“If you will permit my people to stay, I will be honored to remain among you. A long time has passed since any jotun has come this far west.”
“You are most welcome to remain for as long as your people will be our guests. In fact, I think it only fair you have some say in how we are to handle Gunnar’s conspirators.”
The big jotun sighed, and weariness creased his brow. Blood stained his sterling armor, though Bryn saw no injuries on him—only the vital fluids of others. “For many years, we have wanted vengeance against that putrid line and all who supported him. I have no love of unnecessary violence, Brynhildr, yet I know in my heart none who chose him can be trusted.”
Bryn did not see a bloodthirsty man. Only an exhausted one, a man worn down by long years of exile in a corner of the kingdom their people should have shared. When she offered her hand, Thrym took it, engulfing her small fingers in his gauntleted mitt. “Then we are of one mind. My heart knows the same.”
Chapter 25
Less than a week ago, Brynhildr had defeated her ex-husband in honorable combat to become the nation’s rightful queen. Every surreal moment since his death had passed as if she were viewing the world through the eyes of another woman.
“What will he think of me?” she asked suddenly. Bryn had never met Prince Joren of Eisland, though she’d glimpsed his father many years ago when he’d still been himself instead of a puppet for the queen. Now, sitting astride Freki as she and Sigurd road westbound for the shore, she wondered if he’d be as fair as Sigurd claimed.
“I suppose he’ll think you a brave woman.”
“He nearly died because of us.”
“Because of Gunnar’s policies and the deals he made behind your back,” Sigurd reminded her.
Right. Behind her back. He’d fed her lies to legitimize his actions, even claiming the other ship had attacked their people first. Bryn squared her shoulders and grinned at him. “What would I do without you to speak reason to me?”
“You’d get through it,” he assured her.
They picked up their pace for the final descent into the port. The streets were quiet, due in part to the strange foreign ships in the harbor. She hoped that by seeing her, the people would realize there was no danger and the Eislandic Navy meant no harm.
The Eislanders maintained a foothold camp on the docks, a small, unthreatening presence that didn’t interrupt the usual activities of the port town.
“They did not cause much damage here,” Bryn noticed.
“Of course not. No more harm than necessary to take the port. I imagine the rest of the coast will be the same, ravaged only where necessary to gain compliance until they took Jarl Ragna’s keep.
As they approached an ashen, burned-out guard post, Bryn’s belly sank. Countless men loyal to Gunnar must have perished during the fight. Worse than that were the terrified faces watching Brynhildr as they progressed through the square.
“It’s true,” a woman breathed. “The queen still lives.”
“They didn’t take our queen.”
“What’s happening?”
People walked onto their stoops or stared through windows. Bryn met every gaze she could, trying to exude a serenity she didn’t entirely feel.
At their approach, the guards on duty snapped to attention and a runner went racing deeper into their encampment. No sooner had they dismounted than Bryn heard boots pounding against the pier. Before Sigurd had a chance to brace for impact, another man slammed into him, one she could only assume was Prince Joren.
“Gods!” Sigurd shouted, stumbling back a step, only to laugh and squeeze the other man in return. “You’re quicker than an arrowfish now. What have they done to you?”
Bryn hung back as the two reconnected, looking at one another through the eyes of friends who had grown up together as brothers. He simultaneously did and didn’t meet her expectations, a golden-haired man shorter than her Sigurd, barefoot but clothed in an unusual mishmash of armor. The cuirass covering his chest was scaled and sleek, like a fish, glossy silver but worn with Eislandic naval trousers.
Throughout their westward journey, her husband had regaled her with tales of sailing on the same ship and serving with his friend, sharing so much she almost felt as if she knew the prince personally. He was a good man.
It troubled her how much she wanted his approval.
“Me? What have they done to you? You’re solid as a rock, my friend.”
“Hard work, mate. Not something you’ll encounter often from your cushy stateroom, I imagine.”
Chuckling, Joren hugged him again before taking a step back and inspecting him. Then the prince’s gaze cut to Bryn and the smile faded. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Queen Brynhildr.”
Sigurd followed his friend’s gaze to Bryn. “Apologies, Bryn and Joren. Before I wind you up further, I want to introduce you both.” He reached for her, unconcealed hope and longing on his handsome face.
Bryn took Sigurd’s hand and allowed him to draw her over, hating that she could face down an army of hundreds but falter here, before one man.
“High Queen Brynhildr of the Ridaeron Dynasty, meet Joren, Prince of Atlantis and Admiral of Eisland. And my dearest friend.”
I am a queen. I fear no one. He will accept me, or he won’t. I can only do my best.
“Thank you for coming to our aid when we needed you, Prince Joren. You have my most sincere gratitude and appreciation for all that you have done.”
“A tolerant and peaceful Ridaeron helps us all,” Joren replied, bowing stiffly.
“Where is your wife?” Sigurd asked. “Cara spoke highly of her.”
“She ran a message to the ships up the coast, but she’ll be back any minute. In fact, here she comes now.”
Bryn heard nothing, but Joren seemed to sense his wife’s approach. He turned toward the water and soon enough, ripples disturbed the surface, hurtling toward land before becoming a mighty wave that flowed over the shore in the shape of a miniature tsunami. The wall of water surged over the sand and toward them sharply enough that Bryn tensed. Abruptly, it stopped and deposited a slender woman, her vibrant pink and white dress soaked to her skin and dark hair plastered against her bare shoulders. She resembled an island woman, but the presence about her sent chills down Bryn’s spine. This was Jormungandr. The world serpent. This tiny, beautiful little woman had been their bane and the most fearsome creature to patrol the Viridian Sea. Bryn could have laughed, if she wasn’t determined to make a good impression.
“Caecilia, come meet Queen Brynhildr and my good friend, Camden. Or, uh, sorry, Cara said you go by Sigurd now?”
“I do. I’ve accepted the new name, but you may both call me Cam if you like. Both names are me.”
The great Jormungandr—the world serpent who had capsized the greatest of Ridaeron warships with her gargantuan body—reached them and assumed her place alongside Joren. Her dark eyes turned on Bryn and the two of them took each other’s measure.
Bryn raised her chin slightly, refusing to be cowed by the other woman. “I want to personally thank you for coming to my kingdom’s aid. I know that could not have been easy, but I hope we can let the past lie where it belongs—behind us. I believe we all deserve a second chance, don’t you?”