“There must be a price. Anyone can be bought for the proper price,” Thursgad said.
“Agreed. What if we were to offer them money?”
“Land,” Revna argued. “Land is what they will want. Land is what was taken from them.”
“You’re right,” she agreed, “and I did offer them land. They refused. The cost of their assistance was not a price I could pay. However, we can rest assured that they will not take advantage of the situation. Thrym doesn’t wish to become embroiled in our civil war.”
The jarls quieted, a sea of studious faces watching her. Finally, Jarl Ivar spoke up. “What price did he ask? Perhaps one of our holds, or the many of us together, can fulfill their request.”
“He asked for my hand in marriage. I refused.” She expected an uproar and she wasn’t disappointed. A few jarls jumped to their feet; others shook their heads. Her father was one of the few who remained silent, regarding her with fatherly concern.
“What’s done is done,” she said, raising her voice above the din. “I remain firm in my choice.”
“Why would you not accept their aid in exchange for marriage?” growled one of the jarls, a fierce man with the build of a jotun himself. Ulfgar had known her since she was a child, his hold the closest southern keep, a scant day’s ride away.
“I wonder the same,” Revna murmured. “We were given an opportunity for redress, a chance to right the wrongs committed in the past.”
Mumblings spread over the court. Her father watched in silence, wearing the unreadable and stony expression she’d become accustomed to during her childhood.
“How could you do this, Brynhildr? Without the giants, we do not stand a chance. There are more jarls on the side of Gunnar than those present here. This is not a fight we can win. It is death.”
“Selfish,” spat Jarl Ulfgar. “Why did you do this?”
“Because she is not a possession to be bartered,” Sigurd cut in. His voice carried across the throne room with force and presence Bryn had never heard before. She blinked at him, as startled as the bickering drottin. “Because she is your queen, and her body is her own. She wed one king for the sake of this nation. Is that not enough? Has she not bled enough for each of you? Jarl Revna, if it pleases you so much, why not offer yourself to Thrym?”
“I will do no such thing.”
“Jarl Ulfgar, you have three daughters. Offer their hands.”
“My daughters are promised—”
“Break the promise. Surely this is an honorable match more worthy of them. To be wed to a king. If it is good enough for Brynhildr, why not your flesh and blood?”
“Sigurd speaks truth,” her father said, finally lending his voice to the argument. “We should not have to sell off our women—any of our women—to forge friendships and alliances.”
“Thank you, Father, Sigurd. It is true, we have always sold our daughters to the highest bidder as if they were little more than an object to be acquired. This must change. While I refused Thrym, I did not part on bad terms. Peace may one day still be attainable with the jotuns, but first we must take back our country from a king who would see it defiled. Gunnar has broken every tradition we hold dear. He has betrayed our people. He dealt with Liangese mages to strike me down, desecrated the royal catacombs with a vile creature, and betrayed our gods. This cannot be allowed to stand.”
“If he has so offended the gods, then why do they do nothing?” Another jarl asked. “One could argue that he has their blessing.”
“The gods returned her from the dead. Frigga herself turned me away from the port, told me Bryn was alive and waiting. Freya met me on the road when assassins came for me.” Sigurd reached into his pack and removed the mask at last. He tossed it onto the table with the demonic image facing the ceiling, its cold eyes and terrifying snarl visible to all jarls. “Three assailants wearing this image fell upon me, and I would have died if not for Freya’s intervention. The gods do notice. They see us. But this is our kingdom to retake.”
“Yet the gods allow Gunnar to do these things,” Ulfgar insisted. “Do not misunderstand, I despise what he has done, but why do the gods show themselves to Sigurd, a man not of our blood, and not the people who worship them? It seems a fair question.”
“Are you so weak you need the gods to fight your battles and reclaim the throne?” Sigurd suggested, meeting Ulfgar’s stare from across the table. If anything, he risked the big man challenging him.
A few heads nodded, while Ulfgar’s face flared purple. “Tough words, little boy, when you claim Frigga and Freya themselves came to your rescue.”
“They aided me, but they did not win my battle. I alone fought the basilisk with my wit and my cunning. The gods do not exist to hold our hands.”
“He is right,” Ivar said. “I hate it, but he is right.”
Bryn waited for the mutters to quiet, then continued. “When our land is at peace once more, we will approach King Thrym again and work on a treaty between us. I still plan to grant him the lands that our ancestors stole, as a token of our friendship.”
A few grumbles rose up from the group, but none of them protested formally. She took it as a sign to push forward with the rest of her goals.
“There is one more thing I believe you must all know now, before we join hands and pledge allegiances. When this is all over, when Gunnar is cast down and I take my place as queen, there will be changes. Chief amongst them will be the freeing of all thralls, and the release of those held in the repository. No longer will we enslave men, women, and children, nor will we condemn a person for being born with magic.”
Ulfgar bolted from his seat in a fury, roaring, “You betray the very principles of our kingdom! You are no better than the one you wish to depose.”
The others protested in outrage, all save Revna, who stared at her in disapproval. Bryn prayed it meant the cunning woman was on their side.
“This is not the Ridaeron way. For centuries, we have kept thralls. We have used the weaker to achieve the desires of the stronger,” Ulfgar argued.
“Listen to my daughter before you condemn or belittle her plans. You are all purported to be wise leaders. Does a wise leader not think?”
Ulfgar sneered. “You have lost your balls, Brynjar. Does your daughter keep them in a jar now? Or perhaps they shriveled when your wife died?”
“Enough!” Bryn slammed her hand on the table. “Jarl Ulfgar, you forget your place. Mind your tongue when you speak to me or to any of those present at this table, for all deserve your respect. Thralls did not become a part of our culture until the king who betrayed the jotuns came into power. He set us up for a legacy of shame and deceit. A legacy I will see corrected. If you join me, you will release your thralls. We will no longer be slavers.”
“What will we do with them?” Revna asked, breaking the long silence.
“Pay them for their time, effort, and labor. Pay them fair wages, grant them land and homes. Allow them to be citizens of this kingdom or to return to their homelands.”
“You cannot be serious, Brynhildr,” another said in disbelief. “We’ll be mocked as weak.”
Sigurd stepped forward and spread his hands a voice of reason in the chaos. “I know you think little of Eisland, but we have a saying there. ‘You can judge a nation by how they treat their weakest subjects.’ If you truly value strength, then we must use it to protect those who need us.”