In and out.
In and out.
But it was as if I was frozen. A rabbit stuck in the middle of a field with the foxes closing in.
Someone cleared their throat. As I instinctively spun toward the sound, my eyes collided with a pair so dark brown that they almost seemed black, in complete contrast to the man’s summer-tan skin.
The eyes belonged to a massive warrior who, unlike the others in the crowd, wasn’t sitting on his chair but standing behind it, his large hands gripping the backrest.
Also unlike the others, his golden hair was cropped short to his head, not in the long style most men favored. And while it was common for Vikings to have tattoos, his were different. Even the smudged war paint darkening the area around his eyes couldn’t hide it.
Three distinct dots formed a triangle beneath his right eye, and on the other side of his face were three lines that looked like the rune for rippling waters. But the leathers he wore were those of the king’s warriors, and our ruler would not allow someone from another people to join his ranks.
As he rolled his shoulders, my eyes widened. This was the warrior from the tent. I just hadn’t recognized him without his helmet. The man raised a dark brow before turning his face forward. My gaze lingered for a beat before I did the same, and my heart jolted in my chest.
I’d come to a stop midway down the tent, and now I was not only strolling down to greet my king in the clothes of his enemies—the ones he forced to entertain us as punishment for whatever grievance he had against their nation—but I was alsokeeping him waiting.
It took every ounce of my willpower to get my legs moving.
Ottoh laughed again, but I kept my chin high and my pace steady, and my hands in position should I need to reach for my sword. Viljan’s axe was already in his hand, and he’d moved away from the wall, cautiously walking beside me at the edge of the tent as I approached the king.
My fingers twitched with every giggle—every whispered call for blood—that stalked me.
I really fucking hoped I wasn’t walking to my own execution. But if I was, I’d at least make sure they had to work for the kill.
I was proud that my limbs didn’t shake and that my shoulders were lowered—my training was still etched into my muscles—but I had to bite down on my lip to ensure it didn’t tremble when I came to a stop before the dais.
Bending my back, I gave the king a stiff bow.All the time I kept his gaze, waiting for his verdict. He was well within his rights to kill me for my insubordination. If he thought I’d worn this on purpose? That I’d done it to taunt him?
I would have failed already before I entered the trials.
“Rise,” King Gustief ordered as he played with the glittering chain across his chest.
The king was the only Viking who wielded the magic of all five runes: skydd, for armor and defense; styrk, for power and strength; gomnd, for concealment and evasion; ratt, for targeting and precision; and tyga, for influence and persuasion. His power roiled around me, a lethal singing in the air, and his voice alone commanded such respect that my back snapped straight.
I closed my eyes for a single second. His magic burned, heated and deadly, twisting the knife of the truth: that I was unarmed in a room of adversaries.
I had nothing but a lie, and that lie was already starting to feel as thin as the winter ice.
I fought the color wanting to spread over my cheeks when the king studied me, his intensity making me wish to crawl out of my skin and wash it several times before I put it back on. I clasped my hands behind my back.
“Why areyouhere?” the king demanded.
The tent fell silent, although I could taste the anticipation in the air—an excitement that came from the king’s bloodthirsty court, who lived for this kind of entertainment.
My mind snapped back to my conversation with Viljan on the longship.
“They’ll believe you when you tell them your father and Lika have found promising new lands,” Viljan assured. “The other fylkis always think we have access to borders they’ve never heard of with the currents that run by our island.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I whispered. “It leaves us vulnerable.”
“Better they believe we’re fighting to grow stronger rather than the truth.”
“You’re right,” I agreed. “And I’ll make it believable—make sure they think we’re spoiled for land and riches and that we care little about the Hird because of it.”
The Sweengards occupied one of the southern isles—the one we called Oenskan, an old word forwish, as it had fulfilled our ancestors’ hopes and dreams. It was a coveted piece of land given its proximity to a current that allowed our ships to travel both quickly and quietly when conquering new territories.
My story wasn’t beyond the realm of the possible. It would also please our king, since it was on his orders we continued to claim nation after nation in the world surrounding our own, even as we’d spread our people so far and wide we could barely understand each other anymore after centuries of blending with the people we forced beneath the crown’s rule.
