Chapter 20
Twenty
Iheld my chin high as I followed Ottoh through the woods to the lake we’d dived into last night.
Ivren walked behind me, with Rakkel and Geord not far behind.
I wrenched a breath past my clenched teeth when my brother’s friend placed a hand on my shoulder, trying to offer me whatever comfort he could.
Even though it was dusk, the sky was bright. I blinked when the soft stars did, hoping that whoever looked down upon me would forgive me for everything I’d done so far in the name of guarding my father’s legacy.
The smell of grass was accompanied with that of burning wood, and as we broke through the tree line, smoke twirled up toward the sky from the five pyres burning before the dock where the crown’s ship rested.
The king stood in the bow, and we bent our necks before coming to a halt before the crowd that was spread out across the dock and beneath the ship.
Every face was dark with war paint, and in every throat a muted song vibrated, seeping through the night.
My hands shook when the Vikings began stomping one foot, then another, emphasizing the sound resounding in their chests. I stiffened for a second when a horn was blown, the battle cry settling itself somewhere deep in my bones.
“Welcome,” the king called as the glen fell silent. “Welcome to the choosing.”
I shared a look with Ivren as Darcke and the other warriors came up behind the king and stood like a lethal five-man army, guarding his kingdom with their deadly gazes.
“You’ll be all right,” Ivren whispered.
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” I joked quietly.
He turned his head, and for a second something twisted my insides.
But I would be all right. I’d survived so far, and even though Viljan didn’t agree with my decision to include Kilia in my iron-bound, he would forgive me. He always forgave me.
Viljan was standing to the right, almost at the end of the watching crowd, and while he didn’t look my way, he was tracking my every movement. His body moved when mine did, a silent consequence of the training that neither his anger nor his pride could break.
Ottoh strolled up to my side, his usual smirk causing deep lines in his sun-kissed face. “What did you do now?” He tsked. “Not good, Sweengard. Not good.”
“Shut up,” I whispered as the king once again threw out his arms.
Ottoh’s brows lifted. “So rude. You’ve already made so many enemies. I would think you’d try to be nice to those of us who can still stand to talk to you.”
“Even in death, I wouldn’t dream of being nice to you,” I mumbled.
“We’ll see about that.” He smiled. “With the pace you’ve made enemies, I’d venture we’ll actually see about that very soon.”
Ivren’s fingers ran down my side until I was forced to soften my stiff posture. “He’s just scared of you, Sweengard. Don’t let him get to you.”
“I wonder who is actually the one scared of her,” Ottoh taunted. “The way you follow her like a starving hound—”
When the king began speaking, I turned as if I needed to cough and drove a fist into Ottoh’s face.
His choked sound of pain was drowned by the slow thudding of feet against grass as the king explained the choosing.
I whirled forward again, hiding my smile when Darcke glared at me while Torden, beside him, covered his laugh with his hand.
“Blood.”
Stomp.
“Wood.”
Stomp.
“Steel.”
Stomp.
“These are the foundations of life in the North.” The king threw out his thick fur coat, and I adjusted my own lighter one.
I hadn’t known Viljan had packed it until I found it this morning at the bottom of my satchel; it had a thick collar made from silver fox, with four tails hanging down my shoulders.
“A warrior cannot live without either. An heir needs their blood to survive. Your iron-bound are more important than our seas for travel, our blades for battle, and our wood for ships. You are but the blood you rule.”
Ivren scoffed, and I gave him a warning look as the king took a short pause.
“He’s such a hypocrite,” Ivren whispered into my ear. “As if he treats our lives fairly.”
I stared straight ahead. I’d heard the grumblings about the king before—how he forced us to make more enemies and how his thirst for expanding our borders made our seas more dangerous than was necessary—but only between the safety of my home’s four walls. This was not the place to air grievances.
“Today the five heirs—Ottoh Briggen, Ivren Solsken, Elvara Sweengard, Geord Palsjo, and Rakkel Rafenskol—will choose their inner circle.” The king addressed us directly, and my mouth twisted when Ottoh wiped at his face to rid himself of the blood trickling down his chin.
