by Bec McMaster
Wind swept through the stables, blowing the doors open. It swirled among strands of loose straw, and Bryn could have sworn she heard the sound of dozens of voices singing. The words sounded like a chorus of Valkyrie rousing to battle.
“What is that noise?” Kari whispered, rocking slightly.
My past coming to haunt me again….
But she sheathed the sword as she saw Leah enter, her face lightening when she saw her wayward daughter.
“I think it’s coming from the gods,” Bryn said solemnly. “They felt me mark my blessing on your forehead, and now they’re watching over us. Both of us.”
Kari caught a glimpse of her mother, and then ducked into one of the stalls. “I can still hear it,” she called.
Leah paused to lean on one of the stalls, as Kari went in search of the music. “I see you have made another convert.”
Bryn dusted off her hands again. It was clear the other woman was not among those who welcomed her with open arms. And while Bryn had faced a thousand battles in her time, she felt awkward now, when she had no shield but her tongue and her wits. “She’s very clever.”
Leah sighed. “She is. And now I’m going to be finding those runes carved into every door jamb in my house, and written on every piece of paper or fabric she can get her hands on.”
“It will bring Freyja’s protection upon your house.”
Leah shot her a startled look. “You worship the old gods?”
She hadn’t missed the cross hanging around Leah’s throat. “Yes.”
“I don’t know what my husband will think of having old runes carved into the house, but I will thank them for their protection.” Leah shrugged, then reached down to haul Tormund’s packs over her shoulder. “I will help you. Kari, don’t you go too far.”
“Thank you.” Bryn grabbed her own bags, and followed the other woman toward the barn doors, though she could have carried all four bags easily.
Tormund had seemingly given up on saddling the horses. He snatched a pair of children up under each arm, and then went looking for another, roaring like a dreki the whole time. Packs of children lurked, waiting desperately to be snatched up even as they screamed and bolted. It was such foolishness, and yet Bryn couldn’t help smiling.
This was his home.
She could see it in the relaxation that rode his shoulders and the flash of his smile. A somewhat breathless feeling took her as she watched him “trip” into the grass and fall prey to a pack of giggling children who tickled him unmercifully.
She would miss him when she was gone.
Desperately.
Urgently.
And though she was surrounded by dozens of people, she didn’t think she had ever felt as lonely as she watched him from a distance, knowing he would be gone soon. Not even when she had woken in the mortal realm after being cast from Valhalla.
“He’s wonderful with the children,” Leah said, startling her back into the present, and Bryn felt her gaze like a hawk’s. “But then he is wonderful with all of us.”
She looked away. “He is lucky to have all of you.”
“We are lucky to have him,” Leah corrected. She paused. “Has he told you of his brother and father?”
Brother and father? Bryn’s head whipped to the side. “No. He’s only ever spoken of his mother. I didn’t…. I thought his father was….”
A nameless mercenary.
“Ah.” Leah sat the packs by their horses, stroking the roan’s rump. “It’s complicated. His mother had born one son to her husband, and everyone in the district thought it a gift from God, for her husband was almost thrice her age. Old Sigurd praised that boy every day of his life, and Tomas took after him in almost every way. They were both short, miserly men who never granted poor Ruth a single ounce of their attention or love.
“And then, when Tomas was almost sixteen, Ruth birthed a second child. An enormous, squalling infant with such dark hair that we all joke that he was born with a beard. There were whispers then, for Sigurd could barely leave the house without a cane, let alone….” Leah shrugged. “And of course, that was the summer there were several mercenaries rooming at the inn. But for all his faults, Sigurd gave the boy his name—Tormund Sigurdsson—and though he never gave Tormund an ounce of the attention he paid Tomas, it mattered little, for he died barely two years later.”
Bryn couldn’t look away.
Sigurdsson. Not once had he spoke of that name. Not once.
“By the time Ruth passed, Tormund was almost as tall as his brother. Tomas took him in as it was his Christian duty, but he and his wife never let the boy forget that his arrival had shamed both Sigurd and Ruth. You’d often see Tormund roaming the streets in old cast-off clothes, half-fed, bruised, covered in dirt…. Tomas said the boy was wild, and maybe he was, but if so, then he was taught to be that way. And it was only five or six years later that we realized Tomas had long disowned him. He’d been feeding himself for nearly a year, and he was an angry little thing. When Haakon brought him home, I thought he’d near eat us out of house and home, but my mother was so angry that he’d been left to fare for himself, that she didn’t mind.” Leah looked Bryn in the eye. “And yet, for all of that, he is the kindest, gentlest man I have ever met. But you should understand why we all hope for the best for him. Tormund deserves a kinder future than the past he has led.”
It was a warning, though not the one she’d expected Leah to provide. And for the first time, she couldn’t find it in herself to deny the truth between them. Not right now, when she’d been staring at him as if she could feel him being torn from her grasp.
“He does,” she said softly. “He deserves to be loved. He deserves… everything.”
If I had one wish in the world, it would be this: For someone to love me the way that I love them….
Those words pierced Bryn through and through, for despite his smiles, there was a yearning within him that she feared she couldn’t slake.
