“Did you wash away the oil she used on him?” Skalmöld asked.
“He was exhausted last night. I cleaned him as much as possible, though bathing him wasn’t my first worry.”
“Andora, dear, please prepare a bath in the steaming hut. You can ask for help.”
“I’m not sure if I want to take him to Svanhild’s steam bath of all places,” Njord grumbled.
“Unless you want to dump him into the fjord, it’s the best option you have. The oil needs to be removed. Thoroughly.”
“And you’re only telling me that now?”
Njord’s chest felt tight with anger, both at himself and at Skalmöld. Why hadn’t he thought of this? Why hadn’t Skalmöld told him sooner?
But the seeress only rolled her eyes at him good-naturedly.
“If I’d known, I wouldn’t have let him suffer uselessly. Even as it is now, I can’t tell for sure what she did, if she did anything at all. We need to go through all the ways she might harm him.”
She was right. They couldn’t be sure. But the possibility alone that Svanhild could try to hurt Thori after he’d bought him as his thrall angered Njord to the core. He rose with caution, ensuring Thori was comfortable again.
He was sick of guessing the priestess’ intentions.
“Watch over him. I have to get something done.”
Trudging through the camp, Njord tried to gather his thoughts. He spotted Andora hurrying to the steam hut to prepare the ordered bath. Unbidden, Njord’s mind flooded with vivid images: Thori, nestled amidst the rising steam, the gentle heat kissing his skin. A healed and healthy version of his thrall, kneeling before him, looking as golden and radiant as the sun, as magnificent as his thunder. Njord longed to touch him, tobury his hands in his soft hair, and to trace the elegant curves of his body. He wanted to make him tremble under his touch and moan in pleasure—
Shaking off the intrusive thoughts with some difficulty, Njord sped up his steps.
A fresh breeze wafted up from the water, the powerfulseiðrblessing the land almost tangible on his tongue. Talvi and hisJotunnhusband had done well. Still, the fabric of the worlds rippled with a force that wasn’t his nephew’s doing.
Sniffing the cool morning air, Njord tried to pick up the distinctive scent ofseiðrthat wasn’t Talvi’s. Something was there, sweet and pungent. He recognized the special flavor ofseiðrfrom the night before when he helped Talvi and Håkon prepare for the ritual along with Skalmöld and…
Svanhild.
The blasted priestess was still tampering with the strings of fates not her own; still trying to leave her mark on the ritual.
Njord gritted his teeth.
Instead of going to Talvi’s pavilion as intended, he stomped down the narrow path leading to Svanhild’s tent. Although the spot down by the fjord wasn’t her permanent dwelling place, the stretch of sand had already adopted her disruptive nature. It felt like a veil of gloom shrouded the area.
Njord didn’t bother to make his presence known before he pushed aside the tent flap and stepped inside.
The smell he noticed before was stronger inside: rotten apples and drying blood. It made Njord’s stomach turn.
He didn’t spot her immediately, as the tent was crammed with chests, boxes, bales of fine fabrics, and magical trinkets. There were shards of red glass, reflecting the firelight, and little puppets made from twigs and bones, held together by dark soil. Peculiar objects of worship Njord couldn’t quite place.
Svanhild didn’t look up, didn’t take notice as he entered at all. She sat by the brazier, chanting over a small wooden bowl. A lock of hair—golden, unmistakable—lay inside it.
Njord’s rage gathered around him like the clouds of a rapidly approaching thunderstorm. In two strides, he was upon the priestess, grabbing her by the collar and hauling her to her feet. The bowl clattered to the ground, its contents spilling.
“How dare you touch what’s mine?” he snarled, voice low and dangerous.
Svanhild met his gaze, uncomprehending. She was still engrossed in her own ritual, from which he had so abruptly torn her.
“I made sure the magic didn’t fade,” she slurred, a dreamy smile on her lips.
“Only this isn’t about the ritual at all,” he growled, his grip tightening. “You are killing him for your ambition.”
“Think about what we can achieve! All this pleasure laced with the suffering of a god!”
