Sigurd and the Valkyrie: an Adult Fairy Tale Romance Read online

  “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.

  * * *

  How did one pack away a woman’s life?

  One trunk at a time, apparently.

  Sigurd attended to the task alone, though several times Bryn’s shield maidens offered their assistance. The truth was, he needed the solitude. Craved it. With the king and his entourage gone from the castle, he could grieve openly and vent his frustrations with physical work.

  A quiet knock sounded on the open door.

  “A moment of your time, Sigurd?”

  “Yes?” He rose from the chair and turned to face Lagertha. She entered, carrying a large sword resting on her shoulder and an envelope in her hand. He wondered what the shield maidens would do without their queen, then imagined they would go on to serve their king until he took another wife.

  As if Bryn could be replaced.

  As if there were another woman who could hold a candle to her.

  “I…” Lagertha drew in a deep breath and offered the wax-sealed letter to him. “We need to speak. Our queen tasked me with presenting this to you in the event of her demise.”

  Sigurd took the envelope. Bryn’s neat, looping handwriting decorated the front with a single word. His old name. A name he hadn’t used in over a year, but sorely missed at times. He cracked the wax and drew out the folded parchment.

  Dearest Camden,

  You have only been a part of our kingdom for a short while, but already I know you to be a man of profound honor, and I am fortunate to call you friend, not thrall.

  Day after day, I have wished we could have met under different circumstances, perhaps even as different people. But that would be wrong. Many times over the past months, I have rewritten this letter, knowing fate or battle could take me at any time. But today I realize no other version of you could hold a candle to the man I know now. Your honor, your integrity, and your compassion for all beings are traits I wish were nurtured in Ridaeron men. I know it never changes.

  I admire many things about you, Camden. Yes, I use your true name. We may have named you Sigurd, but you will always be Camden, a son of Eisland. If you are reading this, I am gone. I know not how, but I hope I died with dignity in the heat of battle and ride with the Valkyries to Valhalla. I cherish every moment of our friendship. You made me a better woman and a better queen.

  Brynhildr

  “There is more,” Lagertha said.

  Sigurd shuffled the sheet of paper to read the next slip.

  On the day of my death, I, High Queen Brynhildr, do release Sigurd from service and award him the title of hauld. All that was mine is to be passed into his possession. May he prosper in his new life.

  I sign this under no duress with trusted housecarl Lagertha and Lawspeaker Calder as my witnesses.

  “She set me free,” he breathed.

  “She did. Brynhildr always hoped to release you herself one day, but she feared it would…not be safe for you.”

  “And now?”

  The shield maiden shrugged. “And now you have earned the respect of many. Perhaps the road will be good to you. Maybe it won’t. But you are a wealthy man with power now, Hauld Sigurd. I can do nothing more than fulfill my queen’s final orders, and that is to set you free. Go with honor, friend.”

  “The king—”

  “Will have no option other than to heed her wishes. Another letter will have reached Lawspeaker Calder shortly after her death. He will read it before she is interred, and all the drottin in attendance will know her final wishes.”

  “She had it all planned. Even at the end she’s protecting me.”

  “She cared for you,” Lagertha said in a soft voice. “Our Brynhildr saw something extraordinary in your heart and soul. She took you not for a thrall, but a friend. I know what she did for you and for your sister.”

  “You knew?”

  “Of course I knew. Brynhildr told me everything. I poured the sleeping draught into the stew. She and I were good friends long before the king chose her for a bride.” The shield maiden snorted in disgust. “For years, I have trained her women for war. For the past month, I thought we were to fight against our own kingdom. And now, I loathe the thought of serving that worthless swine.”

  “As do I. Her death was no coincidence, and it wasn’t my country.”

  “Of course it wasn’t your country,” she agreed readily, startling him. “I have heard stories of your queen. People do not change.”

  “Our king did.”

  “Did you not tell Brynhildr that your king was ruled by a foul sorceress named Gothel? That this woman usurped the throne?”

  “I did.”

  “Then he is not to blame if he had no control over his actions or thoughts.”

  “I…” He swallowed and dipped his chin. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “People do not change without reason, Sigurd. They merely hide who they are from the beginning. If they change, there is deep and dark influence. I fear our king has always been the person we see now. Self-serving. He killed our Brynhildr. Perhaps he did love her once, but in the end, he sacrificed her like cattle.”

  “How do we prove it?”

  “I don’t know.” She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’m not certain we can. I think the best course of action would be for you to leave this place and never look back.”

  “Leave? Where would I go?”

  “You are a hauld now; a man of means. You can begin a new life in Ridaeron, or leave our shores and return home. Whatever path you choose, Bryn would wish for you to be happy. And that is why I have one final gift for you from her. This.”

