Page 81 of Storm of Fury
Bryn scrubbed a hand across the back of her neck. “My letter was brief. Harald will come, if only to see what mischief his daughter has created. King Harald is no fool.”
Tormund finished surveying the room, clearly noting the lack of exits. The friendly smiles he proffered like sweetmeats didn’t hide the fact that he was a formidable opponent. There was a cunning mind behind that affable nature.
And when he finally spoke, he came at her from an angle she had never expected. “She called you Brightfeather.”
Bryn stilled.
“So did Solveig, now that I think back on it. And you nearly handed me my teeth the one time I called you that name. You have a Valkyrie sword. A key that belongs to one of the gods themselves. And not just any god, but the Trickster himself. Freyja’s cloak….” He finally turned those shrewd eyes upon her. “I’ve heard the stories. She had red hair. Hair the color of sunset over a pile of coins. She burned like a flame and wielded a sword that broke the dawn. Birthed on a battlefield, she was a legend among the shield maidens.”
Bryn cleared her throat, choking down the swell of emotion. She felt raw and vulnerable, and she didn’t like it. “What are you trying to say?”
He gave her a considering look. “I thought I split your lip when we were fighting that morning, but when I took your face in my hands, there was no wound there. Barely even a hint of blood.”
“Why don’t you say it?”I dare you.
“You’re Valkyrie.”
Not just Valkyrie, but the daughter of Kára. The daughter of a legend. And there was no longer any point in hiding it. “I was.”
The words were so quiet he strained closer to hear them.
Was. A lifetime of grief lingered in those words.
Even she could hear it.
“Brynhildr Brightfeather,” he whispered, shaking his head half in wonder. “Holy shit. Valkyrie arereal?”
“You walk amongdrekiand you question the existence of the gods?”
“But you….” His mind was clearly racing. “They say she was the greatest of her kind, until she betrayed Odin and was struck with a sleep thorn and forced to marry. But she swore she would only marry a man who knew no fear, and thought herself safe until Sigurd came to find her—”
“Yes,” Bryn told him bitterly. “And then Sigurd tricks her into marrying Gunnar, after he forgets his vows to marry her himself. It’s a pretty story, Tormund, and it makes a lovely ballad. And then the ruthless Brunhild takes her vengeance upon all and causes the death of Sigurd, whereupon she stabs herself. Does that sound like something I would do?”
“Vengeance, perhaps. Stabbing yourself, no.” He cleared his throat. “You never married?”
“It’s just a story, Tormund,” she said. And nowhere near as hellish as the truth. “One written by a man somewhere who managed to make the greatest of the Valkyries little more than a pathetic snivel of a thing, doomed by her love of a man. Have you ever noticed how all the great female warriors of old are somehow always written to be less than the greatest heroes? Their love always destroys them. Or they are bested in combat, despite their prowess.” Her lip curled. “I’ve never even met a Sigurd. Nor have I ever met the man who can beat me in battle.”
Though clearly she’d made an impression upon someone.
Maybe some lonely warrior had seen her alight on a battlefield once, and take his dying brethren for Valhalla.
“It does seem that way, I’ll concede.” Tormund’s eyes met hers. “Why don’t you tell me the truth then? Your truth.”
The truth.
Her heart clenched like a hand gripped it. “The king will send for us shortly.”
“You owe me the truth, Bryn, if nothing else.”
“I owe you nothing.”
He merely stared at her, and somehow she found herself pacing.
“I was born on a battlefield to the shieldmaiden, Kára—the product of a liaison between her and a man I will not name. Everything else I have told you is true. She left me on his doorstep and my father raised me in the mortal world, though when it came time, I chose to fight my way through Odin’s tests to earn my sword and shield.
“The sword is my mother’s,” she whispered, staring at a tapestry on the wall that gleamed with a thousand stars. “My sister, Róta, yearned for the blade. She had been my mother’s apprentice before I arrived in Valhalla, and she hated me from the moment I first beat her in the tests.” Bryn swallowed. “There was a battle—our final test before we ascended to the ranks of the Valkyrie. My mother was choosing the best warriors when she was stabbed from behind. I held her in my arms as she breathed her last breath, before realizing that the sword in her back was one of my mine.” Bryn’s voice hardened. “That was when Róta told my sisters that I killed my mother.”
“And they believed her?”
