Prologue

The stillness of the night was cut by screaming, a blood-curdling cry of pain and desperation. 

The King and his son-in-law sat in the great hall of Fjord’s Hold, listening as the screams echoed through the palace. 

“I have to say,” the King mused as he sipped his beer. “I was surprised to hear of a child between the two of you. It’s been so long.” 

The son-in-law brushed long brown curls behind his ear and scrubbed his hand over his thick beard. “No one is more surprised she wanted me than I am.” 

The King nodded. “Then we drink to reconciliation.” 

Six years apart, and a child now between them.

The Crowned Princess and her husband had been in a tenuous arranged marriage. Politics had tied their fates; affection had never kept them close. The marriage hadn’t been amicable for most of the time. He’d return home for the Viking season, then winter in Fjord’s Hold. She lived her life as if her husband were an acquaintance. 

“Torgny,” a white-haired woman with heavy lines on her face, entered the room. The Queen, Freya, entered. “Trorgny, she’s not doing well.” 

The King stood, his face falling 

Torgny, known as Wildrider, had ascended the throne when his father, Yngvar, had left for Alfheim nearly sixty years ago. His grandfather, Gunvald, had been the man who had unified the realm. 

Leifthasir had never had a King before Gunvald Unifier. His son Yngvar, a half-elf, had lived long and defended the realm against what had seemed like never-ending war.

When Yngvar had left Leifthasir to protect the sword in Alfheim, the wars had stopped, rumor of the great power had dissipated. But the fallout from the war couldn’t be healed.

Torgny’s rule had come when his sister, Helga, had abdicated after her life as a Völva had stolen away her spirit. She’d sacrificed so much of her soul to the gods that there was almost no softness or sympathy left in her after the war. He’d never wanted to be King. He had watched the strain it had put on his father, as the weight of Seidr and of men bore down like a tide threatening to drown him.

Now he wore the same strain. The crown of salt and flame rested heavily, a mantle borne without complaint, but never with joy.

The Jarls saw it as a weakness; they wanted a strong man, a leader born of blood and fire. They watched Torgny waiting for the cracks in his reign to show, and they watched his children closer.

Torgny followed his wife up the stairs towards the chambers where his daughter and her husband inhabited. Behind them trailed their son-in-law, Finn, who looked as if he didn’t want to enter the heir’s chambers. In the corridor, they were met by Stig, one of the King’s personal guard. The man hailed from the Summerlands originally, a place far south, further than Wexia, in a land where the weather was hot and acrid. His dark brown skin and long black hair were a stark contrast to the Leif people around him. 

Stig had been a steadfast defender of the princess, escorting her to Bjornholm to see her husband off viking, and guarding her faithfully in Fjord’s Hold. It was no surprise that he was pacing outside her door anxiously as she gave birth. 

The King and Queen opened the carved door and stepped into the sound of screaming. Midwives scurried with linen, towels, and blankets. Damp wool was pressed to the crowned princess’s forehead to dab away the sweat that rolled down her brow.

She was sitting at the edge of the bed, her grip on the post so hard her knuckles were white. She looked up, exhausted. 

“Papa.” She seemed relieved, though her face was pale. “Papa, if I don’t make it, please make sure my baby is taken care of.” 

Torgny strode further into the room and gripped his daughter’s arm. “I won’t have you taken away from us, Gertrud, you’ve got to be strong.” 

There was so much blood on the sheets, soaking through the mattress. Gertrud had been in labor for the better part of two days, and the court had whispered tensely that it was unlikely she or her baby would pull through.

Another scream tore from her lips as she bore down once more, pushing. The midwife rushed to her and lifted her bloodstained shift. “Finally,” the old woman breathed, relief smoothing some of the deeper lines on her brow. “The head is crowning.” 

Torgny and Freya stood beside their daughter as she pushed through the pain, holding her upright until the soft cry of a baby was the only noise that filled the room. 

“It’s a boy,” the midwife exhaled in relief. “A strong boy, at that.” 

Finn peeked in through the doorway, and the color drained from his face. He crossed the room sheepishly, and the midwife placed the baby in his arms.

Stig hovered behind him, his face drawn.

“Your son,” she smiled. 

“How is he? How does he look?” Gertrud panted, exhaustion beginning to overtake her. 

Torgny caught his daughter as she rocked backwards, her consciousness seeming to be fraying at the edges.

Finn held the baby like something fragile, but his hands trembled. He pulled the swaddling back and stared. He frowned as he looked at the child. “He doesn’t look… like what I’d imagined.”  

Torgny stroked his daughter’s hair as she leaned against his shoulder. “They’re all ugly at first, but they come through,” he chuckled. 

Finn stared at the boy’s bronze skin and thick black curls. His hands began to shake. “This isn’t my son,” he whispered. Then louder: “This is Stig’s baby.” 

Stig blanched as Finn turned to glare at him. The warrior and the warchief locked eyes. 

Freya turned to her daughter, her face drawn. An unspoken secret passed between them as the Queen resigned herself to protect her daughter. Gertrud’s breath hitched. 

Torgny looked down at his daughter, then stood, reaching Finn as he seemed to be processing what was before him. 

The silence was unbearable; behind Stig, a crowd of family and friends of the court pressed, hoping for news of a happy delivery.

Finn’s brow knit. He tilted the infant, studied the child’s face again. Then again. A flicker of confusion turned to unease, then to horror.

