“Enough, I said!”
Svanhild tore her staff from her belt, enhancing her power, and Thori felt like he was trampled by an ox and choked by a giant at the same time. His vision blacked out, and there was a strange ringing in his ears. He found himself crumpled on the floor, not sure how he’d gotten there, trying to catch his breath. Svanhild glared down at him.
“This—” She punctuated her word with an angry flick of her staff that sent another wave of pain rolling over him. “—is all your spite will earn you. I advise you to learn your place quickly. Now, get up.”
She gestured impatiently at a basin sitting next to her bedding, steam rising from its surface. For a second, Thori considered defying her. Could he break her spell?
Another sharp jolt of pain shot through him, worse than the ones before. It made Thori yelp and bite his lip, his mouth flooding with the coppery taste of blood.
“Get up,” she repeated.
This time, Thori struggled to his feet, the pain making him dizzy. Every fiber of his being wanted to fight, to break free from her spell, but he knew it would be no use, so he controlled himself.
Svanhild glared at him.
“Strip.”
“What?”
“Undress. Wash up and put on the clothes I brought for you.” Her delicate hand closed into a fist. Another shock of herseiðrshot through him. Thori gasped, but stayed upright. “And don’t you dare to defy me again, otherwise I’ll have you whipped, and ten other thralls beheaded for good measure. I’ll make sure Andora’s friends are among them. Are we clear?”
Gritting his teeth, Thori nodded. He was going to kill her. When he was free, he was going to kill her.
He stumbled toward the washing basin on unsteady legs and eyed the garments she’d laid out for him: thin, nearly translucent linen and silks in shades that gleamed like pearls in the flickering light. Wearing them, he was going to look like a fucking whore.
Thori hesitated, and Svanhild’s grin widened.
“Embarrassed, are we? I thought you warriors of Asgard have no shame.” She tilted her head, watching him with the gleeful malice of a cat toying with a mouse. “Now be a good little thrall and wash yourself.”
The water was scalding hot, but Thori endured it and quickly scrubbed himself to get rid of the dirt and blood. All the while, he felt her eyes on him, as if she were a predator examining its prey.
When he was finished, she thrust the flimsy garments at him.
“Put these on.”
He held the fabric in his hands; the absurdity of it almost laughable.
“You’re joking.”
Her smile was all teeth.
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
Reluctantly, he put on the clothes: wide trousers made of pearly white silk and a shirt that was so translucent, interwoven with golden threads, that he might as well have gone bare-chested. The garments offered neither warmth nor protection. He felt like a spectacle put on for the enemy warriors. No, a prize.
“Perfect,” Svanhild purred when he was finally ready. She reached up, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his shoulder. He had to restrain himself from flinching away from her touch.
“Behave yourself,” she warned, her tone deceptively light. “You won’t displease my guest. I know it doesn’t come easy to you, but remember the consequences if you disobey.”
“Your guest?” The words had already tumbled out of Thori’s mouth when he realized that Svanhild might consider them presumptuous. He had to be more careful about what he allowed himself to say.
To Thori’s relief, she didn’t answer but simply turned, gesturing for him to follow.
As he trailed behind her, head lowered, he could feel the thrum of herseiðrthrough his bonds, a sickening reminder of his hopeless situation.
six
The Sea King
