A Fate Inked in Blood: The number 1 Sunday Times bestselling fantasy romance
A Fate Inked in Blood: Chapter 6

It was snowing.

That was the first thing that struck me as I stepped out of the great hall. Snow in springtime was far from rare, but I couldn’t help but feel that the gray sky and flat light were fitting for the day. Fat flakes of white spiraled down, the narrow paths leading between homes thick with mud and slush, forcing me to hold my skirts up lest I arrive at the ceremony looking like I’d been wallowing with the pigs.

The people of Halsar came out of their homes to watch me pass, the expressions of those who met my gaze cold despite the fact all would be feasted tonight by their lord. “Your people do not seem to favor this marriage,” I said softly to Ylva, who walked at my left, her mouth drawn in an unsmiling line.

“Because they do not know the power you bring,” she said. “They see only an insult to their beloved lady of Halsar.”

I’d have rolled my eyes at her ego except that while the people scowled at me, they smiled at Ylva, touching her as she passed and offering her praise for her strength. I wanted to snarl at them that it was their jarl who had made this choice, therefore it was their jarl who deserved their ire, but it would be a waste of breath. They wanted to blame me.

“Freya!” A familiar voice reached me, and I turned my head to replace Ingrid standing between two buildings, a sword clutched in her hands. Her brown hair was sodden, her freckled face pink from the cold as she stepped toward me. For a heartbeat, I was certain that she’d come to tell me not to do it. To tell me that she and Geir would accept the permanent loss of his place in Snorri’s war band if it meant sparing me this union. To tell me—

The thought vanished as a pair of warriors drew their weapons and leapt between Ingrid and me.

“Stop,” I shouted, trying to intervene, but another warrior caught hold of my arm. “She’s my friend!”

“You cannot know that for certain,” Ylva snapped. “Now that your identity is known, friends may become enemies to achieve their own ends.”

I was tempted to snap back that she needed to be more selective in her friendships, but one of the men had Ingrid by the arm, the other right up in her face. Twisting, I kicked the man holding me in the knee, ignoring his shouts as I stormed toward my friend, mud splattering the skirt I’d tried so hard to keep clean. “Let her go! Now!”

The men made no move to unhand Ingrid. I wasn’t certain if it was because they didn’t recognize my authority or if they believed that Ingrid, who was timid as a mouse and could barely wield a cooking knife without cutting herself, was truly a threat.

“Let the woman go.”

I tensed at Bjorn’s voice, for I’d not realized he’d been part of the procession. Though I was glad he was when the warrior holding Ingrid immediately complied with his order.

“It is not your place to involve yourself, Bjorn,” Ylva snapped. “Already Freya has been injured while in your care.”

Leaning against a wall, Bjorn disregarded the comment and said, “If Freya says this woman is a friend, then you should believe her, Ylva. Or do you not trust the woman you’re about to share your husband with?”

Ylva’s face purpled. “She’s naive. She—”

“Is a widowed woman, not a child, so you should not treat her as one.” Bjorn lifted one shoulder. “Though…she is about to wed a man old enough to be her father, so perhaps it is fair.”

“Bjorn, you need—”

Ignoring Ylva, he turned to Ingrid. “What’s your name?”

“Ingrid.” My friend looked ready to piss herself from fear, and I hated that. Hated that she’d come all this way to speak to me, only to be treated in such a manner.

“The Ingrid that Geir is so desperate to wed that he threw his own sister to the wolves?” Bjorn snorted in disgust. “You could do better than that spineless piece of weasel shit.”

It was my turn to snarl, “Bjorn, don’t be an arse!” but he paid me no more mind than he had Ylva as he said, “You aren’t here to harm Freya, are you, Ingrid?”

A tear ran down my friend’s face and she snuffled out a “No. I’d never hurt Freya.”

“I didn’t think so.” Hooking his thumbs in his belt, Bjorn looked to me. “Say what needs saying, Freya, but be quick about it.”

Giving him a withering glare for his comment about my brother, I elbowed my way past the warriors, drawing Ingrid enough away to give a semblance of privacy. “What are you doing here?” I asked, trying to ignore the lingering hope that Ingrid came bearing salvation.

