Chapter 1

Skarstad

Silla Nordvig believed in the little signs the old gods left for mortals—­red skies to foretell surprise, the flíta to usher in change, and the black hawk as a herald of death. Above all else, she knew that bad fortune came in threes, so it should not have come as a surprise when those wretched bells started ringing. She jumped in fright all the same.

After washing the bread dough from her hands, Silla dried them on the coarse material of her homespun skirts. Ashes, she thought. This week was truly taking a toll on her.

It had all started to unravel when Olaf the Red had requested tenancy payment a week ahead of schedule, stretching their threadbare budget beyond its limits. Next, Silla had burned her thumb while pulling barley cakes from the embers, dropping the full batch into the cookfire. Grains were growing more and more costly—­after three long winters in a row, crops were stunted, and the harvest would be grim. Silla had earned herself a stern verbal lashing for her mistake.

And now the third instance of ill fortune this week—­those foulsome bells.

Silla smoothed the floral embroidery along the belt of her blue apron dress, the same worn by all of Jarl Gunnell’s domestic hands, and made her way outdoors. The jangle of iron keys signaled the arrival of Bera, Jarl Gunnell’s wife and head of the household. Silla quickly found her place in line, fingers threading tightly together as Bera counted them.

“Twelve. All right on your way, you lot,” she said in a gentle voice, ushering them out. “Let us hope this is swift. For all involved.”

A light breeze caressed Silla’s face and pulled a few chestnut coils from her tightly woven braid as she stepped along the path. For a gray day, it was pleasantly warm, the sun obscured by clouds. A wasp buzzed at her face, and she swatted it away. Birds twittered from the gardens of the homestead. It was almost peaceful for a moment. Until the following toll of the bell, long and so loud, it set Silla’s teeth on edge.

She matched her steps to the others, keeping her eyes on the blue skirts of the girl ahead of her. They walked in a single line, making their way down the rutted lane. Silla didn’t have to look to know Jarl Gunnell and his men—­warriors, stablemen, and field workers alike—­would be following behind. The jarl was one of the few members of nobility who did not use enslaved thralls brought over from Norvaland, but if he had, they would join as well. The bells were nothing if not the great equalizer, demanding the presence of every Íseldurian over ten winters of age, regardless of class.

Silla glanced toward the stables but could not see her father. He’d be there, somewhere among the field workers, in his dirt-­stained gray tunic. He’d be wiping grime from his face, worrying about her, about them, deciding they’d lingered too long in Skarstad. It would be time for a fresh start. Another one.

They walked along the packed-­dirt road and through a gate in the stockade walls of the village, past timber homes topped with thatched roofs. While orderly woodpiles were stacked neatly before the homes, the cabbage yards overflowed with kitchen herbs and vegetables. Skarstad itself was small and unremarkable, interchangeable with most towns in Sudur lands. Silla should know; she’d lived in so many of them. Neatly laid out and encircled by tall defensive walls, it held two main thoroughfares that intersected in a central, tree-­lined courtyard. The mead hall was neatly maintained, the stoops well swept, the square stained with blood.

The bells grew louder as they approached the square, each clang more menacing than the last. The sounds vibrated through Silla’s bones, ratcheting her insides tighter and tighter with each step closer. Men and women, merchants and farmers alike joined them until a throng crowded the road. At last, they rounded the corner into the central courtyard. Silla shuffled toward the towering Klaernar warrior standing by a wagon piled with jagged black rocks; he passed one out to each who entered the courtyard. Silla kept her eyes low as she waited, knowing what she’d see if she lifted her gaze. Muffled voices floated through the square, pleading. Begging.

It is in vain, she thought with distaste.

