Chapter 2
Two
“We’re late.” I nervously moved my salt-stained hair over a shoulder, squeezing out the water clinging to it as I stood up in the prowling longship.
My heart beat fiercely against my rib cage.
The harbor was packed, almost every dock in the dark water filled.
We passed warship after warship made out of the different kinds of oak that grew in the north of Nordoen: silver oak with its sleek, almost shining finish, which reflected in our enemies’ eyes and made the ships invisible in certain light; white oak, which was strong enough to break through ice in the winter and easily navigated the storms in the fall, and scarlet oak, where the bloodred leaves left their imprint, making the ships seem like they were bleeding, and which was impenetrable to arrows and spearheads.
A strange melody filled the wind. It seeped like a tide and fell like rain, and it should have been eerie, but the sound filled me with a foreign warmth as it wrapped around me, an insistent pull turning my body to the sea we’d left behind.
The humming drifted through me, a mist of voices that tasted of salt and old secrets, and I nearly smiled at the gentleness of it.
I wasn’t sure which vessel was making the sound—or whose it was—but the excitement of its wood vibrated over my skin, and a sense of adventure and belonging coiled around my spine.
We headed to a dock on the far side, to the left of where the Hird was spread out.
A ship made from coveted bog oak—trunks buried beneath water for centuries, turning the wood into the darkest of onyx and making the fastest sailing ships in our realm—lay floating, away from the others.
“Bring us in there,” I said, gesturing to the gap in the line.
Viljan guided our small longship up beside the prow, and its wood groaned as the larger ship met our waves.
As we sailed into the shade of the vessel, the sense of being watched pricked the back of my scalp, and an eerie feeling built in my mind—a mixture of anticipation and apprehension and adventure making me adjust my damp leathers.
Every ship around us hummed with life, hushed songs of battles and travel, and whispers of the calling of the Northern Sea tangled in the warm breeze. Their hulls were strong—full of life—and the smells of oil and polish filled my nose as their owners carefully tended to them.
Viljan turned his face down, and I pretended to check my sword, but it did nothing to quell the lump settling in my throat, so instead I took in the grassy flats behind the harbor.
The Hird was even bigger than I’d imagined. Tent after tent breathing swirls of gray from the tops stood in neat rows in an opening in the wild forest, and behind them glittered a black lake that reflected a mountain chain where snow still covered the peaks.
In the midst of the tents was a longhouse—the largest one I’d ever seen, its wooden walls three or four times longer than our warships, with smoke rising out of ten or more holes in the grass-covered roof.
Several groups of laughing and chattering people exited, heading to a tent closer to the lake.
There had been eyes on us from the moment we turned the bend in the river, revealing Nordoen, the main island in Skagerik, and more people turned our way as the yellowed field filled with activity.
My gut roiled when initiates and thralls ran between the larger tents, yelling for others to hurry up.
The summer-bright dusk was drawing in, and the feast was about to begin.
“I need to go,” I said when drums beat the air, making even the most curious turn around to head toward the main tent, where several hearths were spread out. “They announce the heirs the first night. If I’m not there, the king may choose another.”
“Let me just moor the boat,” Viljan replied. “I’ll make sure you’re safe.”
Another surge of people left the longhouse, and I shook my head.
“You need to make sure no one knows she’s mine.
I don’t want any questions about her,” I whispered, nodding to our silent boat.
When Viljan still hesitated, I waved my hand over my damp leathers.
“I also need to wash up. I doubt the king will be too impressed with the new Sweengard heir if I turn up like this.”
My quip fell flat, but Viljan still made one side of his mouth quirk up. “Don’t worry. You have your story straight—your father and brother are pillaging new land for the crown—and while they’ll be surprised, it’s not the first time an heir has decided to step down.”
It might not have been the first time an heir had stepped down, but it was extremely rare. Being heirs at the Hird, and being granted runes to secure our spots as commanders of sections at the fall academy, was the ultimate honor, making us the elite of the Vikings.
For a people who traded mainly in battle and blood, honor was more than a virtue. It was our lifeblood.
With an inhale, I reached out with a leg to stop our vessel from slamming into the dock, then bent down to tie our ship to the side of it, bracing my feet between land and sea to hold us steady as the strong current rushing beneath us fought our positioning.