“I came to thank you.” She wiped the tears from her face. “Geir told me everything. What you’ve agreed to and why. What you did. That you did it to spare us. From the bottom of my heart, thank you, Freya.”

My stomach gave a slight twist of discomfort as my foolish hope turned to ash and I looked away from her. Nothing she could have said would have dissuaded me from this course of action. Yet it still stung that she hadn’t offered any protest. Still hurt that she wasn’t willing to suffer a blow to her future to spare mine. The fact that I wouldn’t have accepted didn’t matter; what would have mattered was that she cared enough about me to offer.

She cares, I silently chided myself. She’s just afraid. “Is Geir all right?”

Ingrid gave a tight nod. “He would’ve come if he could, only the pain is bad. But your mother says it was a clean break and will heal well with time and rest.” She tentatively held out the sword. “Geir sent this. It was your father’s.”

My chin quivered as a rush of emotion raced through me, for this was the weapon that Geir would have gifted Ingrid when they were wed, and she was giving it to me to wield. Not the sacrifice I’d foolishly hoped for, but it still meant all the world to me that they’d wanted me to have it. Unsheathing it, I smiled to see that it had been polished and sharpened. “Thank you.”

Ingrid whispered, “I’m sure the jarl will be honored to wield it.”

My smile immediately fell away. Not a gift for me, but a gift for Snorri.

When I’d wed Vragi, I’d given him my grandfather’s sword, polished to a high shine, whereas the one he’d given me was a rusted blade pilfered from the grave of a distant cousin, so poorly made that the hilt broke off in the middle of the ceremony.

Logically I knew that my family needed to provide a blade for me to gift Snorri, but did it have to be this one? This was the last piece of my father that existed. It was precious to me, which both Ingrid and Geir knew, yet they were giving it to Snorri to earn his favor. The urge to tell her to take it back filled my core. Instead I shoved it into its sheath.

“Freya,” Ylva said loudly. “You may speak to her afterward. The jarl should not be waiting on you.”

The desire to twist around and scream at Ylva to shut her mouth nearly overwhelmed me, but I managed to keep my anger in check, instead leaning close to Ingrid. “Don’t stay. It isn’t safe. Get home and warn everyone to stay away unless the jarl summons them, understood? Out of sight, out of mind.”

The snowflakes melting on her face mixed with her tears, but Ingrid nodded. “Congratulations, Freya. I know you didn’t ask for this match, but I think you will replace more happiness in it than you would have with Vragi. You will get to be a warrior, like you always dreamed. And you’ll be able to use your magic.”

I blinked, something about the way she said the last, without shock or hesitation, triggering a realization. “You knew.”

Ingrid bit her lip, then nodded. “Geir told me some years ago. I think…I think keeping the secret weighed upon him.” Her expression grew earnest. “But I didn’t tell anyone, Freya. I swear it.”

Weighed upon him? My chest hollowed and I looked at the mud between us. For most of my life, I’d hidden my magic, my heritage, which meant keeping it from everyone I’d ever known. Never once had I told, because I’d understood intrinsically that it wouldn’t just be me who would be hurt if my secret got out, it would be my family. “It doesn’t much matter now.”

Ingrid hugged me tightly, my one hand trapped between us, the hilt of the sword digging into my breastbone painfully. “This is a gift from the gods, Freya. You must look at it as such.”

I didn’t trust myself to say anything, so instead I only nodded and turned back to those waiting. Ylva scowled at me, but Bjorn’s gaze was on Ingrid, who was splashing away through the mud. “I take it back,” he said. “She does not deserve better than your brother.”

“What do you know?” I muttered, not bothering to hike up my skirts again, for the hems were already stained gray and dripping.

“Very little,” he said. “But I’m neither deaf nor blind, so I saw how she spun your sacrifice into a gift from the gods so that she need not feel guilt over it. You are well rid of her.”

He wasn’t entirely wrong, but Bjorn’s words only made the hollowness in my core grow.

