Prologue
SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO, SUNNAVÍK
It was a good thing queasiness had been trained from Ivar Ironheart as a child, because victory smelled an awful lot like blood and shit. The scent drifted on the wind as Ivar paced a path into the black sand beach. Behind him, Askaborg, his new castle, loomed over a fresh boatload of Norvalander thralls laboring to clear the corpses from Sunnavík’s streets. Before him, a woman was secured to the ruined pier as the tide flowed into the bay.
Frustration gathered in Ivar’s gut. He’d vanquished King Kjartan and had taken Íseldur’s throne for himself. He should be able to relax at last. But instead,this.
Ivar let himself remember the look in the Volsik king’s eyes as he’d told him he’d be blood eagled while his people looked on. But even the memory of peeling the king’s flesh from his back, of cracking his ribs open and pulling the lungs from his body, did little to temper Ivar’s current irritation.
“Tell me!” he bellowed at the infernal, stubborn woman. “What is in this weaving, Galdra?”
But she only pressed her lips together. Strands of brown hair were plastered to her face, the tide swirling around her shoulders. How much longer did the woman have? Fifteen minutes? Ivar paced another lap into the sand.
Now that Íseldur was claimed, Ursir demanded Ivar set his focus on his next campaign—to raise strong sons. One to follow his Sea King ancestors and claim the next isle in Ursir’s name. The other to inherit Íseldur’s throne.But before he could consider any of that, Ivar had to ensure his Norvalander wife could bearhim sons. Little Yrsa was a few years old, and while his iron heart warmed a few degrees in her presence, she was still only adaughter.
It wassonsIvar needed; strong, capable warriors to carry out Ursir’s Edict. Without sons, he was shackled. He’d done his husbandly duty; he’d even set aside his whores for two months now. Yet month after month passed with Signe’s bloods coming on cue. The maesters and midwives could find no physical deformities, but Ivar was growing impatient. If his wife was defective, he must know so he could find an alternative, and quickly.
Which was how Ivar had found himself standing in the doorway of a ramshackle home belonging to a Galdra woman. He was familiar enough with the magic-wielding warriors of Íseldur—the impossibly strong Blade Breakers and impossibly quick Harefeet. And of course the infernal Shadow Hounds, who’d slipped past Ivar's lines and caused chaos in their war camps.
But he was told this woman was a different type of Galdra, with gifts of the mind. A Weaver, they called her. The rest, Ivar did not understand.Threads of the past, present and future, she’d told him. A prick of his blood, and the Weaver could find his threads in the webwork of the world. Would weave them into a tapestry.
All Ivar drew from this talk was that the woman could glimpse his future. If he could only reassure himself he would father sons, Ivar could set his frustrations aside and begin his reign in earnest.
But it had all gone awry. The woman had taken his blood—had gone into a strange trance and worked at her loom. And after hours of weaving a tapestry filled with bright colors, a black thread had appeared. The Weaver had recoiled—had turned to the king with a bloodless pallor.
“My apologies, Your Highness. I cannot complete the tapestry today,” she’d said. “Might you return on the morrow?”
“You will finish the tapestry,” Ivar had growled, nodding at his Chief Hirdman. Magnus Hansson had stepped forward, drawing his blade and holding it to the woman’s throat. She’d swallowed then turned back to her weaving. And with that, she’d continued.
Hours later, when the Weaver had stepped away from her loom, Ivar had approached the tapestry.
At the top, he saw his past—the forests and fjords of Norvaland, a bear and a woman in white. It transitioned to his battle for Íseldur—battleaxes and berserker warriors; a crown made of claws. But at the bottom of the tapestry, where Ivar might have expected to see the blues of the ocean, or perhaps a Sea King’s prowed ship, was an angry mix of black and crimson. He stared at thepiles of corpses—at the V-shaped pillars dripping blood. And at the top of the pile, a king.
There was no mistaking the king’s identity. Not with the long blond hair and twin braids in his beard. The Weaver had seen his death.
Which is how Ivar now found himself pacing the beach, ravens screaming over the churning dark sea. Ivar could read a person well enough to know this Weaver had a greater understanding of the threads than she’d revealed. But the foolish woman refused to divulge any details.
He glared at the woman. Her lips were nearly blue, water lapping just below her chin, hands secured above her head. It would take but a single word for Ivar’s men to shoot through her binds, freeing her from her watery grave. But hours had now passed as the tide flowed into the bay, and this Weaver had not revealed a thing.
Why? Why would she choose death over the truth?
“Whatever knowledge she holds, she values it more than her own life,” he mused. Realization crystalized, and he whirled to Magnus. “This secret endangers someone she loves.”
Magnus tugged at the thick warrior’s braid cresting along his skull. “A child?” His keen eyes narrowed. “Shall I root out her kin?”
Wordlessly, Ivar nodded, watching his hirdman’s broad back as he ambled into the streets of Sunnavík.
“He will bring me your child,” Ivar called to the woman, hoping Magnus had guessed right. “And then he will cut off parts until you share what you’ve seen in your threads.”
The corners of her mouth tightened ever so slightly, and Ivar knew he had her.“We shall start with the fingers. Slow, steady cuts. I’ll have my healers called to bandage the wounds. We wouldn’t want the child to bleed out too quickly.” The woman’s eyes flew open, and she didn’t even bother to hide her terror.
Foolish woman. Ivar shook his head.
“The screams shall be the worst part for you. They will carry clear across the water. They will fill the streets of Sunnavík, and all will understand what it means to cross their king.”
The woman’s mouth opened, then closed. She now had to tilt her head upward to draw breath. The tide’s pace had increased, and it wouldn’t be long until she was submerged completely.
“Do you know of Magnus Heart Eater? His skill with the knife is unmatched. He’s known for opening one’s chest while they still breathe. Pulling out the heart and eating it fresh.”