The oppressive presence of the Klaernar warrior looming before her stifled the air. Occasionally called the Claws of the King, the Klaernar were all physically imposing, and Silla kept her gaze trained on the warrior’s boots. They were worn, smudged with dirt, a sight she found oddly comforting—­proof he was, in fact, human. If she lifted her eyes, Silla knew she’d see he wore a shirt of black chain mail, punctuated by screaming bear shoulder plates in shining silver. Knew that she’d see three claw marks tattooed along the man’s right cheek.

She’d heard rumors that the second sons of Íseldur were changed not just physically once they took the claw, but mentally as well. Something happened when they went through the Ritual and pledged themselves to King Ivar and his Bear God, Ursir. No matter how diminutive their stature before the Ritual, they returned transformed—­tall and built like mountains, their newly inked faces etched in permanent scowls. It was said they carried Ursir’s blessing in their veins, which only deepened Silla’s unease.

As the King’s Claw placed a chunk of raw obsidian in her palm, Silla’s hand dipped under its weight. She stared at the flat, glossy surface. How could something be so beautiful and yet so ugly all at once?

The resounding chimes startled her from her thoughts, so loud they were near deafening in the square. Silla lurched forward, eyes darting in search of the blues of Jarl Gunnell’s help. Somehow, she had lost them. Silla lifted her eyes, just for a heartbeat, to try to get her bearings.

It was a mistake; she’d known it to be but couldn’t stop herself. Three sets of V-­shaped columns stretched up from the circular dais in the center of the square, a runic altar stone centrally positioned. Each condemned was secured to a set of wooden pillars, arms stretched wide between them, feet secured together at the base. Iron bridles muzzled their faces and smothered their voices. A pity the contraptions didn’t shield their eyes; those unfortunate souls saw it all—­the crowd, the rocks, the imminence of death. Anticipation was an equal part of the punishment, Silla supposed.

She stood on shaky legs, her gaze locking with that of the woman in the middle. Her eyes were wild with fear, the whites flashing. Heart dropping like a stone, Silla realized she was not a woman at all but a girl in her early teens. The girl’s face swam, her brown eyes dissolving to Mother’s vibrant green, urging her to look away—­

No.

With a shaky exhale, Silla forced her gaze to the ground. Now was no time for those memories to surface.

“Next!” boomed the Klaernar, snapping her out of her thoughts.

Eyes searching, Silla finally caught sight of the blues and browns to her right and made her way quickly toward the group.

The little blond girl was with them, small and out of place among Jarl Gunnell’s help. Her unkempt hair was plastered to her neck, her face smeared with dirt. Haunting blue eyes, which tilted up at the outer corners, looked at Silla as the girl fidgeted with the hem of her torn and rumpled nightdress. “You should pay better attention,” came the girl’s young voice.

Silla had tried to guess the girl’s age, and her best estimate sat at five or six winters. “And you should mind your manners,” she said absently.

“What did you say, Katrin?” asked Bera, her voice stern.

Silla’s gaze shot to Bera’s steely face. “I—­it was not you to whom I spoke,” she muttered.

“Who then? Who were you speaking to?”

Her eyes flicked back to where the girl had stood moments before—­now nothing but empty space. You’ve said enough, thought Silla, pressing her lips together. Gather your wits, Silla Margrét.

“So hard to find good help,” muttered Bera. “Lazy or touched in the head.”

Silla inhaled deeply as she looked away. Spotting a familiar blond head threaded with gray, her eyes locked onto her father’s. He seemed to sag when he saw her, as though he’d been holding his breath. Beside him stood the kindly stablehand who’d provided them with furs and a few kitchen provisions when Silla and her father had first arrived in Skarstad—­Tolvik, if memory served her. A grim smile upon his face, Tolvik’s silver head dipped, and Silla returned the gesture.

The clouds parted, sunbeams streaming down from the sky, catching sparkling minerals in the flagstones of the street and warming Silla’s back.

Mercifully, the bells stopped. Several minutes passed, and the crowd grew larger, filling the square and spilling out into side streets. Hushed conversation and restless energy descended into the courtyard; the tension was so thick, you could cleave it with an axe.