She lowered her sword and savored the sweet scent of triumph in the salty breeze.
Dawn glimmered in her golden hair. Dew on the pink roses glittered like gems. Mist over the fjord shimmered like frosted starlight.
Ulric looked up at her in stunned disbelief, then bellowed with booming laughter. He swept his empty sword arm across his broad chest and bowed his head in her honor.
“Well done,kæra min,” he proclaimed proudly, a fierce grin stretching his braided red beard. “My Sun Falcon is ready to face the Sea Wolf… in the final challenge on the summer solstice.”
Emotion tightened her throat at the mention of Sigurd.
He and Agnar would soon face each other in the championship of the Sólhjarta Tournament.
And she would battle the winner—undoubtedly Sigurd— in the final duel.
As a shiver ofseiðrshook her limbs, Brynhildr extended her hand to Ulric.
He grasped it firmly, his grin still broad as he rose to his feet and retrieved his scattered sword. “I must help prepare the field for the tournament,” he told her, his eyes flicking toward the distant flags and banners where servants raised elevated seating for King Budli, his royal guests, and visiting jarls, while merchants from the village opened their market stalls, the delicious scents wafting in the briny breeze. “Sigurd Sea Wolf shall surely triumph over Agnar the Bear. But it will be a thrilling event to behold.” Ulric kissed Brynhildr’s hand, inclined his russet head, and exited her private courtyard.
Brynhildr watched her beloved mentor leave. Though the thrill of victory still coursed through her veins, dread dampened the sweet taste of triumph.
I must dress for the tournament. Faðir will wish to impress the kings and royal guests. And then…I shall watch Sigurd win the championship. As the Norns weave us ever tighter in their intricate web of wyrd.
* * * *
“I have threaded lapis lazuli gems into your braids, to match your gown…and the beads woven into Sigurd Sea Wolf’s hair and beard.” Excitement laced Astrid’s eager voice. She bent down to whisper into Brynhildr’s ear. “I have seen you disappear with him into your private courtyard. I know that you have slipped him up to your chambers…and that you are lovers.”
Astrid’s eyes sparkled in the sunlight. “You must be thrilled that Sigurd will triumph in today’s tournament—and win your hand in the final duel on the summer solstice!”
Brynhildr remained silent. She did not want to face the final challenge against Sigurd.
“Why do you say nothing?” Astrid searched Brynhildr’s face, incredulous. “Are you not pleased that your lover will win the championship?”
“Of course I am.” Brynhildr brushed a braid away from her face and averted her eyes. “But it is possible that Agnar might win.”
Astrid laughed softly. “Agnar is a formidable opponent, but Sigurd is a Völsung— descended from theAllfatherhimself. With the divine blood of Odin in his Sea Wolf veins, he is certain to prevail…and claim you.” She kissed Brynhildr’s cheek, giddy with girlish excitement. “Sigurd shall win your hand tomorrow, on the summer solstice—and wed you in midwinter! I cannot wait for the royal wedding!”
Beaming with pride at her handiwork, Astrid placed a silver coronet set with sapphires upon Brynhildr’s elaborate blonde braids. When Brynhildr rose from the carved seat at her bedside table and smoothed her blue silk gown, her ebullient maid prattled over her regal appearance. “You look like one of the nine billow maiden daughtersof Rán! Sigurd Sea Wolf will smile like the sunlit fjord!”
If only you knew, dear Astrid. I am indeed the dóttir of a goddess. But Freyja is my móðir, not Rán.
At the sound of booted footsteps behind her, Brynhildr turned toward the doorway where Yrsa stood, her woad-painted face gleaming like the lapis gem in the silver diadem atop her dark brown hair. A sly smile curled a corner of her blue lips, her opalescent teeth glistening like pearls in the sea. Behind thevölva,Inga hovered, eyes alit with anticipation like Astrid’s.
From the open doors of her balcony overlooking the fjord, a sharp horn sounded below. The brazen blare rolled up the wild rose and vine-covered stone walls of her tower like a violent clap of thunder.
Brynhildr’s breath hitched.
“It is time.” Yrsa thumped her gnarled ashwood staff on the floor.
The reverberation rattled Brynhildr’s bones.
The Sólhjarta Championship was about to begin.
* * * *
The midmorning sun glimmered on the pale flagstones as Brynhildr crossed the courtyard, escorted by four of herfaðir’sroyal guards clad in shining chain mailbrynjas, their gleaming swords clattering with each stride as they led her, Yrsa, Astrid, and Inga toward the tournament field.
Golden light gilded the waves of the fjord below the cliff and danced along the banners that snapped in the salty breeze. Vibrant standards of blue, gold, crimson, and white hung from tall poles lining the grassy field, each sigil a symbol of a participating jarl or visiting king. When she spotted the snarling silver wolf atop rolling blue waves of the sea—the banner of the Wolf King Álfr of Sjóborg—her heart fluttered like the wings of a falcon at the thought of Sigurd Sea Wolf.
Along the grassy meadow where fragrant wildflowers bloomed in the early summer sun, rows of carved wooden benches had been raised along the hillside for Budli’s honored guests. Kings in gilded brooches and jarls in furs trimmed with silver sat with their lovelydóttirs, garbed in vibrant silks, their long luscious locks braided with glittering gems.
