Northwic, 873

Valdis Eirikrsdóttir sat outside the alehouse in Northwic, contemplating the piece of cloth she held in her hand.

The atmosphere was unusually subdued, and people talked in hushed tones as they sipped on their drinks. Not far away, the little town crier was speaking to a group of onlookers with faces as grey as the clouds above. Across the table from Valdis, Finnr nursed his ale without much enthusiasm. In other circumstances, Valdis would have derided him for his unusual display of sobriety, but now… could she fault him for a failure that was as much her doing as his?

Valdis could not tear her eyes away from the scrap of cloth in her hand. She ran her thumb over the embroidered flowers, unable to settle her thoughts. Why did a simple handkerchief leave her mind so troubled? She had said it so herself; she had barely known the man who had offered her this gift. For all his talks of marrying her, Oswald of Elmenham had been a stranger to Valdis.

So why did a cold hand seemed to grip her heart whenever she pictured his face?

Valdis stood with a frustrated sigh, mingling with the crowd gathered in front of the town crier. Light rain began to fall in a soft pitter-patter around them. An unusual chill hung in the air, and Valdis shivered a little, even though she had braved far worse weather in her frigid homeland.

"Oswald is dead!" the lad exclaimed, to the shocked murmurs of his audience. Valdis felt a dull thud at these words, even though she was well aware of his demise. "We mourn the loss of our future king and hope for East Anglia! We will remember his brave fight in Dunwic. We will remember his sword against Rued's."

Valdis closed her eyes, beset by a sudden bout of nausea. The sight of his terrified face flashed behind her eyelids. Brave. Yes, Oswald had been brave. He had also been frightened out of his wits. He'd died afraid while Valdis had simply stood there, as if rooted to the ground. A curse died at the back of her throat, and she clenched her hand, twisting the handkerchief in her palm.

"And above all," the lad continued, "we shall remember the man's devotion to God and his mission. Raise your mugs to Oswald tonight at the Spanking Pig! That is what the man would have wanted!"

Those seated at the alehouse lifted their drinks in a half-hearted tribute. Valdis was surprised to see Finnr and her brothers doing the same. When they were done drinking, a certain blonde drengr approached their table. Eivor's scowl deepened at the sight of that pathetic display.

"Another king lost, Eivor," Finnr said, mournfully.

"Stop washing your face with mead!" Eivor snapped. "All is not lost, and you would know this if only you'd stop staring at the bottom of your mug."

"How can I face Halfdan Jarl now?" Finnr muttered. "I've failed him again."

"You have not failed him," Eivor said. "Rued's clan is badly weakened. We can still cure what ails this land."

Finnr raised a pair of weary eyes toward her. "Who would risk their arses now? Oswald was the last East Anglian leader with even a scrap of courage."

Eivor banged her fist on the table. "We can take the battle to what remains of Rued's clan, before they hit back."

"Easier said than done," Broder said. "His men are holed up at Burgh Castle, a fortress on the sea."

"On the sea? Then it must have a harbour."

"It does," Brothir told Eivor. "Guarded by a gate of hefty iron, held in place by timber spikes. Difficult to force open."

Valdis found Eivor's gaze, almost seeing the beginning of a plan forming behind those shrewd blue eyes.

"Timber burns," Eivor said.

"It does," Finnr said. "But how do we reach it?"

"We rig your ship with oil at her front and sail it ablaze at the gate."

"They would see us coming," Finnr countered. "Long before we reached the walls."

Valdis's heart was pounding; the spark she'd spied in Eivor's gaze seemed to be burning within her as well. "We raise a fyrd," she proposed, "an army of East Anglia's farmers."

"Yes," Eivor said with a nod. "And we'll have them attack the front gate as a distraction."

Finnr shook his head. "Saxons willing to die for a bunch of Danes? It's a stretch."

"It can work, Finnr," Valdis said. "If they fight in Oswald's name, that is all the courage they will need."

Finnr only shrugged in response. Valdis turned to address two Saxon men leaving the crowd who'd listened to the town crier. "You there! Did you hear of Thegn Oswald's fate?"

