Dawn of the North (The Ashen #3)

Prologue

Signe did not flinch as the High Gothi’s dagger slid across the thrall’s throat.

A crimson trickle quickly grew to gushing, rhythmic throbs as the Gothi’s acolytes rushed forward with cups to collect the girl’s lifeblood.

Signe watched the thrall’s blue eyes go from wide and panicked to dull and unseeing as the low, undulating tones of the High Gothi’s voice met her ears.

A hundred or so figures had gathered on the southernmost dock on this sullen, overcast day. Askaborg Castle loomed behind them, Sunnavík harbor’s many piers stretching out before them. Gulls called overhead, the smell of seaweed so pungent it nearly overwhelmed the acrid scent of burnt corpse.

Nearly.

All morning, Signe’s moods had wavered between disbelief and brutal, aching grief.

It had to have been a mistake. The corpse in the ship docked at the end of the pier wasn’t Yrsa.

Surely her girl was just missing. Hiding perhaps.

The chaos in the great hall had been so very frightening, after all.

Any minute and her Yrsa would appear and reassure Signe that it had all been one big misunderstanding.

The High Gothi’s voice shifted to guttural rhythmic chanting as he poured the thrall’s blood over the altar stone.

Signe charted its course over the deep grooves carved into the stone; watched as it pooled in the trough below.

When the thrall’s lifeblood had drained from her, acolytes wrapped bear cloaks around her naked body before carrying her to the end of the pier and lowering her into the ship.

As Signe’s gaze fell upon the figure in the center of the boat, tears tried to claw forth. The resplendent silks wrapped around the corpse could not hide the fact that the body was nothing but charred flesh and blackened bones.

Her baby.

Her Yrsa.

Signe’s hand curled into a fist as she stared at what remained of Yrsa. Never again would she kiss her daughter’s cheek. Never again would she hear the sounds of her laughter.

“Mama?” A small hand prodded her balled fist.

Signe forced herself to exhale and unclench her fingers, reaching for Hávar’s hand.

“Not much longer, my darling,” she said in a low voice.

Little Hávar had seen only three winters, and it was unlikely that he understood what was going on.

In the days that had followed the explosion, he’d asked countless times for Yrsa, wrenching Signe’s heart anew.

But it was worse than merely her heart. It felt as though a piece had been torn from her very soul.

The next thrall was yanked forward, her ice-blond hair marking her as Norvalander.

Beside Signe, Ivar loosed an impatient sigh.

She ground her teeth together. Get on with it, that sigh seemed to say.

I’ve important matters to attend to. It was no secret that Ivar favored his sons above all else, but Signe had dared to hope he’d pretend to mourn his daughter.

Hávar’s hand squeezed Signe’s as the thrall girl wailed and thrashed before the High Gothi.

Her elbow collided with one of the acolytes, sending the man staggering backward into an ornamental brazier.

But the thrall’s attempt to flee was fruitless; three more acolytes rushed forward and seized her.

The High Gothi ended her with a slash of brutal efficiency, the wound on her neck opening like a crimson smile.

By the end of this service, five maidens would lie alongside Princess Yrsa to accompany her on the journey to Ursir’s Sacred Forest. Signe hoped that the thralls and treasure heaped upon the ship were sufficient to allow her girl an afterlife without wanting for anything.

Her girl.

A sob broke low in Signe’s throat, catching her by surprise. She turned away from the procession, trying to gather herself.

“Mother.” The crackle of Bjorn’s voice—not quite a man, yet no longer a boy—came from her right. He stood beyond Ivar but leaned behind his father to place something soft into her free palm.

Signe opened her hand and stared down at a clean square of linen. Such a thoughtful boy, her Bjorn had proven to be, and his kind gesture gave Signe the strength not to crumble.

She dabbed at a rogue tear, then faced forward once more. The latest thrall girl was lowered onto the ship, nestled between a bushel of apples and a cask of heather mead left over from Yrsa’s birthday feast.

Ivar stepped forward, commanding the attention of all those present.

Clad in a fine red-and-gold tunic, her husband cut an imposing figure.

