“What? I would never—that’s preposterous!” the man shouted even as Gunnar drew his sword and advanced. Before anyone could stop him, he was upon the man, planting his blade in the servant’s chest.
“How do you know he is guilty?” Lagertha demanded. Her gaze dropped to Bryn’s body once more, and her shoulders shook with grief. “How do we know who to blame for this, my king? He may have been innocent.”
“He served the wine, did he not? Quickly, both of you, collect all thralls normally in his company. We will have a word with them and discover if any others should meet the same fate. My Brynhildr will be avenged, and there is no time to waste.”
Chapter 4
Storm clouds crowded the sky, a dismal appearance for an equally dismal day. Despite the gloomy weather, people flocked to the castle, gathering in overwhelming numbers. From his vantage point on the balcony, Sigurd recognized a handful of faces among the crowd. The Epleberg family stood with their heads bowed as a priest of Freya led the assembly in prayer. Other grieving faces coalesced into familiarity, each of them a person he’d met during adventures with Bryn throughout the countryside. They had all welcomed him warmly. They had all loved their queen.
And now she was gone.
He swallowed back the lump forming in his throat and rapidly blinked his eyes to forestall his tears. He missed Bryn in a way he’d never thought possible. In the three days since her demise, little had made sense. He couldn’t step into her chambers, couldn’t walk past her beloved shrine to Frigga and Freya, and certainly couldn’t stand on the balcony where they’d once eaten brunch together.
Anything that reminded him of Bryn stabbed another dagger into his heart.
Never will I have the chance to tell her how I feel.
An unnerving hush fell over the courtyard. Sigurd glanced left to the neighboring balcony and watched the king pass the assembled drottin. Gunnar wore all black, from his tunic to his boots and metal buckles dulled by soot. The man seemed to absorb the light, and with it, everyone’s gazes.
“I mourn with you,” he called out in a clear voice. “Today we mark the saddest day in our history, as we see our most beloved queen to her eternal rest. May she sit at Odin’s side!”
“May she sit at Odin’s side,” the crowd repeated in solemn reverence.
Below, the castle doors opened on cue and two coal-black stallions stepped from the hall, drawing a low wagon behind them. A small boat rested in the wagon, the wood freshly carved and gleaming with lacquer. Hundreds of flowers filled the vessel, and on that fragrant bed lay Brynhildr, resplendent in her new armor.
The mourners parted from the wagon’s path. Some ventured forward to toss a fresh blossom into the boat. Others fell to their knees weeping. Sigurd watched as Arden and his wife set a small cask of apples at the queen’s feet, and his vision wavered, a single tear welling over and trickling down his cheek.
Gunnar waited until the wagon had made it beyond the castle grounds before he spoke again.
“Our beloved queen Brynhildr has been slain by foul trickery. The heathens of Eisland have struck us in the heart, but we will not be cowed. While justice has been dealt to the parties responsible in our homeland, that is not enough.”
Indeed, while Lagertha and Sigurd had grieved at Bryn’s side, Frode had dashed away to round up whichever thralls he could find of Eislandic blood. Most had been executed at that very moment, for the sole crime of being born in another nation.
There had been no satisfaction in that. No sense of justice, and were he not untouchable, his neck could have joined theirs on the chopping block.
“We will make them pay in blood for what they have done to Brynhildr! I ask you now, who among you will stand with me?”
The drottin seated behind the king all rose with rousing battle cries and the people gathered in the courtyard added their voices as well, until the echoes threatened to deafen Sigurd. He watched it all in silence, torn between his two allegiances.
He loved his queen. He also loved his homeland, and he knew Rapunzel would have never ordered an assassination.
Nothing about Bryn’s death made sense.
And the king… The king looked far too energized and content for a man who had just lost his wife. As the man spoke, riling the crowd with his words, Sigurd saw only bloodlust and greed. No sorrow. No pain. Certainly no heartbreak.
Eventually, the king returned inside and the drottin followed behind him. Sigurd waited another moment on the balcony before making his own way inside, eager to avoid the Ridaeron nobles at all costs. Fate seemed to desire otherwise, his path bound for Bryn’s personal shrine leading him straight into the group.
“There you are, Sigurd. I had hoped to run into you today,” the king said with a cold, hard smile.
“My lord.” Sigurd bowed. “How may I serve?”
“You’re familiar with all things magical, are you not, given that you were born alongside one of the monstrous creatures? My council wonders if you have any thoughts on how this could have happened.”
His gaze flicked to the jarls and nobles gathered behind the king. Many of them regarded him with disdain, others with curiosity.
“I could not say, my lord. I have no magical talent. If I were to hazard a guess, and if your theories are true, I would say the poison lined the glass itself, since the drink came in a sealed bottle.” Yet he couldn’t imagine any of the thralls doing such a thing, which left only two options: the king, or an assassin sent by Eisland.
The latter was a thought he didn’t even wish to consider.
A broad-shouldered giant of a man with thinning gray hair contrasted by his fiery brows and thick red beard stepped from the group. His lips twisted into a frown. “What have you to say in regard to your kin?”
“I left them all behind me,” he replied, careful to keep his voice modulated. “I abandoned their ways long ago.”
“Then why does fire burn in your eyes instead of tears?”
To his surprise, the king spoke up in his defense. “Sigurd was your daughter’s preferred thrall, Brynjar. He has taken her death especially hard since he once called the assassins brothers. They showed their true selves to him when they killed my wife.”
Through a feat of sheer willpower, Sigurd choked down the retort on the tip of his tongue. The king was only defending himself. It would never do for anyone to suspect Sigurd had been involved, not when the Gunnar had so publicly accepted him as one of their own. It didn’t matter that he was innocent.
As for Brynjar, Sigurd weathered his anger with patience. The man had lost a daughter, and the pain of that loss was etched deep into his face.
“Jarl Brynjar, my deepest condolences. I swear to you that I will do all in my power to avenge Brynhildr’s death, no matter who I must bring down.”
“I believe you.” The old man said after a long moment. Then he turned and strode back the way they had come. The other drottin followed, leaving Sigurd standing with the king.
“I expect you’ll cause me no trouble.”
“None, my king.”
“Good. Go do something useful then. I’ll need the queen’s belongings packed away while we ride to her resting place. I expect it done before my return.”
Jaw tight, Sigurd bowed. When he rose, the king was already striding away.