“It has never been Tormund or his feelings that I doubt. He deserves someone better than me.”
There. She’d said it.
He would love her, because he wanted to love her.
She knew it as surely as she knew her name.
But would it last forever?
Would she ever be able to cast aside the feeling that she didn’t deserve it? How could she prove herself worthy, when she felt so utterly wretched inside?
Liar. Thief. Betrayer.
She had played all of those parts in the last hundred years. She had turned from the gods, turned from the role her mother had always dreamed for her. But then, had she ever truly filled that role either? She’d tried, so, so hard, but even when she’d won a dozen challenges, a hundred, she’d always somehow felt unworthy of her mother’s love. She’d always felt as though she played a part, and that some day she would fall down.
Maybe Róta had merely showed her the truth—that she was unworthy. Of her mother. Of her sisters. Of the gods.
And now, of Tormund.
A hand found hers, and Bryn realized she was staring at him through a blur of unshed tears. Gods. She never cried. But Leah’s gentle squeeze seemed to wreck her from within. Bryn brushed at her hot eyes, shaking her head, but then there were arms around her, and she couldn’t fight it any longer.
“You fool,” Leah whispered. “If you loved him, then you would be good enough, Bryn. You would always be good enough. If you were honest and true to him, you would make him happy.”
She pushed away, unable to stomach those words or the warm embrace. “I can’t be the one for him. I have…. I have a debt to repay. I have a fate to fulfill, an oath to renew. I am bound by my past, and the road I walk doesn’t have room for him at my side.”
Valkyries were wed to their oaths to Odin and Freyja. Lovers were encouraged, but never for long. The sisterhood meant everything. Their oaths meant all.
She couldn’t have both.
To love him meant giving up everything she’d ever yearned for. Everyt
hing that had kept her on her feet for the last hundred years, moving stubbornly forward, or she could….
What?
Forsake it again?
Spit on her mother’s grave? Give up her mission of vengeance? Turn her back on her sisters once and for all?
The idea made her feel sick. It was all she’d ever had, all she’d ever earned.
And without it, what was she? Who was she?
A mercenary?
A cold, bitter, bruised woman whose only value lay in the strength of her sword arm?
Leah squeezed her biceps. “And once your debts are paid, what then? Will you be happy without him? Because it doesn’t sound like this fate you strive for is one you’ve chosen yourself.”
The answer scared her. She opened her mouth, but the words wouldn’t come out.
Nobody had ever asked her if she was happy.
She was Valkyrie. She had fulfilled the destiny her mother had planned for her. She’d made her mother happy. And then… she’d lost it all.
But will you be happy if you return to Valhalla?
Will vengeance fill that hole within you?
Will justice make his loss seem worth it?
She froze.
“When I was younger, Bryn, my mother told me that happiness doesn’t come from other people’s expectations. Happiness cannot be found when you try to be what others want you to be. What do you want of your life? Who do you want to be?”
Gods, she didn’t even know.
Bryn curled her fingers into a fist. “I don’t want to disappoint anyone. I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want to start something I cannot finish.”
“I think it’s far too late for that, is it not?” Leah glanced pointedly to where Tormund was staring at them with a faint frown on his brow, as children tugged at his shirt.
The breath escaped Bryn.
“He will love you, if you let him,” Leah said, patting her hand as she moved to rescue him from the children. “But the question is: Will you let yourself love him?”
“Do I have to kill her?” Tormund asked, as Bryn stared moodily into the small pyre of kindling she’d put together, as if she could light it with her gaze.
She blinked. “Who?”
“Leah. You’ve barely spoken a word since this morning. And she made you cry. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
Bryn looked away into the dark forest, night settling over her like a mantle. “It was nothing.”
“She was warning you not to break my heart, wasn’t she?” Bloody cousins. Some part of him had desperately wanted to take Bryn home and introduce her to his family, but the damage had been written over her all day. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m made of sterner stuff than most men. I’ll heal.”
“Are you?” Bryn whispered. “She told me about your father.”
The words froze him on the spot. “I don’t know my father.”
“Then she told me about Sigurd. And your brother, Tomas.”
Well. Fuck. He kicked at a scuff of dirt. “Aye, what of them?”
“You don’t speak of your father.”
“You don’t speak of a lot of things. And so, if you want a secret, then I will trade you for a secret of your own, Bryn.”
Once upon a time, she would have scowled at him and stalked away, but she merely fed a handful of twigs into her little pile. “A secret for a secret, then. Tell me about them.”
His heart gave a little trill. He hadn’t expected her to agree, but she was clearly curious.
“There’s not much to say.” He shrugged when she shot him a glance. “There’s not. I can’t remember old Sigurd. He died when I was two. I’m told I don’t resemble him, nor my brother, and the whole bloody matter of my birth earned me nothing but their contempt. And they never let my mother forget her shame. It was what they did to her that I’ll never forgive.”
She sketched a rune in the dirt with a twig. “Haakon said you were desperate to forge your own name. I thought it was just a chance to be like him—Haakon Dragonsbane—but it’s not, is it?”
Tormund clasped his hands between his thighs. Well, hell. “You’re really aiming to get under my guard tonight, aren’t you?”