He handed the baby off to the king and covered his mouth with his hand. “That’s why you came back to me, why you wanted to fight for our marriage?” 

Gertrud looked weak, but her eyes flared. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You were with him, did you know you were pregnant when you crawled back into my bed?” Finn shouted. 

The crowd was growing at the door. Torgny’s other children, Harald, Bjorn, and Arne, stood amid the crowd. Harald, his secondborn, was the first to move into action. “Let’s give them their space.” He said to those lingering in the corridor. “There is nothing to see.” 

Harald had always stood in Gertrud’s shadow. Four years her junior, he’d once been her living doll, dressed up, carted around in games. But as soon as he’d sprouted up into adolescence, he’d become her defender. Quick to throw the first punch at any boy who might question his sister’s honor or authority.

“Nothing indeed,” Finn spat, turning and storming from the room, shoving past Stig.

Stig shoved him back, and for a moment it looked as if they might come to blows. Harald moved between them, a glare pointed in each of their directions.

“That’s enough!” Torgny shouted as Finn made another move towards Stig. 

Finn pushed through the crowd, stalking away to lick his wounds.

Torgny stared at the boy. The child blinked up at him, innocent and undeniable. The line had shifted, and it hadn’t asked permission. Indeed, looking at him, it wasn’t what one would expect from a son of Finn. 

In the days that followed, there was a commotion of meetings as Finn demanded that an Allthing be called and a royal divorce be granted him. 

Gertrud had finally admitted her affair with Stig, and the two of them had stopped hiding their affection. The southern-born man had affectionately begun to call his son Thorvald after the captain who had taken him as his foster son and invited him to live in Leifthasir. 

“I don’t understand it,” she huffed. “Why can I not marry Stig? Why must I be forced to sit before those old men and act as if I’m ashamed?” 

Stig had always been kind to her in a way that Finn had not. Where Finn was quiet and distant, Stig was passionate and kind.

When he’d heard that she liked cornflowers, he’d ridden to Storjasö to pick a bouquet of them. Though they had wilted before he’d gotten back, she’d pressed the blooms in a book and hidden it away from her husband. 

“Because you broke the law,” Freya sighed, as if she were reminding her daughter to pack a cloak. 

Harald rolled his eyes and looked at his sister. “You could have waited a few years longer and divorced Finn yourself.” 

Gertrud glared. “Men step out of the confines of marriage every day, and no one says a thing. Half of the Jarls in that room have bastard sons haunting their halls.” 

Freya brushed her white hair from her face and let her shoulders droop. “You’re not a man, Gertrud, and they’re going to remind you of it every chance they get.” 

“I am their sovereign, I’ll be the same as Father one day.” The black-haired princess felt her jaw set as she spoke. “Isn’t that better than being just a man?” 

Before any of them could answer, Torgny entered the room, his face drawn. 

“What news do you bring?” Asked Freya. 

The King sighed and brushed his long black hair away from his face, tucking it behind his barely pointed ears. “It isn’t good.” 

The four of them sat in silence for a long time, staring at the King. The fire popped behind him as he cleared the room and sat down in his favorite leather-backed chair. He propped one foot up on his opposite knee and waited before speaking again. Gathering the right words. 

“What did they say, Papa?” Gertrud demanded. She crossed the room to stand before him. “What did they say?” She demanded again. 

Torgny looked up at her, and his brow furrowed. “The Jarls are concerned about the legitimacy of your child. They’re concerned with how you lied when the line of kings is concerned.” 

Gertrud looked taken aback. “Papa–” 

“Frankly, Gertrud, I, too, am concerned with your lack of decorum. I love you, but you’ve skirted the law as if you were moving pieces in Hnefatafl,” Torgny cut her off. “They want to remove you and your children from the line of succession.” 

Harald felt the words settle on his shoulders like armor he hadn’t asked to wear, the implication clear, the dread palpable. “What do you mean they want to remove her?” 

Torgny turned to his oldest son. “They believe Gertrud’s actions reflect poorly on a woman’s ability to rule. Given her ability to lie where succession is concerned.” 

The siblings stood in tense silence. Gertrud’s hands clenched into fists, her breasts heaved with anger. 

“They can’t do this, they can’t take this from me!” She shouted. 

“You took this from yourself, Gertrud!” Torgny replied, his voice rising to the same octave. “The lawspeaker is rewriting the law codes; you’ve successfully moved every daughter born from here on out to the last in line for this throne.” 

This would echo for generations, laws etched into the fabric of their nation’s history that outlive them all.

Gertrud turned her attention to Harald. Her jaw set. It was settling between them, the realization that he would be King, and she would not. Her mouth gaped as she searched for words. 

Harald blinked a few moments longer before stammering. “I’m sorry, Gertrud, I’m so sorry.” 

“I hope your line is cursed,” She breathed out raggedly. “Let them all be daughters. Let the gods send storms wrapped in swaddling cloth. And when your Jarls beg for sons, may the crown come back to the ones you cast aside.” 

The prince stared at her in shock. Unsure of what to do, she stormed out of the sitting room. 

The black-haired princess seethed, her anger boiling over. They had taken from her what was rightfully hers; they’d removed her for doing exactly as any man would have done. 

So this is how they silence a woman with power, she thought. Not with sword or poison—but with shame, ink, and a line through her name.