Ivar might once have been the most handsome man Signe had ever seen, but now…

now, half his face was a patchwork of oozing burns and peeling flesh, his once-striking beard singed short.

The beard, Signe knew, maddened her husband nearly as much as what he now dubbed the assassination attempt.

The Urkans saw beards as a sign of male potency, and Ivar Ironheart’s formerly chest-length beard was now so short, he could not even braid it.

It was little solace to Signe on this day, though. Not with what came next.

The High Gothi passed an unlit torch to Ivar, who dipped it in the flames of a sacred brazier. With swift, efficient steps, Ivar strode to the end of the pier.

One more moment, Signe wanted to beg. One more moment with my baby.

But Ivar did not hesitate. He threw the torch onto the ship. Turned without ceremony.

Signe watched the flames catch—first on the hay padding the edges of the ship, then on the rich silks strewn throughout.

The High Gothi cut the rope securing the boat to the pier, then worked with his acolytes to give the carved prow a gentle shove.

The flames danced higher, higher, licking the skies.

Signe watched the boat drift away through a fog of tears.

But Ivar didn’t see any of it. He strode past Signe. Put his hand on Bjorn’s shoulder. “We have plans to make, son.”

Ivar Ironheart left without watching the moment his only daughter departed the realm of the living.

Signe sat in an armchair arranged near the enormous glass windows of the king’s bedchambers, a goblet of wine clutched in her hand.

The clouds had lifted as the day progressed, and so Signe had ordered the room made dark so that she might gaze at the star-speckled skies.

And as she stared listlessly up, she could have sworn one star blazed brighter before streaking amid the others.

But as she blinked, it was gone, and with the amount of wine she’d already consumed, Signe couldn’t be certain of much right now.

Her younger sister would have been able to name each constellation in the sky—would have been able to recite the Norvalander folklore stories behind them. Not a day went by when Signe didn’t think of her, but here, now, her sister haunted her thoughts more than ever.

“I miss you,” Signe murmured, then shook her head at the wasted emotion. She’d put her sister—had put all things Norvaland—behind her almost two decades ago.

Signe refilled her cup with an impatient breath.

When would Ivar return from his meetings?

All afternoon he’d been gone, busy preparing for retaliation against the Zagadkians.

The fool of a man was convinced Kassandr Rurik had orchestrated the explosion in the great hall; that the Zagadkians had used the treaty as a ruse to gain access to Ivar and end his life.

Had the man not seen Saga Volsik with his own eyes?

Had he not known what the unnatural dark blue of her veins had meant?

Of course the dim-witted man had not. But Signe understood the significance of those veins—they meant that Saga Volsik had not acted alone.

Because with them, in that room, Signe had sensed the presence of her old friend.

Her secret friend. The one she’d grown to love and to trust over the years.

Why had Signe’s friend given themselves so wholly to Saga, when Signe had been so dutiful?

And to kill her Yrsa…it was a betrayal so deep that it hurt her to even consider it.

Signe drank a large gulp of wine, forcing her mind back to Ivar and his foolish plans. He was adamant that Saga Volsik had acted with the Zagadkians, that she could not have done it alone. Saga was, as Ivar put it, “only a woman.”

Her chest ached for what could never be. Yrsa’s wedding to a high-ranking cousin of Ivar’s. A quiet, safe life for her girl among the verdant fjords and rocky shores of Norvaland. Within a few short months, Yrsa would have been protected. Instead, she’d perished before Signe’s very eyes.

Because of that ungrateful little serpent.

Signe swallowed a large mouthful of wine, desperate to dull the sharp pain of her grief.

Thankfully, the door to the bedchamber swung inward, diverting her attention. Ivar, it seemed, had finally returned. Signe set her cup aside and made to stand, but paused as a petite blond woman entered first. She recognized her at once as Eldrún, Ivar’s favored concubine.

The queen’s fingers curled around the arms of her chair as Ivar pushed Eldrún against the wall, groping her with the finesse of a drunken troll. Signe ought to have expected this—she hadn’t, after all, warmed Ivar’s bed in some time. But after Yrsa’s funeral, such things had been far from her mind.