"Aye, we did," one of them said, stopping in his tracks. "He dragged Rued to the bowels of Hell, the Dane devil."

"Rued may be gone," Valdis continued, "but his clan still plagues East Anglia. Would you join us to rid your kingdom of his dogs?"

"For Oswald?" A fierce look settled on the man's face. His companion seemed filled with fiery determination as well. "Aye! Anything!"

The two men went on their way. Finnr pawned at his beard, still frowning.

"Two eager Saxons is not yet a fyrd," he said. "But you may be right. We may have a chance."

"I can ride to Elmenham and muster what remains of Oswald's men there," Valdis said. "But who else would join us?"

"The Reeve of Theotford, Wynnstan," Finnr said. "He is a bitter old barnacle, but he would fight to the death for this land."

Valdis nodded. "We can assemble a forward camp at the ruins north of Burgh Castle."

"Then, I will go to Theotford, find this Wynnstan," Eivor said. "Oswald gave us a precious gift indeed, cutting off the head of this dragon. We must honour his sacrifice and finish his great endeavour."

At those words, Finnr and Valdis's brothers hung down their heads, in a surprising show of contrition. Valdis remembered how shaken they had been after their escape from Dunwic; Broder and Brothir had praised Oswald's courage, voices hoarse with regret, while Finnr had immediately wanted to go back, in hopes that he had survived his fall. Eivor had refused, though Valdis had not failed to note just how tightly she'd held to Oswald's sword, which she had recovered despite the chaos surrounding their flight from Dunwic.

"We will, Wolf-Kissed, we will," Broder said.

"My brother and I will prepare the men for war," Brothir added. He frowned. "By Loki's cursed name, we should have done this long ago. Oswald was right. If we'd acted sooner, then…"

"There's no use in wringing your hands over what-ifs," Eivor interrupted him. "Meet us at the forward camp when you will be ready."

"That's what Oswald had wanted all along," Broder said. Valdis was shocked to hear a hint of genuine sorrow in his voice. "Isn't it?"

"Yes," Eivor said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Let's make this count, shall we?"

With one final nod, she turned away, no doubt heading to the docks to gather her crew. Valdis watched her go, finding it almost impossible to get her own feet moving. Her hand was still clasped tightly around that handkerchief.

Broder's gaze fell on the bits of cloth sticking out of her clenched fist. He frowned. "What's that?"

"It's nothing," Valdis said. She stuffed the handkerchief in the pouch hanging from her neck. "A useless gift from a dead man. Which makes it all the more useless."

"Oh, Valdis," Brothir said, eyes softening. Gods, she could not stand to look at him, not while he was gazing at her with such pity; he was a dead ringer for their father whenever he wore this expression. "Sister…"

"It's fine," she said, brusquely. "I am fine."

Brothir wrapped an arm over her shoulders. Valdis made no effort to return his embrace or even look him in the eye. When he let go of her, Broder came near, leaning his head on hers. Then, they were gone as well—leaving her with Finnr, of all people.

"What's the use?" the old steward said, circling the top of his mug with one finger. "Even if we do get rid of these maggots, what kind of fool would accept a crown that cost the lives of its last three bearers?"

"A greedy one," Valdis said. "Or one too idiotic to see this gift for the cup of poison it truly is."

"We'd only fuel more resentment within the Saxons with the first. And, gods, the second would be eaten up alive by our warriors. Either way I would be putting out fires for the rest of my life." Finnr glanced up at her, "Still, if I found someone willing to take the throne, would you—"

"No," she said, vehemently.

"Halfdan would rather if—"

"I did not accept Oswald's proposal because Halfdan wished it of me," Valdis said. "I accepted because it was a sensible arrangement. Because it would have given legitimacy to our claim over East Anglia."

She'd accepted his proposal because poor Oswald, for all of the genuine sweetness he'd shown during their courtship, had been nothing but a means to an end. Marrying him would have let her rule the Boar clan in her own right, without the interference of her hotheaded brothers or that drunkard Finnr. She'd accepted his offer to unite Saxons and Danes in their fight against Rued so they would have the necessary strength to drive him from East Anglia.