Alone, that was how I felt. As though I faced a great army, and all those I’d been so certain would be at my back had vanished. My eyes stung and I blinked rapidly to keep tears from forming, but a few still escaped, mixing with the melting snow running down my face as I walked toward the beach.

I’d not gone more than a handful of steps when Bjorn’s hand closed on my arm. “Ingrid’s cowardice does not diminish the honor of what you did.”

Swallowing, I met his emerald gaze as I said, “I regret nothing,” then pulled from his grip and carried on.

A crowd had gathered, Snorri standing apart with an ancient woman who I supposed was the matriarch who’d conduct the ceremony. My eyes drifted from them to the long stretch of dock, next to which sat several drakkar, the flags on their masts fluttering in the wind. They were huge, capable of holding at least a hundred warriors, and I allowed myself to imagine what it would be like to stand in one, the drummer beating a thundering rhythm as the oarsmen drove the drakkar into battle. What it would be like to leap into the water, shield up against a rain of arrows, racing onto a beach where the sword in my hand would clash against that of my enemies as armies collided. My fingers clenched on the hilt of my father’s weapon, my heart driving away the sluggish weight of grief in my veins and filling them with fire. For Ingrid had not been wrong that there was much to this new path I faced that sang to my soul.

And that, at least, was something to live for.

—

The ceremony was brief and lifeless, both Snorri and I saying what needed to be said, then exchanging blades, the one he gave to me newly forged and unsharpened, rendering it as devoid of sentiment as it was of edge. If he noticed or cared that the sword I gave him was my father’s, he didn’t show it. Yet the moment the ceremony was over, it was as though a bolt of Thor’s lightning struck, filling Snorri with an urgent energy as he turned me to face the crowd.

“Twenty years ago,” he shouted, “the seer spoke a prophecy of a shield maiden, a child of Hlin, born under the blood moon and destined to unite the people of Skaland beneath the rule of the one who controlled her fate. A prophecy that said her name would be born in the fire of the gods. For twenty years, I have searched for this maiden, hunted for the woman who’d unite our people against our common enemy, King Harald of Nordeland.”

The crowd shifted restlessly, several calling out curses at the king who ruled across the Northern Strait.

“Many of you have asked why I would wed this woman when I have a wife such as Ylva,” he continued. “Let me assure you, it is not for love or lust, but for you, my people! For this woman is the shield maiden, the child of Hlin, her name revealed in the fire of Tyr!”

He took the shield one of his warriors held out and offered it to me. My skin burned hot despite my dress being soaked with melted snow, and taking it in my grip, I whispered, “Hlin.”

Magic flared to life inside of me, rushing through my hand in a hot flood to cover the shield with silver light, glowing like a beacon. The crowd gasped and stepped back, their eyes wide at the sight of magic they’d only heard of in stories. Magic they didn’t understand, which explained their apprehension.

“She will bring us battle fame!” Snorri roared. “She will bring us wealth! She will bring us power! She will bring us victory and vengeance against the bastards of Nordeland! For with her in our shield wall, we will be favored by the gods themselves!”

The people of Halsar roared along with him, hands in the air, the wariness in their eyes replaced with delight at the promises of their lord. Promises he’d made but which I was supposed to deliver, though the gods only knew how.

My gaze skipped over the people who not an hour ago seemed ready to spit at my feet and who now screamed my name, then it landed on Bjorn. He’d stood with Ylva during the ceremony but had since moved to the rear of the crowd, his arms crossed and expression tight. As our eyes locked, the corner of his mouth quirked up in a half smile that appeared as forced as the one currently gracing my face, though I didn’t understand the source of his displeasure.

“She was born in fire,” Snorri shouted. “Now let her be marked by the blood of the god who made her.”

Before I could react, Ylva stepped behind me and tore the dress down the back. Gasping, I clutched the fabric to my breasts even as she said, “Kneel.”

“What are you doing?” I hissed, equal parts horrified and afraid.

“You have hidden your powers for too long,” she said. “Past time that you were marked so that all might know your lineage.”

The blood tattoo.