Clearly, it hadn’t hindered Ivar’s lechery. Anger burning low in her stomach, Signe decided she’d seen enough. She stood and cleared her throat loudly.

Ivar whirled, his hand going to the sword belted at his hip.

“Signe.” He exhaled in clear relief, but even in the dim light, she could see fear lingering in Ivar’s brown eyes. Ever since the explosion, he’d grown paranoid that someone would make another attempt on his life. It would have amused Signe had it not come at the price of her daughter.

The queen’s eyes fell upon Eldrún—scant years older than Yrsa. Her amusement quickly kindled into anger.

“Out.”

The girl scampered away.

Ivar fetched a torch from the corridor, glancing at his wife in irritation as he used it to ignite the braziers in the room. Light danced along the walls and across the enormous carved bed that dominated the space. “I did not expect you to grace my bed tonight, Signe.”

“And I,” said Signe, “cannot fathom how you could take anyone to your bed the day your only daughter was sent to the Sacred Forest.”

Ivar bristled as he slid the torch into a sconce. “What do you want, wife?”

Signe strolled toward her husband, his gaze hard and flat as he leaned against the wall.

Reaching him, Signe caressed his forearm with soft fingertips.

Once she’d admired the toughened muscle of these arms. Once she’d admired all of her husband.

Had desired him above all others. But the years together had hardened her tender heart.

She forced herself to look past her husband’s ruined face and meet his dark eyes.

“Vengeance, Ivar,” she purred. “That is what I want.”

Ivar pulled away, and though it shouldn’t hurt after all these years, pain twinged in Signe’s chest.

“You know I do not concern you with the affairs of men, Signe.”

Ivar strolled to the table where Signe’s unfinished jug of wine rested. Finding a goblet, he filled it, then turned to face her. And for the first time in years, Signe found traces of softness in her husband’s gaze.

“But today, perhaps, I can make an exception. Will it ease your grief to know we plan to sail to Zagadka within a fortnight?”

A fortnight. Signe’s mind raced. A fortnight was not enough time to muster all their forces, nor for Ivar’s father to arrive from Norvaland with his fleet. Fear twisted in her gut as she thought of Bjorn. She’d just lost a daughter. Signe could not lose her Little Bear, too.

“But your father’s fleet—” With the winter ice floes between íseldur and Norvaland, it would be some weeks before King Harald arrived. “Surely you can wait a little longer. With those numbers, you’ll be unbeatable—”

“We cannot wait, Signe. The Zagadkian scum tried to assassinate me—”

“You do not know it was them,” Signe interjected.

Ivar took a menacing step forward. “Do not interrupt me, wife.”

Signe clamped her mouth shut, berating herself for reacting, as Ivar would say, emotionally. But when it came to her children, she’d always struggled to hold her tongue.

“You worry for Bjorn, that much is clear,” said Ivar, coldly. “Do you not know your worry weakens him in his men’s eyes? He must see battle, Signe. Must sharpen his skills. Yes, this is happening sooner than we’d anticipated—”

“It is foolhardy!” The words burst from her before Signe could stop them.

Ivar’s hand lashed out, slapping her hard across the face. Her vision exploded with white, burning pain, and Signe stumbled back, clutching her cheek. Ivar tossed his wine back in a solitary gulp, leveling a hard look at her.

“I warned you not to interrupt me, wife.”

Signe forced her lips together. Swallowed the vile words trying to push up her throat.

“We sail two weeks from today. When my father’s fleet arrives, they will join us. But I do not think we shall need them at all.” Ivar’s gaze grew distant and hungry. “We have some…battle innovations we are eager to use.”

Signe’s anger had grown to a living, breathing thing, and it took every ounce of her will not to release it on her husband. Instead, she focused it on the one person she despised above all others.

“I ask only one thing of you, husband.” A deep breath eased her raging heart. Signe straightened her spine. Faced the beast of a man before her unflinchingly. “Bring Saga Volsik to me. Alive.”

Ivar raised a quizzical brow.

Signe answered him with a queenly smile.

“I want to watch as the light fades from her eyes.”