To drive him from Valdis's life.

Now, both of them were dead—her erstwhile husband and her prospective one. Valdis knew Finnr would eventually find a suitable candidate—a suitable puppet—to please Halfdan's whims. And of course the great jarl would demand that Valdis be married to that poor fool. That thought filled her mouth with the bile-like taste of resentment. No, Valdis vowed, she would refuse her illustrious cousin if he asked such a thing of her. There was no need anymore for her to be wed. She did not wish to be wed, Halfdan be cursed.

"I'm not like you," she spat. "He's used us long enough. I won't be his pawn anymore."

Finnr leaped out of his chair, jabbing a finger into her face. "You know nothing, girl. I am loyal to my jarl, and his victories are mine as well!"

"Truly? Do you think he spends his days singing your praises up there in Jorvik, the same way you bark on command here in East Anglia? How many times has he reached to you in those last five years?"

Finnr winced, quite noticeably. Still, he offered no other answer.

"My cousin is a giant among men, a hero who has stepped out of a saga," Valdis continued. "I respect him, honour him for his glories. But Halfdan Ragnarsson cares only about Halfdan Ragnarsson."

Finnr's face twisted with grief. He fell back into his seat, burying his face in both hands. "What would you have me do, then?"

"Consider choosing your own path and standing by that decision," Valdis said. "Or else you'll meet Odin's sword-maidens with a heart heavy with regrets."

She was surprised to hear him laugh. "Gods, lass, you sound more like your mother with every passing year. When she was your age, men were lining up to ask for her hand, hoping to carry back some of that wisdom back to their clan." His smile was wry. "I was one of such men, though she did not seem to consider me as a serious prospect."

"I wonder why," Valdis said, and Finnr gave another snort in response. She had not been aware that he had courted her mother. Valdis knew the old steward had buried a wife, two daughters and one grandson before coming to England, but not much else about his life. The realization saddened her, for some reason.

"In the end, she settled for your father. A man from a lesser clan. Halfdan was baffled by that choice, to tell the truth."

A wave of sorrow swept over Valdis. Suddenly, she was keenly aware of why her mother had chosen her father. Ylva Leifsdóttir had taken but one look into a pair of kind blue eyes and decided she wanted some of that warmth for herself and the children she would bear. When she'd been younger, Valdis had questioned a choice made for such sentimental reasons, but now…

"That is enough moping, old man," Valdis said. "We've a kingdom to save. Eivor is right: we must strike now that the beast has lost its head. Else, Oswald's death will be meaningless."

Finnr remained silent, for a moment. Then, very quietly, he said, "I don't want that. The lad deserved better than that."

"Good," Valdis said. "Then ride with me, to Elmenham. Let's help these farmers find their courage."

Denmark, many years ago

Valdis remembered when the laughter had died in her home.

She had grown in a clan of seasoned sailers and shipbuilders, but the elders of the village said Valdis took more after her grim, steadfast mother, who had been raised among warriors at King Ragnar's court. Valdis could recall so many moments in her childhood that she'd spent watching the craftsmen at work, trying to help in her awkward ways. She lacked their legendary patience; how many times had they teased her as she muttered curses at crooked stitches or new tears in the fabric she was mending? Her father had been among those who chuckled at her little scowling face, though he'd always praised her efforts as well.

"You have such a fire in you, child," the man had told her once, stroking her hair in the way that she loved so much. "I cannot wait to see what grand deeds will result from that passion, my daughter."

Valdis had considered his words with all the thoughtful attention a six-year-old could muster. "If I have a fire in me," she'd said, "then I should use it to make our home warm and to keep the winter chill at bay."

The Jarl of the Boar clan had roared in laughter, which had made Valdis frown. To her child's mind, that had been a perfectly sensible suggestion.

"Listen to that, Ylva!" he had told Valdis's mother. "Not a whit of poetry in that little soul! She's your daughter, all right!"

"Someone has to be sensible in this household," Ylva had answered.