“Don’t you seek the same?”
If only she knew.
He glanced down at his hands. “Aye. I want my own name. I want….” It wasn’t greatness that he searched for. It had never been greatness. “You know, I’ve never told a single soul this, but… Tomas used to call me “that bastard.” He was kinder than his wife. She used to refer to me as “Ruth’s shame.” I used to tell myself that it didn’t matter what she called me, but I still felt it. Because it wasn’t me she denigrated. It was my mother. And I always thought if I could make a name for myself, if I could be… someone great, then I would tell them all that I was Ruth’s son. I wasn’t her shame. I was her gift. Her pride. Her joy.”
“I don’t think you need to forge a name for yourself,” Bryn said softly. “You already were her joy, and everyone who meets you knows she gave the world a gift. You’re the type of man who drags an enemy over his shoulder and carries him to safety. You’re the kind of man who makes little girls smile and little boys worship you.” She took a deep breath. “You’re the kind of man who makes a woman doubt herself.”
“Herself?” he asked gruffly.
“Everything she’s ever believed in.” But there was no joy in her eyes as she said it. Merely a distance as her gaze returned, once more, to the fire she was trying to light.
And he knew she hadn’t resolved those doubts.
Their days together were growing shorter. They’d made headway today, gaining several miles upon the Keepers. There was little sign of Ishtar yet, but he suspected they were only a day behind the Keepers now they had horses.
He needed to push her.
“Now that you know that, I believe you owe me a secret, my lady love.”
Bryn struck her flint. “What do you want to know?”
“How did you become Valkyrie?” Tormund asked as he watched Bryn blow on the small tinder she’d just lit, fanning a tiny flame.
She glanced up, flame flickering off the green of her eyes. “I told you my mother left me on my father’s doorstep one winter when I was barely four or five months old.” A small muscle ticked in her jaw, and she fed a twig into the flames. “She left a note for me to come and find her when I was old enough, if my immortal blood was beginning to show. My father burned it, and his wife was the one who told me of it.”
“And if your immortal blood didn’t show?”
“Then I stayed in the mortal realm. I would not be worthy of Valhalla.”
There was so much more to that statement, but he didn’t dare put it into words. Her mother’s love had clearly had a price to it....
“So if your blood never showed, you would never know her?”
“I would never know her.”
“And your father was not kind,” he murmured.
“No, he was not.” Every glimmer of expression vanished from her face. “He accepted me into his household for he believed in his Christian duty. But as the years passed, it became clear I wasn’t human, nor were my gods his. He would punish me for daring to say I could see them in the skies and hear them in the thunder. His lectures and prayers felt like someone was dragging iron over flint. I was a child of the Disir, and the prayers of a foreign god felt like someone was screaming inside my head. He thought me the devil’s child, and turned me from his door when I was nine.”
Mother of dragons. Tormund scratched at his beard. It made a great deal of sense. This entire journey she’d held him at arm’s length, tolerating his kisses and sharing a bed with him but granting him little more of herself. For the first time, he felt as though he understood why.
She’d been abandoned by her mother as a child, offered a mother’s love only when or if she showed promise.
And her father….
“But you found a place with the Valkyrie?”
A soft
smile touched her lips, as if she was picturing a memory. “I did. For a while. It’s the only time I’ve ever felt as though I belonged.” She clasped her hands together, rubbing at her knuckles. “We called each other sisters. We swore we’d have each other’s backs until the day we died. And we worked together to pass the tests and prove ourselves worthy to rise to the ranks of the Valkyrie.” The smile died. “The only downfall was Róta. We were the best of our training group, each of us vying to become the ultimate champion. All I wanted to do was win. I craved it so fiercely I spent hours forcing my body to its limits, so that I would be undefeated when the final tests came. I wanted my mother to be proud of me. I wanted….” She swallowed hard. “I wanted to prove myself. And I cannot help thinking that if I had only been a little less determined…. If I hadn’t won, if I hadn’t been so arrogant when I defeated Róta, then my mother might still be alive. Róta killed her because of me—because I took her place and my mother’s love, and she could no longer bare to be left in the cold.”
Shit. Tormund went to the dirt before her, resting a hand on her knee. “I’m so sorry.”
“The only things I had in the world were my sisters and my calling, and Róta took them from me.” Bryn held out her trembling hands, showing him the gold tattoos inked into the skin of her wrists. “These tattoos chain my powers. I woke in the dirt of this mortal realm with my Valkyrie side suppressed and my mortal side in ascendancy. I am still half-Valkyrie. I don’t age. I heal within seconds. And I cannot be killed by a mortal weapon. But my mortal side weighs me down like an anchor. I can no longer hear the gods singing in my ears. I can barely see them in the world around me. And my strength and speed are almost mortal now. I was cast from my home, and now I have no home. Now I have no family.”
It was that, perhaps, that hurt the most. He could see it in her eyes.
All those years of striving to find her place in the world and she had finally achieved it, only to have it torn from her grasp by the cruelest of lies.
Tormund squeezed her hand. “And your sisters? Those that argued for you? Have they visited? Have they spoken to you?”