“You shall speak your choice in the order your names are summoned. Once a name leaves your lips, it is etched in your wyrd. There is no reclaiming a spoken vow. The bonding between you and your second will take place tomorrow, and once the bond is sealed, each heir will share their family’s magic with them until the gods offer you your own rune.
You will need your shared power to survive the next two suns—to collect your steel and wood—and to breathe until you walk into the gods’ halls to be reckoned. ”
Another horn was blown, the sound bouncing against the waterfall and the surrounding mountains as the wind picked it up and played with it, bringing it far and wide across the island.
When I wrung my hands, Viljan finally looked at me.
I didn’t move, but I tried to convey my appreciation through my eyes.
I would disappoint two initiates during the bonding, binding them to me, stealing their safety in exchange for a power I didn’t possess.
But Viljan, my guard, my friend, my shadow, would be there.
And if I met the end, regardless of which realm claimed me, I could rest easy knowing I was leaving my people in Viljan’s hands.
“Should the gods find the heir wanting, the second shall rise,” the king continued. “He or she shall strip the heir’s breath and name—the sacrificial price of claiming the favor the first was too weak to hold.”
Viljan’s eyes rounded, and I turned my gaze to my boots.
I’d suspected he didn’t know. But this was better. He couldn’t go back on his vow now.
“Briggen,” the king called. “Make your choices.”
The crowd quieted. Water trickling from the waterfall hit the lake’s surface, creating its own rhythmic drumming in the night. Ottoh’s sister stood beside two men, each of them straightening as the initiates made space for them.
Ottoh’s nose was still red when he took a step forward, but his voice was clear as he called, “For my second, I choose Vero Briggen.”
As his twin sister stepped forward, the fire in the middle roared, the flames spearing high into the sky and sparks whirling in the air. Vero’s strides were steady as she walked up to it. With a small bone-handled dagger, she cut her hand and let two drops splatter onto the burning wood.
A gasp went through the karls, and my head tilted backward, awe spreading in my chest.
The sky went bright green, its reflection glittering over the water.
“Eldbron,” Rakkel whispered, and all of us felt the reverence in her voice.
“The gods are watching tonight,” Ivren whispered.
The lights in the sky were the burning bridge to Valhalla—the one Odin opened only when the gods were restless.
The choosing wasn’t usually an event for the gods—not like the sacrificial holidays we hosted—but perhaps with enemies stirring in our world, they sought to ensure each iron-bound was forged from the same virtues as our ancestors.
“At least Odin is,” Geord mumbled. “The green is his mark. What an honor for Ottoh.”
The three heirs shared a look, but I kept my focus on Ottoh as he announced his third and fourth—two men whom I’d seen around him but hadn’t paid much attention to.
The green lights shone brighter for every drop of blood dripping into Ottoh’s fire—three drops for his third, and four for his fourth.
When the final drop vanished into steam, Ottoh’s entire fire turned green, spluttering and screaming until it consumed every piece of kindling and wood it drew from, and snuffed itself out.
It became so quiet I didn’t even dare shift my weight when Ottoh’s circle surrounded him, each one standing proudly beside the blond heir as he bowed to the sky before cupping his mouth with his hands and letting out a cry that had birds escaping from the closest tree.
A strange smile lifted the king’s lips before he turned to us once more. “Solsken, your turn.”
My heart began thumping in my chest as Ivren stepped forward.
I’d choose Viljan as my second. And I would be forced to choose Kilia, because keeping him close was the only way I could ensure he didn’t speak of what he suspected unless I wished to take his life. But I needed a fourth.
When Ivren halted before the fire standing to the east, I swept my gaze over the crowd. Fedic bowed his head when he caught my eyes, and I gave him a quick smile. He would be a good choice. Ivren trusted him, and even Viljan didn’t seem to mind his company.
Unlike most others, he also didn’t seem like he wanted to kill me.