Valdis's father had only chuckled, standing up to embrace his wife from behind, kissing at her hair and neck, until Valdis's mother had started to laugh as well, saying, "Eirikr! The children…"

…as always, that had been Brothir and Broder's cue to drag Valdis away with promises of sparring sessions and fighting lessons.

Their village was small, nestled within a harsh, rocky crag, but thanks to their Jarl's leadership, the clan was prosperous, with a great fleet of ships to send raiding and trading across the seas. Valdis remembered how eager she had been to follow her father in his outings. Whenever she'd clutched to the man's arm on the docks, insisting that he brought her with him, Eirikr only replied with a laugh, saying, "Patience, my little spark, patience. You'll brave the whale-roads with us soon enough!"

Those promises never came to fruition. Valdis had just seen her tenth winter when a great storm struck land and sea, only a week into the raiding season. For three days, Valdis had watched her mother deal with worried wives and scared children while the tempest had raged outside. Even when she had been small, Valdis had not scared easily, yet this time the howling wind and the crashing thunder had left her trembling under her furs at night.

When the sky finally calmed, they left the safety of the longhouse to find a village in ruin—many houses had been crushed under broken trees, the mill's wheel had been torn off its hinge, and worse of all was the shipyard, completely ravaged by Thor's rage, full of wrecks lying eviscerated like half-rotten whale carcasses.

At those dreadful sights, Ylva had squared her shoulders and clenched her jaw tight, directing the cleaning up efforts with cold efficiency. The twins, tall and steady despite having only seen twelve winters, had set out to follow her orders, while Valdis had been left alone to walk through the ruins of her home like a shambling draugr. Then, a great cry had come from the docks; one of the longships was returning—but not her father's proud vessel, Valdis had noted numbly.

Her mother had gone to meet the haggard men disembarking from the ship. From afar, Valdis recognized Ketil, her father's cousin, and the rest of his crew, merchants all. Something in their grief-stricken faces had filled Valdis with dread. Then, she had heard her mother letting out a long, heartrending wail. That had shocked Valdis into a stupor. She'd never heard her mother make such a sound, never.

The storm had struck the fleet as well, sending most of their ships into the deep abysses where Aegir had built his hall.

Including the one where Valdis's father had been sailing along with the best of their warriors.

In this one single act, the gods in their rage had all but doomed the Boar clan. Grief and fear held the village in a vice-like grasp; with the loss of their Jarl and so many brave drengir, they were a prime target for rival clans—a ghost town filled with widows and orphans. Worse still, Brothir had been much too young to take Eirikr's seat. Valdis remembered how she'd hid in a corner of the longhouse, watching her mother and the remaining members of the village council come together in a folkmoot. For a night, they had argued and fought, until it was finally agreed that Ketil would marry Valdis's mother and become Jarl.

From this day on, Ylva's face froze into a grim mask, and Valdis never saw her mother smile again. Of course, over the following years, the opportunities for joy or laughter remained far and few. The warmer months were spent struggling to harvest a meagre pittance from the dry, lifeless soil surrounding the village—and fending off attacks by opportunistic raiders. And the winters were a time of deprivation and misery; so often Valdis had gone to sleep with nothing in her belly but the smouldering embers of anger and shame.

Ketil refused to send their last few longships on raiding expeditions, saying it was too risky. Once, Valdis had thought him a prudent man, but now she saw him as the coward he truly was. As for her mother… nothing remained of the proud warrior who had fought alongside the Ragnarssons in search of glory. On so many days, it seemed as if she was somewhere far away, lost deep within her mind. Whenever Valdis could not rouse her mother from these moods, she led the clan in her absence, to the best of her lacking ability.

(In these moments, it had been hard to keep the bitter taste of resentment from filling her mouth. Why, Valdis wondered in childish anger, why was her mother choosing the dead over the living? Did she not love her daughter and sons as much as she had loved their father? Did the whole of the clan figure so little in her heart?)

"Why not ask for the Ragnarssons' help?" Ketil had asked Ylva, one particularly cold night. It had not been the first time he'd pleaded for such a thing. "You're kin with Halfdan Jarl, are you not?"