I should’ve known it was coming. Vragi’s tattoo had been on his thigh, a fish with crimson scales rendered in such detail it had looked real. A living tattoo gifted by ritual after his magic appeared. I should’ve been marked well over a decade ago, but that would have revealed what my father had been desperate to keep hidden.

Slowly, I lowered myself to my knees in the cold sand.

“Bare your flesh so you might receive Hlin’s mark,” Ylva demanded, and though I was loath to expose myself before a crowd, I pulled the dress down to my waist and removed my gloves, keeping one arm across my breasts. Forcing my eyes up from the sand revealed that no one was leering at me, every face solemn as they watched. I could feel Bjorn’s scrutiny but instead of meeting his gaze, I looked back to the sand, my heart a riot in my chest.

A drum began a slow beat, and Ylva walked in a circle around me, drawing runes in the sand. My heart thundered faster at the revelation that Ylva was a volva—a witch capable of using runic magic. Which made her far more powerful than I’d believed.

She chanted as she moved, calling out to the gods to witness this moment. As she finished the circle, the runes flared and the drum ceased, the hairs on my arms standing on end. A knife appeared in Ylva’s hand, and I tensed, for while she might need me, this woman held no warmth for me in her heart. “Hlin,” Ylva cried out, voice carrying on the wind as it swirled around us, creating a cyclone of snow. “I beseech you! If this child is worthy, claim her as your own, else still her heart so that she might wield your power no more!”

My heart skipped. I’d never seen this ritual performed. Vragi had undergone it as a young child long before I was born, so I didn’t know the words. Didn’t know that the ritual could end in death, for none of the stories ever spoke of a god rejecting their child. But everyone else was nodding, so it must be the truth.

A thrill of fear turned my already chilled skin to ice as she approached, knife glinting in the muted light. “Bare yourself, girl,” she said in a low voice. “Or replace yourself judged unworthy.”

What if I was unworthy?

I’d hidden my magic, my heritage, all my life, which had to have angered the goddess who’d gifted her blood to me. I’d treated it as though I were ashamed.

But I wasn’t.

Taking a deep breath, I dropped my arm and lifted my face at the same time.

Though prudence demanded that I look elsewhere, my eyes locked with Bjorn’s. The snow billowed and swirled between us, and I clung to the strength in his gaze as the tip of Ylva’s knife pressed into the divot at the center of my collarbone.

She sliced downward, leaving a trail of fire from my throat to between my breasts, but I didn’t flinch. Didn’t break Bjorn’s stare as hot droplets of blood rolled down my skin. Didn’t so much as breathe as I waited to be judged.

And waited.

And waited.

My chin quivered, panic seeping into my veins, because if I was found unworthy, all of Snorri’s plans would be destroyed. What were the chances that he wouldn’t punish me in every way he possibly could, seeing me as the one to blame?

Then a crackle of energy surged across my skin.

The first warning that all was not as it should be was Ylva’s startled gasp. It tore my gaze from Bjorn’s in time to watch her stumble backward across the circle of runes, her eyes fixed on my chest. I looked down, terror consuming me as my blood spidered outward from the wound, infinitely greater in volume than the shallow slice should have provided. “Oh gods,” I breathed. “What is happening?”

“You left her!” Bjorn shouted. “You left her in there alone!”

His words barely registered as the wound gaped, invisible fingers digging into my flesh and stretching it wide. A shrill scream tore from my lips. Rivulets of blood snaked across my chest and down my arms, invisible hands wrenching me left and then right.

“Freya!”

I howled in response, fighting to get away from the god’s grip, knowing that I’d been judged unworthy and that Hlin herself was going to rip me apart. My knees left the ground, the goddess lifting me into the air like a doll, blood gushing in torrents from the wound that now reached down to the bone, the white of my sternum visible. What felt like claws dug into muscle and bone, pulling and pulling.

“Ylva, break the circle!”

The lady of Halsar only gaped in horror, for it was too late.

My rib cage sprung wide, revealing my pulsing heart. Thump thump. Thump thump.

I screamed and screamed, and then with a sudden whoosh, I dropped to the ground. Gasping, I dug my fingers into the sand, certain I had only a few heartbeats of life left in me.