Hostile eyes found mine next, and I quickly moved on.
The karls Geord had led—the ones who’d ambushed Ivren and killed Adrion at Svartoarna—knew they wouldn’t be chosen tonight.
It was clear by the way they showed their teeth they weren’t waiting for a blessing but sharpening their axes for revenge.
I didn’t understand how the king could allow them to continue in the Hird. He knew what had happened last time someone had set out to kill the iron-bound.
The air whirled as Ivren cleared his throat.
I caught Ilse’s eyes, and I was about to offer her a smile as well when Ivren spoke.
“Viljan Olaufsen.”
I blinked. Ilse’s eyes didn’t round, but a shadow crossed her face. Tearing my eyes away, I turned from Ivren to Viljan.
I must have misheard.
“I choose Viljan Olaufsen as my second,” Ivren said again.
“W-what?” I stuttered.
The world muted as Ivren turned my way, an apologetic grimace on his face.
He mouthed something, but I didn’t understand.
What was happening? What was he doing? And why?
Viljan stood frozen as well. His eyes clung to mine as whispers rose from the crowd, more emotions than I’d ever seen racing over his features. But it was the fear that made me press a hand over my mouth, my stomach churning.
“Viljan Olaufsen. You must step forward,” the king ordered. “Now.”
When Viljan took a step, so did I.
“Sweengard,” the king warned. “You will wait your turn.”
“But I—”
“No heir may interfere in another heir’s choice,” the king growled.
But he’d interfered with mine. Angry tears pricked my eyes as I took another step toward Ivren.
“I trusted you,” I said, my voice so much calmer than my raging soul. “I trusted you!”
“I’ll explain,” Ivren hissed. “Later.”
Darcke and the other warriors swung their legs over the bow’s railing on the king’s ship when I took another step, and when the king nodded, they jumped off, landing elegantly on the dock. The crowd formed a tunnel for them, and I shook my head as they started to make their way over.
Rakkel’s hand found its way into mine. “Careful. You can’t do anything about it now.”
“Viljan is mine,” I hissed.
“Not anymore,” Rakkel said, her voice gentle. “It won’t end well if you don’t calm down.”
Calm down? Viljan was my people’s only hope. He was my only hope.
He was the reason I’d done everything I had since coming here.
He was the reason I’d become this. I’d done it all for him.
Darcke’s eyes were locked on mine, and I was a heartbeat from lunging at Ivren when a predatory stillness settled over the warrior. The shift was so violent that Torden’s face went pale, his own gaze a frantic command for me to retreat.
Ottoh looked as confused as I did, and the lack of arrogance in his fading smirk was almost worse than the pity filling Rakkel’s eyes.
“Come on,” Rakkel mumbled as the warriors came closer. “Stop this before it’s too late.”
It felt like my heart might escape my rib cage when Viljan finally reached Ivren and accepted the dagger the heir offered him.
“No,” I whispered.
Viljan looked up, and I’d never seen his face so pale.
“Do it,” Ivren ordered.
Everyone could hear the shaking in his voice, but I didn’t care. I wanted to kill him at that moment. I didn’t care if he was Lika’s best friend. I didn’t care that he’d saved me.
“Elvara!” I finally stumbled backward when Rakkel tugged at me.
The five warriors halted, although their gazes were all trained on me. As if I was the one in the wrong. My throat ached and stung, and I stared as if in a trance when Viljan lifted the dagger. When his blood dripped into the Solsken fire, red exploded across the sky, joining Odin’s green.
“Thor approves,” the king said as silence fell over the glen.
Fire sparked, red flames licking the air, and I hated the gods then. I hated everyone here. I hated that I’d become this—that I’d sacrificed everything—only to fail at the last moment.
I didn’t hear who Ivren chose next, barely registered how his fire grew so large a red hue was cast over every person before me before it consumed the wood with a sharp crack that should have made me jerk but did little more than blow my hair back, away from my face.
“Elvara Sweengard.” The king’s voice boomed across the field. “It’s your turn to choose.”