“Nothing can make this right. You have lied and used us. You have failed to keep your word as a man of honor. Failed to uphold our bargain. I see now, you and she are without pity. Without remorse. Your hearts are as cold as Northreach, without compassion.”
“Thrym—”
“I curse you. Our gods curse you. May you and all your descendants suffer the way I and mine have suffered.”
Then the giant left and the couple remained in place, frozen in fear, and little by little the colors of the room faded and darkness returned. When the fog swirled around Bryn again, she found herself standing in the hall with the three doors.
Turning, she found herself face-to-face with a woman in an ivory gown, her golden hair spangled with stars and pinned in place by a slender golden crown, much of it resting in loose waves over her bare shoulders.
Astrid may have gone, but her replacement’s matronly smile immediately set Bryn at ease.
“Frigga. I…I have prayed to you for so long.”
“You have, dear child. And for so long my hands were tied. For all these years, I have wanted nothing more than to heal your sorrows and answer your prayers.”
Why didn’t you? she wanted to ask, but refrained, for she wasn’t so bold as to question a goddess.
“Ymir, god of jotuns, cursed that foul bloodline. And as it is his curse, the right to end it belongs to no one else. It is…not our way to go against the punishments of another divine figure, not when they are justly earned.”
“But I didn’t earn it.” It barely left her in a defeated whisper. Her eyes stung.
Frigga took her hands and squeezed them. “You did not. I am sorry. I did all that I could do share in your sorrows. To lighten your pain. I have wept with you each time. I have held your hands.”
“I thought you hated me. My marriage…”
“Was a union with a man corrupted by greed. He betrayed you, child. Over and over, you have paid the price for his treachery. Now it is over. You are free.”
“I’m dead.”
“Are you?” A soft smile came to Frigga’s lips. “Come. There is more for you to see. The past is only the beginning. Next, you must know what takes place in the mortal realm without you.”
That bastard Frode occupied a dim room with his brother, the two standing in front of a cold hearth. A scattered handful of green embers glowed against the coals of a banked fire.
Bryn loathed them. She wanted to spit on him. Wanted to demand to know why he hadn’t loved her. Fury and heartache wound together inside of her so violently she could have wept angry tears. But she’d already decided Gunnar did not deserve another tear. Not from her.
What were they doing? The image lacked the clarity of the past shown by her mother. Instead, the air was thick and murky, the fog settling on her skin with palpable weight.
“Call him,” Gunnar said.
At his older brother’s command, Frode crouched and tossed a pinch of green dust into the fire. It ignited in a flare of jade flames.
“Emperor Da’Wio, we call upon you as directed,” Frode spoke into the magical fire.
But they loathe magic. They loathe it with every fiber of their beings. They’ve always hated it.
Then again, they’d also been in bed with Gothel.
And they’d also been happy to shackle foreign mages, bending strangers beneath their will, for an edge over their competition. She wondered how long she’d been blind, running their dynasty while Gunnar handled all foreign matters. Had she paid attention, she could have intervened earlier.
Or maybe he would have killed her years ago the moment he believed her no longer of use to him. The hearth fire danced in Gunnar’s eyes as a stately figure appeared in the flames. She knew the Emperor of Liang, recognizing him from a diplomatic visit he’d paid years ago when she was but a young shield maiden in the service of the former queen mother.
“Ah. You wasted no time,” the dark-eyed man said, expression filled with smug delight.
“It worked. My queen is dead, and I am free to choose another wife.”
“Excellent.
“You’ve done a good favor for me, friend.”
“Of course, though, I must say, it was not entirely an act of benevolence. As I have fulfilled my end of our bargain, when can I expect reciprocation?”
“Soon, my friend. As promised, you will receive a legion of our best berserkers to storm the shores of Liang.”
Bryn jerked back to stare at the trio. Berserkers storming Liang? The two nations had been at peace for decades.
Moving didn’t agree with her. Air tingled across her skin, sizzled on her exposed arms and against her cheeks. Pain flashed through her bones, but she waited, desperate to hear more.
“How long will it take?” the emperor continued in his silken tone. “With the civil war raging, we have limited time to put down the insurrection.”
“I must first crush the giants in the east. You have my word that once we’ve unraveled any damage my fool wife may have caused in Jotunheim, my ships will set sail, personally led by Jarl Ragna herself. I can’t trust that Brynhildr didn’t give those fool giants false hope.”
Traitor! Bryn growled.
The emperor jerked his head toward her. “What was that?”
Could he see her? She froze, suddenly terrified as Frode turned toward her and waved his hand harmlessly through the insubstantial mist comprising her body. He squinted, seeing through her.
“Nothing,” Frode said. “It was only the draft through the window. It makes these old rafters creak.”
“Ah,” said the emperor. “Very well. Do not take long. My sorcery remains at your disposal, as always, my friend.”
“It is appreciated. What of your assassins?”
“Once the shadows locate their target, the boy will die, and then he will no longer be a threat to your plans.”
“And where are they now?”
The emperor fell silent for a time, his distracted face visible in profile for a time. When he whirled to face them again, his face was twisted into a mask of unrestrained fury. “He has killed them. Three assassins of extraordinary skill. Dead by this…what is he? This boy is no mere Eislander if he’s killed three of my best.”
Gunnar sucked in a sharp breath. “Impossible.”
“You doubt me? They are dead.” The emperor’s eyes burned with hatred.
Frode shrank back, as did Gunnar.
Coward, she thought.
“If you would send more—”
“My spellcraft is at your disposal,” Da’Wio interrupted the king, “but I can give you no more men until you supply what is owed me.” The emperor’s image slammed a fist into his open palm, shattering the magic. A shower of jade sparks rained onto the black ashes and left the hearth cold once more.
“That went well,” Frode said, chuckling.
“Better than expected.”
“Are you truly going to send the man an army?”
Gunnar stroked his braided beard, a thoughtful expression on the face Bryn had once found exceedingly handsome. “If fate forces my hand. But if the gods are kind and Freya is with us, the man will meet his end at the hands of his very own people long before we are forced into action.”
As a pins-and-needles sensation rippled over Bryn’s body, intuition told her that her spiritual form couldn’t endure the spell for much longer.