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 bodybefore 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’dpretendto 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. TheHigh 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.”
