Chapter One
Rain-battered Freya reached the priestess’s house to find the door already open for her. Of course—Brenn’s precognition had prepared her for Freya’s arrival. Prophetic visions from the goddess lent Brenn that advantage.
The inside of Brenn’s house was so bright, Freya had to squint to see. It was crowded in the way only people who lived in deliberate clutter and kept everything in one specific place could understand. Keys dangled on strings from the ceiling, catching the light of a ring of candles. Bits of iron, gold, and marble glittered at Freya, causing her to put up her hand to shield her eyes. In theory, this mystical stuff helped Brenn work, but Freya would never comprehend how, exactly. There were large, open windows on every wall, letting in the gloomy light of the afternoon and giving off a glow from within that could be seen from a mile away.
Over the fire, a kettle began to whistle.
“Freya!” Brenn rose from her pile of blankets in front of the hearth.
She stood a foot taller than Freya, but they were otherwise similar in appearance—both human, originating from the same region up north in the human territories, with dark hair and sun-toned skin.
Despite that they were both thirty-five years of age, Brenn’s devotion to the goddess had paused her body in time. On the other hand, the furrow between Freya’s brows was permanent, though none of her wrinkles could be said to come from smiling too often.
Notably, a live raven and a falcon perched on Brenn’s shoulders.
The falcon chirped as she took her spot comfortably on Freya’s extended forearm. Freya cooed at the bird, stroking her feathers. In her jesses was the scrolled note Freya had sent, unopened.
Brenn kissed Freya’s cheek, smiled, and then said, “Aren’t you supposed to be at the assembly?”
“Are you spying on me? I’m not sure the goddess would appreciate your powers used for such nefarious purposes,” said Freya.
“Yet somehow she never revokes my magic,” Brenn said. “Tea?”
Freya removed her boots and shook out her drenched cloak. Brenn had set out two cups of tea on a clutter-strewn table between two mismatched armchairs. She clutched her iron staff in white-knuckled hands. From her armrest, Brenn’s raven cocked its head at Freya.
“So,” Brenn said.
Freya took her seat. Rain pattered the roof in a gentle, steady flow, and the cup of tea warmed her hands through her leather gloves. “You didn’t bother reading my message?”
Brenn raised an eyebrow. “You never come for anything else.”
“How about to see my dear old friend?” Freya asked, showing her teeth.
Brenn laughed. “All right, let’s get this over with.”
From her pocket, Freya extracted a frayed red thread and passed it over.
Brenn twisted it between her fingers. “The alliance was a brilliant idea, Freya. Any attempts to invade Torden are dissuaded. The goddess would have warned me otherwise.”
Freya moodily put her chin in her hand. “Itwasa brilliant idea. But I can’t shake the feeling something bad is coming.”
“You always think something bad is coming,” Brenn pointed out.
“Only because it always does.” Freya sipped her tea, thinking. “Why, am I bothering you?”
“Never,” Brenn said. She wrapped the thread around the tip of her staff. “I wish you’d come more often for tea and less for prophecy. I love to see you, of course, but nothing ever changes. And you worry and worry no matter the outcome.”
The beginning of their oldest argument: though Brenn received prophetic visions and hunches from the goddess, she only knew what the goddess wished to impart to her. Which was vague, and sometimes nonsense, and hardly ever helpful for Freya’s purposes.
Freya considered giving in. She considered arguing, too, but Brenn did not deserve that. In the end, she decided on one simple word, gently spoken: “Please.”
The fire reflected in Brenn’s eyes. The raven took flight and began to peck at some fabric on the wall.
“It never helps,” Brenn insisted.
This was true, too: Freya was never assured by good news and only took heed of the bad. Good news meant something bad could still happen, but bad news meant something badwouldhappen.
But the raven knew Brenn almost as well as Freya did. Brenn was going to help anyway.
