At the sight of Sigurd, Brynhildr nearly dropped to her knees.
His bright blue gaze was cloudy, his spark of life dimmed and dulled. When he met her gaze, his beloved face was blank.
He does not remember me. O Freyja, help me save him!
Theouroborosabove Brynhildr’s pounding heart spluttered, as if thedragonfireofseiðrhad been nearly extinguished.
Sigurd was flanked by a pair of armored warriors whose dark hair and thick beards were braided with silver beads. The taller of the two spoke to Brynhildr, a predatory glint in his serpentine gaze. “I am Gunnar, eldest son of King Gjúki, the Burgundian River King of Rhônehöll.” A gloating grin stretched across his scarred face. “You swore an oath to wed the warrior who could best you in single combat. I hereby challenge you for your hand.”
His anguished face distraught with grief, Heimir appeared behind Gunnar, clutching Brynhildr’s golden corslet, falcon shield, and Sun Falcon sword that Freyja had gifted her for the Solhjarta Tournament.
Odin condemned me to never win another battle. Gunnar knows he will defeat me.
Panic gripped her heart and stole her speech.
Deeply inhaling the scent of the sea which bound her to Sigurd, Bynhildr summoned her strength and found her voice. “I cannot marry you, for I am already wed to Sigurd.” She displayed theouroborosband on her left hand. The emerald eyes of the dragon swallowing its tail glittered in the golden sun.
Gunnar rumbled with sneering laughter. “Sigurd has renounced that pagan ceremony,” he spat, grinning at theshadowed Sea Wolf at his side. “Since you were not wed by a Christian priest, the marriage is invalid.” He retrieved a ring from a pouch strapped to his belt and slapped it into her hand.
It was the wedding band that Kveld had crafted.
Between the carved images of the wolf, falcon, and dragon, three gems—emerald, lapis lazuli, and amber—glistened against her cold skin. Inside the golden band, the same trio of runes as the triplebindruneengraved in the hull of the Úlfalkr ship—and etched onto the shore beneath her private tower of Hrafnfjall—pulsed in her cradled palm.
She tucked the ring into her own belt and met Kveld’s compelling gaze.
Go along with him, his amber eyes told her.And trust me when the time comes.
“I shall don my armor and meet you in the courtyard.” Brynhildr accepted the corslet, shield, and sword from Heimir and disappeared into her private chambers down the hall.
TheFalkhjartacorslet—molded to fit her as the Sun Falcon Shieldmaiden of Hrafnfjall—barely fastened along her expanded waistline. She plaited her long blonde hair in a single braid down her back and donned her bronze leather leggings, golden vambraces, and falcon helmet with gleaming amber eyes.
She strappedSólfalkrat her hip.
Gripped herFalkskjöldrshield with her gloved left hand.
And strode out into the summer sun to face her cruel fate.
Though Heimir, Tryggvi, and Hálfdan seemed equally stricken with anguish, Sigurd’s expression was empty, as if he observed waves rolling across the sea. Black wolfskin cloak atop his dark head, Kveld watched her with otherworldly golden eyes.
Her throat clenched as she remembered the last time she had faced an opponent in single combat.
Sigurd could have claimed her hand by defeating her in the Sólhjarta Tournament. But he had knelt at her feet, sacrificing his own glory for hers, so that she could rise as a Valkyrie.
Now, she faced a warrior who would strike her down and win her hand. A man who sought his own glory at her expense.
Brynhildr unsheathedSólfalkrfrom her hip, her Sun Falcon shield raised, and lunged. But Gunnar disarmed her with a single, swift blow, and her gleaming sword clattered to the stone-covered ground.
Gunnar strode confidently across the courtyard, retrieved her sword, and snidely returned it to her, hilt first. Victory blazed on his triumphant face. “I have won your hand. Pack your belongings. We depart at dawn for Rhônehöll.” He flashed her a radiant, gloating grin. “We shall wed on the next full moon.” Gunnar spun to Heimir. “Prepare a betrothal feast for tonight, King Heimir. Brynhildr is now my bride.”
The grilleddorade,her favorite fish,and langoustines in herbed butter— small, succulent lobsters which she normally adored—stuck like sand in her tight throat. Sigurd ate heartily, oblivious to her distress, not even casting a glance her way. He laughed with Gunnar and Högni, imbibed in too much mead, and retired early to the chambers he shared with his twobloodswornbrothers.
They want to keep us apart. Perhaps they fear I can undo their móðir’s wretched curse.
Frustrated, furious, and forsaken, Brynhildr wept alone in her forlorn bed.
At dawn, after breaking their fast, the three ships set sail from Hlymdalir. Though Gunnar demanded that Brynhildr accompany him on hissnekkja, Kveld insisted she voyage onÚlfalkr,under his loyal protection. “A princess must sail under guard until she is duly wed,” he told Gunnar. “You must wait until the ceremony at Rhônehöll.”
They snaked northward along the Rhône, Sigurd standing at the prow, staring at the sunlight on the dark waters.