"No, we cannot," Ylva had said, firmly.

Even in the dim light of the hearth, Valdis had been able to see the red rushing to Ketil's face and neck. "Are you going to let the clan starve to hold to your pride, woman? Are you going to let your children starve?"

"I said no," Ylva answered. We cannot ask for Halfdan's help. You… you don't know them as well as I do. If we show weakness, then they will… no, we cannot. I will not accept an offer of help if it comes with a leash and a collar."

Valdis had buried herself under her furs at her mother's response. Rage and humiliation had burned bright within her heart, and she had made a secret vow: that never again she would feel so helpless, so useless. She would not tie her fate to a man like Ketil, fawning and insecure—and she would not be like her mother, paralyzed in her grief. Valdis would be hard and cold as iron, driven not by petty sentiment, but by the weight of duty alone.

Once she was old enough, Valdis made sure to follow her brothers and Ketil to every great assembly of clans—to every thing. There, Valdis showed her eagerness and skill as a young drengr of the Boar clan: she participated in every hunt and sparring match, drank with the old sea wolves (and suffered each of their self-aggrandizing stories), and kept an ear out for rumours of outings involving any of the most famous raiding parties. Perhaps if she went a-viking for a few seasons, she could gather enough riches to rebuild the fleet they'd possessed in her father's time.

But Ketil, it soon turned out, had other ideas.

"My dear," he addressed Ylva the night they had returned from the latest assembly, in the summer following Valdis's eighteenth winter, "I've some wondrous news I would like to share. Before we left for the thing, you said it would be time for the children to have their own families, didn't you?"

"Indeed, the boys are old enough to be wed," Ylva said. "The clan's line must be assured."

"The boys?" Ketil frowned. "Oh, yes, there were quite a few eligible maidens at the assembly, but… I searched to find a husband for Valdis, actually."

"You did what?" Valdis snapped, slamming her bowl on the table. Her mother held up her hand, shaking her head.

Ketil chuckled. "Oh, Ylva, I tell you… quite a number of men took note of your daughter as a potential bride for their sons. You should be proud of your girl!"

Valdis felt a sickening, swooping sensation low in her belly. She'd had no idea that people had been appraising her like a piece of meat back at the assembly. Valdis had seen a few admiring glances thrown her way, but she had thought it had been because of her fighting prowess, not because—

Biting back her disgust, she said, "It would have to wait. I was thinking of spending the next summers going a-viking." Valdis had even scouted a few raiding parties who had assured her they would gladly welcome her sword arm. She had been looking forward to it, even—the call of glory beckoned to her, and she longed for a chance to prove herself worthy of the noble blood flowing in her veins.

"Well, that's the beauty of it, isn't it?" Ketil said. "With a good marriage, you would not even have to lift one finger to earn these riches!"

"You'd barter me like—"

"Oh, no," Ketil protested. "No, no, no, dear girl, your mother and I wouldn't dream of—it would be your decision, of course."

"And my sons?" Ylva interjected. "Her brothers, who by law should step into her father's role when it comes to these matters? What do they think of you selling their sister to the highest bidder?"

"Selling their sister to—my, you both make it sound much worse than it truly is! And Brothir and Broder have already met the lad in question. Vouched for him, they did. A fierce fighter he is, a Jarl's son, poised to inherit his father's seat once the man heeds the Valkyries' call."

Valdis reeled at these words. Her brothers had known about those plans—and they had not shared that information with her? Was she truly the last to find out about Ketil's backhanded schemes? That sapped the anger out of her for a moment, and she leaned back into her seat, dozens of conflicting thoughts assaulting her mind.

"You will be sensible, won't you, Valdis?" Ketil smiled at her, sour-sweet. "You understand what's at stake. You're a smart girl, less impulsive than those hot-blooded brothers of yours. Surely you'll be glad to save the clan from ruin, won't you?"

"Ketil," Ylva hissed, rising from her seat with the cold anger of a storm.

