anything?"

Frederick softened, taking a step back. "She was once your father's wife, Brynhild. She cares for you deeply. I care for you deeply. You are a dear and trusted friend. You saved my wife from dying. If it were not for you my children would not be alive. But, Bryn…" He reached his hand out, as though he would cup her cheek, but he stopped himself. "This must stop."

He retreated to the door of his son's room, turning back to her one final time. "Go to your chamber, Bryn. Sleep. Or go back downstairs, find a handsome solider. Find happiness. I know you are worthy of it; you just have to believe it yourself."

Her chamber had once been her father's chamber. The bed she slept in had once held other lovers.

Frederick did not wait for her to speak. And when he went inside Oren's bedroom, closing and latching the door behind him, she was alone in the corridor.

She could hear music from the reveler's downstairs, the sound of a harp melted into the darkness all around her. It sounded like a promise that her father had once told her he would keep, the melody, somehow both brimming with love yet tangled with hate.

Brynhild made her way through the castle, slowly. Expecting Bettia to appear behind every corner, though she never did.

She wandered outside, desperate for solitude. She passed a line of solders, still at their posts but relaxed and at ease now that the conflict had come to an end. They did not stop her as she wandered farther past the sanctuary of the compound. A drunkard staggered out of an ally, taking loopy steps toward the well, tracking lazy footprints, and gulping water from the ladle left beside bucket at the community's' water supply.

Brynhild stared, watching the solider quench his thirst. The apple of his throat bobbing up and down with each deep swallow.

It came to her suddenly, a burst of light through the fog of her memories.

She knew what she needed to do.