When our longship stilled, I gave Viljan a final nod before walking on shaking legs up the dock toward the crowded field.
The summer air was thick with smoke and anticipation, and faces turned after me as I passed them, their gazes searing my skin. Some were curious, others predatory, and several men turned to each other when I passed, their smug grins doing nothing to help my churning stomach.
Whispers of my name echoed between the tents, but I forced my chin to remain raised, my strides steady.
“Is that the sister?”
“She has her father’s hair.”
“What are the Sweengards up to?”
“I’m sure they’ve planned something. They always do.”
“That they switched doesn’t surprise me. Lika has always been shady.”
“Do you think she’s as spoiled as he is?”
“I don’t know. She’s so small.”
“Don’t underestimate her. Her father’s rune gives her the strength of five men. We’ll have to be clever if we’re going to get to her.”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” I nearly walked right into a girl with thick raven hair falling far down her back and eyes so striking green a twinge of envy struck me at how dull my moss-colored ones were in comparison.
Only because the last rays of the sun bounced off the insignia on her dark gray dress—the one marking her one of the king’s servants—was I able to stop in time.
“You fine.” The girl’s accent was thick, the words nearly spat out, but the soft smile on her face was real. “Lost?”
The servants—the thralls—were captives the king’s warriors brought home with them.
They were mainly girls, always pretty, and while some weren’t treated the best by the men, the king made sure they could work if they wanted, and that they were fairly paid.
We had a woman back home who’d fallen in love with one of my father’s warriors, and she now helped at the hearth for food, while her husband had settled down as a shipmaster.
“I am lost, yes,” I admitted. “I just arrived.”
Her eyes flew over my stained clothing. “You’re heir?”
I twisted my lips. “Is it that obvious?”
“You have the”—she waved her hand toward my legs—“walk of heir. You stay in the longhouse. Most are in tent, but if you hurry, you make it before the king’s s-second announce your name. Water is by door, and all hearths have clean cloths.”
“Thank you,” I replied.
She smiled at me again before rushing around a tent with a braided basket filled with herring, whose smoky scent made my mouth water. I hesitated for a moment, watching the girl fall in line with a group of other servants, all carrying similar baskets—probably a sacrifice to our gods.
I tried not to think of the gods looking down upon me as I hurried the final steps to the longhouse. Waiting for a beat outside the thick walls, I listened. There was nothing more than the crackle of fire, so I pulled on the thick door to open it just enough for me to sneak inside.
It took a while for my eyes to get used to the dim light.
When they finally did, they revealed a longhouse similar to ones I’d stayed in with my family.
Four dozen or so hearths stood dispersed amongst the space, a welcoming fire smoldering in each.
Around each one lay cot after cot with thick wool blankets and fur to soften the bedding.
The five runes the gods had gifted our people were painted across the wooden walls.
My nails buried themselves in my palms as I saw styrk, my father’s rune—the one fading on my chest, which was supposed to have remained mine until the gods gifted Lika a new one—drawn in blood across the closest side.
Taking a deep breath as pain crushed against my rib cage, I shoved the memory of my father—of my family and people—from my mind.
I didn’t have the luxury of breaking.
I turned to the rest of the longhouse. There were about a hundred beds—all standing in circles around the hearths spread out across the room—and on almost all of them lay satchels and clothing, and beneath a few stood boots, their different sizes the only clue to whether a man or a woman might be the one who’d claimed it.
In the corner a few men were standing around a sparking fire, and they turned my way, their eyes dragging over me, moving slowly from my black boots up my brown leathers until they settled on my crimson hair and the braids I was sure lay in a mess over my shoulders.
There was no one else in the longhouse. A flicker of worry made my foot snag on a fur laid out to dry over a bench to my side, but as those drums I’d heard earlier continued to beat through the night, I sneaked to the closest hearth.
It was impossible to miss my name being spoken, but I steeled my spine when the men’s laughter rumbled through the space.
The sweat of too many sharing a space hung heavy in the air, but despite the heat my hands moved to my arms, bracing around my chest. This place was too familiar—too much of a reminder of home.