Valdis was no less incensed by his words. "Listen, you," she began, trembling in barely constrained rage, "I am not some, some thing to be exchanged or bought!"

"I've never said that!" Ketil looked like a man accused of a crime of which he was blameless. "I'd never—just think on it, dear girl. Or at least agree to meet the boy and his father. You'll see reason, then. I'm certain of it."

Rather than say more, Valdis had stormed out of the meadhall. But even as she hacked away with her axe to make more firewood, the anger within her began to dim—and it struck her that Ketil, as much as she hated to admit, was right. Oh, how Valdis loathed the idea of being tied down to another while the opportunity to win her own glory was so near, but… she had to think of the clan first, hadn't she? No one else would—not ever devious, fidgety Ketil, not her hardheaded brothers, and certainly not her mother, frozen cold with pride.

And so Valdis tossed her axe aside, going back inside the longhouse to announce to Ketil, "Let have him come to us, that fierce warrior of yours."

A moon later, and a grand longship, filled with proud drengir in full battle gear, came to the docks of their little village. Two men, tall and sturdy both, were at the head of this fine procession: an elderly warrior with black hair streaked with silver, and one who surely was his son. The two shared the same pair of icy blue eyes. Valdis shivered when the younger of the pair fixed his gaze on her, though she could not say why.

She remained silent for the duration of the talks that followed, as did her prospective husband, a strapping drengr by the name of Rued. As tradition dictated, the bartering was done by Ketil and Rued's father Hakon, with Brothir and Broder occasionally giving their input. Ylva did not say a word, though she could not stop staring at Valdis's groom, inspecting him with only the scrutiny an overprotective mother could give.

The more Ketil spoke, the more Hakon Jarl appeared pleased with the match. "A fine maiden she is, your daughter" he said, with the bright smile of a man smelling good business. Then, quietly, he added, "She is still a maiden, isn't she?"

Both Valdis and her mother glared at him, but Ketil only laughed. "Of course, of course!" he said.

Gods, Valdis nearly wanted to give them a piece of her mind on the subject. Ketil didn't know, but she'd kissed her fair share of pretty girls and prettier boys over the last few years. In some cases, those sweet encounters had included far more than a chaste peck on the cheek. Still, Valdis kept her silence. Why tell them what they didn't want to hear?

"Where is your clan based?" Ylva asked.

"We come from the land of the Geats," Hakon said.

Valdis's mother frowned. "That's on the other side of the Skagerrak Strait."

"Only a short journey across," Ketil said, patting her knee. "She will be able to come visit as often as she wishes."

"Ketil, she's only seen eighteen winters. Why can't she stay for another year?"

"Come now, Ylva," Valdis's stepfather replied. "You wouldn't want to deny your daughter a good marriage only because you wish to keep her close at hand, would you?"

"Your clan will be generously compensated for the loss of such a precious daughter," Hakon said. "We've amassed a large sum that can serve as mundr."

"And Halfdan has already shown his approval of the match," Ketil added.

"The daughter of Halfdan Ragnarsson's own cousin," Rued said, to Valdis's startlement. That had been the first words she'd heard from his mouth. "An illustrious lineage, and comely to boot."

He reached to touch her long hair, bound up in a series of braids made by her mother. Valdis flinched at the gesture, shocked by his familiarity. Ylva's face twisted in a scowl, but Ketil showed no emotion.

"That hair!" Rued continued. "I've never seen a black so pure. Like a raven's wing, it is."

"I understand caring about my lineage," Valdis said, "but my appearance is inconsequential. We are to be wed out of convenience. To bring material wealth and stability to both of our clans."

"Well put, very well put indeed," Hakon answered, but his son only smiled thinly in response. "A good head on her shoulders she has, your lass. She'll make a good wife."

"Won't she?" Ketil said, all smiles as well. "Her mother's daughter. We couldn't be more proud of her."

Ylva stood up. "Before any deal is made, we must consult the völva, see if the portents are good. This marriage must not be allowed to take place if the gods deem it ill-fated."

"Mother…" Valdis said, frowning. The woman's caution, though perfectly understandable, felt rather excessive.