“Freya?” Hands gripped my arms.

I looked up into Bjorn’s panicked eyes even as I heard Ylva screech, “You cursed fool! Do you have any idea of what you might have unleashed?”

Bjorn ignored her, eyes raking over my body. “Are you all right?”

How could he ask that? How could he ask if I was all right when my chest had been ripped open. How…

The thought vanished as I looked down at my naked body, my chest whole but for a thin white scar, not a drop of crimson marring my white skin.

Not possible.

“I…” My mouth was as dry as sand. “She…she—”

“Is she marked?” Snorri was abruptly at my side, lifting my braids and pawing at me, searching. “Did Hlin claim her?”

He grew silent as Bjorn held up my left hand. On the back of it, painted in crimson, was a shield. The detail was unlike anything a mortal artist could have rendered, and with each thud of my heart, the blood forming it pulsed.

“She has been claimed!” Snorri roared. Catching hold of my wrist, he dragged me out of Bjorn’s grasp and to my feet, holding my tattoo up for all to see while I desperately pulled my bodice into place with my free hand. “Hlin has claimed her daughter and we have our shield maiden!”

The crowd, deathly silent until that moment, shouted their approval.

“Let us feast!” Snorri bellowed, finally letting go of me so that I could pull on the sleeves of my dress. “To the great hall!”

As one, the people surged to the hall, ever eager to be fed. Snorri motioned for me to follow them, but Ylva’s cold fingers latched on my right wrist, turning my palm skyward. “Look.”

Unease twisted in my stomach at the sight. It was as though my palm had been tattooed prior to my burns, whatever image that had once been depicted twisted and stretched into an unrecognizable mess.

“A second tattoo,” Snorri murmured. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Nor I,” Ylva said, and both looked to Bjorn, who shook his head, his gaze fixed on my palm.

“I can’t tell what it depicts.” Snorri bent closer and I curbed the urge to withdraw my hand, disliking the scrutiny.

“Likely because Hlin didn’t have time to finish it before Bjorn went barging in and destroyed my circle,” Ylva snapped.

“Because you abandoned her in there!” Bjorn glared at Ylva. “You’re the volva. You’re supposed to stay in the circle, but you left her in there to be torn apart.”

Snorri stilled. “What precisely did you see, Bjorn? Ylva? For all I saw was Freya on her knees.”

I was tired of being talked over as though I wasn’t even here. “He saw me torn in half.”

Bjorn gave a tight nod. “Was as if she were a prize being warred over, and both sides would rather see her destroyed than concede to the other.”

“A portent.” Snorri exhaled a long breath. “The circle allowed Hlin to grant us a vision. A warning of what is to come and what will occur if we don’t take care: Freya will be destroyed.”

Fear wormed its way down my spine.

“But that’s not all.” Snorri tapped his chin thoughtfully. “She also gave us an answer as to how we might avoid such a fate for Freya. Recall the story of the Binding of Fenrir, in which Tyr sacrifices his arm so that the gods might be protected from the wolf.” He gestured to my scarred hand. “It is clear that you, my son, must sacrifice to protect that which will save us all.”

Bjorn blinked, then gave a sharp shake of his head. “You’re grasping, Father. Seeing connections that don’t exist to explain that which cannot be explained.”

“The gods gifted us their stories so that we might understand our own lives.” Snorri gripped Bjorn’s shoulders. “The gods brought you back to me so that I might replace Freya. And it seems the gods desire you to be the one to keep her life safe so that I might achieve all that has been foreseen. It is your destiny.”

A shiver ran over me as the wind swirled, snowflakes melting on my outstretched palm as I waited to see how Bjorn would respond. Only to have my stomach sink as he spat, “No. I’ll have no part of this.” He twisted on his heels and stormed away.

Silence stretched.

“He’ll come to see reason,” Snorri finally said. “The gods demand it. Now let us feast.”

I said nothing as I followed him and Ylva to the great hall, but in my mind was a truth that Snorri had forgotten: Bjorn was unfated, which meant that no matter what the Norns planned for him, his destiny was his own to weave.