  On two hands, she offered him the gleaming sword. It was as ornate and beautiful as any piece of weaponry he’d seen since his arrival on their shores, accents of gold on its hilt and sigils engraved down its blade. He tried to read them but could not, the language older than modern Ridaeron.

  “I don’t understand. She left a sword for me?”

  “Yes. It is her familial blade. Her mother, Frú Astrid of Koldgrun, daughter of Jarl Torsten of Ravnklint, once held this blade, and her great-grandfather before him carried it. Bryn did not use it in battle, as she chose the life of a shield maiden. This weapon has passed through a dozen generations, and come to you, Sigurd, as Bryn had no heirs.”

  “I don’t understand why she would leave this to me. I’m not her family. You’re her family, I’m just—”

  “It would be wasted in my hands, and she knew that. But perhaps in yours, it will make new legends.” Lagertha squeezed his shoulder again. “Family is who one makes it. Now, farewell, friend. May the road be kind to you in future days.”

  Chapter 5

  A bracing salt-tinged breeze rushed over Sigurd, ruffling his hair. He closed his eyes and breathed in deep, welcoming the familiar scents of the sea. He’d missed it more than he’d realized. Missed the sway of the ocean waves and the creak of sails in the wind.

  “Looking for a ship, my lord?”

  He opened his eyes and turned toward the voice. An older man stood on the gangplank of the nearest ship, arms folded across his broad chest.

  “I might be,” he replied. “Are you the captain?”

  “Captain Ivak Norrison, at your service.”

  He studied the ship behind the man, a merchant vessel by the looks of it. “You do take passengers?”

  “I transport people up the coast from time to time, yes.”

  “What about elsewhere? Wai Alei, for example.”

  Ivak studied him, staring down his long, hooked nose. “We avoid those waters. The world serpent won’t let us near.”

  Of course she wouldn’t, not when their kingdoms were at war. Still, he doubted Joren would sink innocent merchant vessels. Could he have changed so much in a year? “Where do you carry goods?”

  “Our next run is to Liang.”

  While not his first choice, anywhere away from Ridaeron’s shores took him closer to home, and he’d be a stone’s throw from Cairn Ocland, one of Eisland’s allies under the Compact.

  But Cairn Ocland and Liang were moments from entering war, their rulers frequently squabbling over the boundaries set by their ancestors. As far as he knew, Liang remained at peace with her southern neighbor, and a three-day yacht ride south would place him in Enchanter Joaidane’s territory. Joaidane would contact Joren, and he’d be on Eisland’s shores in a matter of weeks.

  “Can your hold accommodate a horse?”

  “If you bring the supplies to care for it, we can do that well enough. We’re leaving with the evening tide if you’re seeking passage. Doesn’t give you much time.”

  “I might take you up on that offer. I have a few things to handle first.”

  “Don’t tarry long in your decision.”

  He smiled and gave the man a small bow, then made his way down the dock. Leaving and returning home seemed the wisest course and yet, as he looked over his shoulder to the mountains, his heart ached. He had come to consider this kingdom his home as well.

  An old woman shuffled to his side, blue eyes focused on the purple-capped peaks. “Beautiful sight, isn’t it?”

  “They are. Where I come from, we also have mountains, but…” He’d never seen a mountain covered in flowers and verdant trees until he traveled to Ridaeron. Farther east, the snow overtook them, but here on the western coastline facing Wai Alei, flowers dappled the mountain range’s rocky face in vibrant hues of scarlet, blue, and violet.

  “Not all mountains are the same.” She smiled, eyes crinkling heavily. “You look as though you are trying to burn them into memory, young man.”

  “I suppose I am.”

  “Going somewhere?”

  “I’m…not sure.”

  “Why don’t you tell an old woman all about it?” She patted his hand, and before Sigurd realized it, he was being drawn to sit on a nearby bench.

  “I have no place here anymore,” he admitted. “Not since she died.”

  “Yes, the loss of a loved one does tend to change our perspective on life.”

  “How’d you know it was a loved one?”

  “The sadness in your voice. The ache in your eyes. An old woman knows these things. But sometimes things aren’t quite so lost as we believe.”

  He managed a small smile. “I wish it were so, but she was taken to her tomb only days ago.”

  The old woman nodded. “Yes, I saw the queen go by. Beautiful woman. Beautiful soul.”

  “She was.”

  “Are you so certain she’s dead?”

  “You saw her yourself, you said.”

  “Yes, but things are not always as they seem, are they, Camden?”

  Caught off guard by his Eislandic name, he snapped his gaze to the old woman and found her watching him with unnerving intensity, her eyes bright in a face creased with age.