"Of course," Hakon said, sounding baffled. "We wouldn't dare go against the gods' designs, dear wife."

Brothir and Broder were left to entertain their guests, while Valdis, her mother and Ketil climbed up the hill leading to the völva's hut. Old Ranka was her mother's aunt, another sibling of Lagertha, the illustrious shieldmaiden who had birthed Halfdan Ragnarsson. She was perhaps a bit too fond of the hallucinogenic brews used to trigger her visions, but the woman had a keen insight—and a fondness for pranks that Valdis had appreciated in the harshest days of her childhood.

The old woman, however, did not offer one of her usual smirks when Ylva described the current situation. For a moment, Ranka busied herself with her concoctions, filling her hut with the foulest of fumes. After a while, she produced a strange draft that she sipped carefully, as if savouring its taste. With a great sigh, Ranka then lay down on her cot; Valdis's heart hammered in her chest as she watched the old woman writhe on the furs, holding her head and letting out pained moans. Then, she stopped, cracking one eye open. The black of her pupil was so wide it seemed to swallow the blue of her iris.

"Well?" Ketil said, with a hint of agitation. "What do you see, woman?"

"I see…" A sigh escaped Ranka's thin, pale lips—a long, dreadful sound it was, sending more chills down Valdis's back. "My vision is muddled, it seems. I see flames scorching across the sea. I see a land of green drinking the blood of fallen warriors. And I see a crown resting on this proud child's brow."

"A crown?" Ketil exclaimed, while Valdis and her mother exchanged a shocked look.

"Yes, a crown of flowers flourishing around her head, wrought in gold and gems of the purest blue. Such a sweet smell they have." The völva's ancient features grew grimmer. "Only for one season they bloom. Then, dear child, your crown withers to dust as the peace you've so carefully cultivated over a generation comes to a swift and violent end…"

Valdis stared at Ranka, unable to make a single sound. Her mother's face had gone dreadfully pale. Only Ketil was still smiling.

"A crown, Ylva, a crown!" he said. "Your daughter will be a queen, the wife of a king! Don't you realize what this means?"

"It doesn't mean anything," Valdis said, rather abruptly. "My fate has already been woven, isn't it? I could struggle and scream as much as I want to avoid it, but that would not change anything, wouldn't it?" Ranka only responded with a gentle, sorrowful look. Valdis sighed, standing up. "Then I'll rise to meet that fate, and make the most out of it."

Thus, Ketil and Hakon shook on their agreement—and that had been it. Valdis had been married in the following month, on a sunny Frigg's day. The wedding celebration had been lavish—an entire week of feasting, with food and mead aplenty. Valdis had been treated like a queen throughout the festivities; her new husband had showered her with so many gifts that she'd almost felt dizzy. Ketil salivated over these new riches, while the twins became fast friends with Rued, swapping stories and drinking ale until the small hours of the night. But Ylva…

Valdis's mother acted more like a mourner at a loved one's wake.

"We've gained allies in war and partners in trade," Valdis said, one moment she had found herself alone with her mother. "And my husband is already a renowned warrior." And not a simpering weakling begging for the favours of stronger men. "What more could I want out of a marriage?"

A strange expression showed on Ylva's face—a soft twist of the mouth, a worried line between her brows, an unusual brightness that shone in those green eyes she'd given to her youngest child.

"Oh, my girl," Ylva said, gathering her daughter in her arms, "you deserve so much more." For the last time perhaps, Valdis allowed herself to feel small and safe within her mother's embrace. "Is this what you truly want?"

"This is what I wish, yes," Valdis answered. This is what the clan needs. "I am content, Mother. I'm not a child anymore. I've no need for petty sentimentality." I've no wish for a life spent frozen in grief because of a broken heart.

"Truly?" Ylva's hands tightened around her shoulders. "Valdis, I… the joy of having known your father is far, far greater than the pain I've felt when he was lost to us. You know this, don't you? You won't keep yourself from feeling true happiness out of a desire to protect yourself from future heartache, will you?"

Valdis's smile froze. "Of course I won't," she lied.